Featured Poems


by on March 18, 2018 :: 0 comments

The piano
The night
And the doubts

If I can make it
Through another week
If I can repair what I have broken

Without a drink
With the money that I don’t have
With all the people who have now gone

This September, it will be forty five
This October, it will be seven
And this November, it will be one month


Like photographs of Shinjuko
Like letters from Sabadell

They are just something
To put down
Something for these thoughts
To tie their petty selves to

Like Guanyin, like beads
Like numbers, like time

Next week

Tell me
Go on, tell me, please –

Does he comfort you
Each and every night?
Will they carry on working
When you cannot afford to pay?
Can you tell me if any of your teachings
Have ever truly conquered death?

I have lost track of all the conversations
And they have lost all track of me

Las Huertas con Carlos
Kunming with Da Ma
136 with The Hurricane

This mind has too many stories
To keep itself occupied
But no attention for the detail

Like the raspberries in the alcohol
Like the mountain brothel honeymoon

I can hear
The glass screen break
And feel it shove
Those Beijing shards
Straight back down my opiated throat

All carved out charm for prostitutes
All blackened blood from a poisoned tongue



Would you forgive?
Would you forget?
Would you ever believe a word of it?


From Khaosan clubs
To dirty Poipet massage parlours
The lies I like to feed myself
Give no reasons and have no answer for
The dust, the shelves, the walls and jars


I nod
I see
I hear

The moonlight shifting
The piano playing

Through these rooms
Through these autumn trees

editors note:

No apology; apologia only. – mh clay

a hanging moon in the west.

by on March 17, 2018 :: 0 comments

moon starts off heavy and orange
just over the stark naked trees
wintering west of this stand

some idea of where the sun is
some feeling stretching out
a distance to that sun and it
aint in the west or the east

we just hanging here
it hangs out of sight
it’s unfathomable where it’s at
numbers can say it

numbers can make up a length
but it’s out there
in all of this
and i’m out here in all of this

and here, in here, in this flesh
this living thing
this making a sense within speaks
“orange moon, unseen moon”

after that you can do anything
with words – you can make anything up
you can make any place real
but it ain’t, is it?

and as night, something, moves
that moon softens out of orange
climbs into the sky
makes a way towards the west

and i can’t fathom the stars
and they can’t fathom me
and i’m asking for something
and i don’t think it’s there

it is some form alright
in all this formlessness
inhale, breathe deep and look out
i could cry but for what

no one said to go there
but go there i go
all the words run out of themselves.
all the words run out of me.

making up all the men and women.
in this place. so vast. listen to it.
the moon ain’t orange anymore. just listen.
until the next time.

day will come and all this
will seem strange
as everything is normal in the light.
but it ain’t. and it never will be.

and this is where we are now.
the past is gone. the future
is yet to be. listen to it.

listen to yourself.

– Brendan McCormack

editors note:

As words waste away, like the waning moon… listen. – mh clay


by on March 16, 2018 :: 0 comments

fuck thinking positive
you just have to be insane:
say “cheese” to the gun barrels
of pain aimed at you
give yr demons a piggyback ride
gather all the parts of yr brain
that hate you & make a necklace of them
marry suicide & adopt death
& dress it up like a lamb

– Rob Plath

editors note:

Yup! You carry them, or they carry you. – mh clay


by on March 15, 2018 :: 0 comments



– K.W. Peery

editors note:

Do you duck and cover? Or, depend on the luck o’ the draw? – mh clay


by on March 14, 2018 :: 0 comments

You didn’t wait for me
at the unfamiliar
fork in the road.

I was only lost a little
while, then found my way
home anyway.

That’s all I have to say.

editors note:

In her search for love, her way is found instead. – mh clay


by on March 13, 2018 :: 0 comments

I don’t know the day it happened
nor the time
I only know
I had a dream
and then one day
it was gone.

Was it age
or busyness, I do not know
when I grew up
lost my childhood
and became

Me who was
is not
me who is,
when did the laughter fade?

Was it pain
or loss
that took the dream
the youth
the me,
and buried them away?

editors note:

Under that dirt lies memory. Keep digging! – mh clay


by on March 12, 2018 :: 0 comments

Your footprints left
thin as ghosts.

Silent branches flower
their glass
through my brittle dreams

as a script
of ice vines its grief
toward sunrise.

Crystal bells ring
as the last star
falls to the treetops

and this lost moment
becomes a drop of frost
melting to earth.

editors note:

Stolen sleep in Winter’s wake. – mh clay