POETRY FORUM

eclipse of moon
wolves
quiet

– Cole Eubanks

I gaze in smoky pastures
of provolone
leaf celery bound
to dairy cows’
cheese solving
anxiety (and other world trouble)
from heights of depths
refined in pre-anxiety
ruminating.

When the birds first sing in the morning,
You look about the room
Where you lie.
Your first conscious thoughts,
Thoughts of wonder
And awe at being alive.
You are ecstatic with anticipation,
For the things that might
Come your way,
And with hope
You look to find beauty
In this gift of another day.

Britney’s sweet &
sour fog of whiskey
breathe wants prisoners.

Her pierced tongue is
equipped with a
lifetime of lies.

Like saying she
loves me in the
bathroom stall of a bar.

But I push her off
knowing to go further
involves ruin.

A “pseudo junkie”
Justine calls her
which is untrue.

Though methedrine / blotter acid
are her trapdoors
to forget
what she can’t speak of.

Her eyes- two missed exits of rejection
as tears and mascara make
a garish mess of
a face…
she slowly redoes.

Later she returns to our table
where she will find sport
teasing college boys
she’d easily destroy.

Who surround us
as if she were the prey
and not the other way around.

I watch
half-amused.

While the boys move in closer
for like everyone else
not rejecting her
they have no idea
how much
they have
to lose.
And lose they will
their naive college boy smiles
gutted and slashed while
her’s forever lost remains.

– Rp Verlaine

Via the vending maelstrom
I get a blighted
Portfolio poultice,
An art deco
Electric toothbrush,
Three cut-out
Culinary
Square meals and
A jump-to-it
Confederacy
Of confidence
Madrigal

Where nothing is
As it seems – plus

The usual
Acidic glare
From
My bed-sit
Night nurse
Who has

Madame Blavatsky’s
Eyes…

I astonish myself—
my socks match

I have the concept socks must match
and also I drive a car

Someone thought the thought we should
bustle about in cars

Thus I make my daily runs
in a practical hatchback with low mileage

So many ideas speeding around the planet—
somebody grabs one from a hurricane

and smooths it out
while two others get their hands caught

in a jar of extra-sweet better-mousetrap
that spills over five continents

and here we are souped-up nations
all in matching socks

and sporty sedans
complete with shiny rims on our wheels

– Jean Biegun

A blackened thumb so you cannot text.
A broken bone.
A blackened banana.
A withered vine.
A plotless novel that nobody reads.
A sink with no plug.
A clock with no hands.
A pointerless exit sign.
A keyholeless keyhole.
A rudderless ship that goes in circles.
A whistle with no pea.
A symphony without a tune.
A pen with no ink.
A map with no markings.
A diffident surgeon.

All useless.