Sunday, September 14, 2014
Denny E. Marshall has had art and poetry published, some recently. He does have a website with previously published works. The web address is www.dennymarshall.com. He also has a “Guest Artist Page” on his dot net site if any artist would like to submit. (See Guidelines)
the hounds within my poetry
These howling hounds in my poetry.
Who are they? The hounds who love poetry.
Why are they howling? The love hounds
of poetry, it’s their laughter, the laughter of
love hounds, this howling in my poetry.
Big Bang Kitchens
Ingredients within transcendent
possibilities for beginnings
Fetal celestial shrouds clinging
to unforeseen out-breaths
Without script or method, infinite
recipes for unimaginable awakenings.
There are lakes of emerald waters
where harbingers soak their feet -
I can hear their long sad sighs.
ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, UFO Gigolo, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)
Sunday, September 7, 2014
The gods let me
run to the store
to get her beer
and mac and cheese
and down to pill corner
to get her her shit
but they won’t let me
tell her I love her.
They whisper in my ear
because that’s what gods do,
“Lap dog you may be,
but be careful
The Culling of the White Deer Herd
at Point Reyes National Seashore
They cull the deer todaymake a pyre of gathered bones
Between the points
a sweating boy
a foggy hill
one white stag
its thorny crown -
now sleep memory
before I weep
the white deer
are all put down.
Just Around the Corner
I walked homeby a different route,
down Washington instead of Clay.
There was a beautiful church I never saw before.
I've lived in this neighborhood forever
but a block away from a street I know
is one I don't.
I know that's the truth,
but it's still hard to get my head around.
It started sprinkling
as I passed a little playground on Nob Hill.
Two women were in there
just messing around
and it struck me
playing on monkey bars
in the rain
Bio: Jon Bennett is a Pushcart nominated poet and musician living in San Francisco's Chinatown. His novel "The Unfat," sci-fi about autism and obesity, is available on Amazon.
They cruised into the bar
as if they'd been tripping
the light fantastic on some
Trans Siberian Railway of
the mind so totally fried,
their frayed filthy clothes
and near shoulder length hair
was singed at the loose ends
giving off a scent like over-
wrought skunk and death.
They were so obviously unwell
and primed for inappropriate
social behavior, I asked them
for their Red Cards, a request
that briefly slowed them down
to a near halt, "Red Cards?"
"Yeah, they're like Green Cards
or Alien Resident ID's only
these are for Space Invaders
from potentially hostile planets."
"Yeah, like the video game.
You must have heard of it, they
were popular in the last century,
right around the time you guys
were last straight and sober."
The look they gave me suggested
they didn't think what I was saying
was funny. The look I was giving
them suggested I wasn't trying to be.
If it were Halloween, these guys
would have fit right in or even
if it had been New Year’s Eve or
Mardi Gras and they had been on
the way to some end of the world
as we know it party, but it was none
of those, not the kind of place that
dressing like Gary Glitters, Ziggy
Stardust clones on some kind of
Velvet Goldmine club quest,
ostentatiously pierced all about their
bodies, tacky make up and costume
clothes like stiff out of Harper’s Bizarre,
Warhol’s Pandora Box wardrobe, body
art by some demented freak on speed
with a butcher’s knife instead of a tattooist’s
tools, the only discernible images, death
cultist symbols and the leader of the pack’s
Gothic lettered phrase” PISS FACTORY,
forming a semi-circle around his navel,
all of them stoned to the gills and clearly
hostile, in need of sedatives to slow
the virtual China syndrome chemical mix
threatening to flatline their vital organs,
close their bodies down, the take-me-to-
your-leader gesturing at the barman,
pointing at the back bar high octane rocket fuel
bottles, waving fifty dollar bills as an attention
getting aid, trying to bridge a considerable
language gap with guttural noise making
and even more frantic waving, succeeding
only in creating an image of Euro trash on tour,
way lost on some highway to hell they were
building as they went, oblivious to their
surroundings and determined to stay that way.
You could say
he was a tad
to go into
order up a Big
Mac cut into
four pieces &
have them wrapped
you wonder doesn't
it? I'm still not sure
what was odder,
the demand or
fulfilling his request
without so much
as an eyelid flutter
though you could see
the counter people
thinking and would
you like some double
thick shakes for the long
ride home in your
Crab Line Falsity
Tatters slip through foisted shingles,
scanned by never-pending cribbage panning expedition capsules,
stumping hourly automat attendants into stuttered parlor voices,
sycophantic to be spurned by manly hose machine geese.
How does sanitary soothing dial emotion quotient valuation
ever hope to glide from looping trainer lunges
all the swayback temperature to cold-cocked avian revival blurbs
in checkered publican reports of hemorrhoidal carpools?
Brownies motion for fumbled sundaes,
sprinkling boatswain shorts with touched nuts,
betel seclusion, and nurtured luminaries.
Counting drowning as a sedulous din,
giggling turtles pose for shellfish tease charades,
plotting the overture to any of an underhanded fault line’s searing mother,
drained to ripened pea pod shekels.
Aft and homespun knicker bloggers barricade the dressy plants
in pickled doomsday attributes of deities and known sardine calligraphy,
zooming through the teeming sands to antsy hip-lock chugger sinks,
spoiling baleful island locos.
Snorts defrock collation comrades,
flopping cramped insteps in doorway fractal gutter beer.
Tiny igneous carriers inflect each sentient pause
with chic designer insect highs, instantly seducing
tanned involuntary pseudo broth for life.
Only toes who covet closet incremental snores could possibly impute
to baffle fever dwellers of enthusiastic cerebellar jump rope maxima,
bent on scarcely postulated hex duel oblongata pith
or otherwise entrained by serial demurral.
He mumbles pagination treats at pausing stumpers,
cropping frost in verisimilitude’s longing for stolen Mata Hari cowlicks,
dousing the river with casting guile.
She’s locked in crab line falsity,
storming past a house fly on training wheels,
bent on pellucid tantrum government by the papal furor’s popular decree.
Tea relapsed to salad coffers,
finned with textual recumbent seas
of public reprimand and retroactive percolation snubs,
snugly frittered from palmed publicans who trifle in forensic solstice.
Flyboys scorched an auteur’s
sampled outer townhome’s durable retirement stem,
punctuating heavenly waitress spins with soiled comma haddock theses,
purloined from beachfront solipsists on nude retrenchment Ferris surveys,
gone weighty subsequent to coral hermitage decrees
of pilaf souffle emery secretion gifts.
Schoolhouse stockyard flambeau electioneers
pontificate on effluence in jaundiced opposition,
highly brewed for sleeping bag premonition matrix seduction,
scrunched to fetal armpit hollows by cortical retracement fuzz.
Booing dirt espouses twinge resection’s fearsome dribble beat,
caving only at the slightest highball’s fulgent coverall contusion,
wafted steadily from portholes of an offshore canker.
Gophers lord a henchman’s penultimate surfeit
of bleached parameter sedation over cursive signatories,
bonking before hinterland effusion footfalls.
Bobbled babies pluralize,
habituate to halfway goofy anthill eaves,
and ship cartoon snatchers into lifelong sentience
with outer mullet airway holsters,
pinching guff in awful clubfoot probability nozzles.
Froth returns from annual hardship punk,
dotting viability’s sepulcher with tonsil news
of corn march vigil underwear, creases of a timed crusade,
and stipulated antiseptic teeth, rushing to be green.
Squad choirs snake off into college bumper crust
of loan dime succor tease, concubine munificence,
and dialed remorseless samovars of wrought saliva,
frozen chords, and looping gravel intuition.
Cosmic Egret News
Ewers lap the sloping lyre,
phoning home to titular umbrella munchkins,
soaked in cough trough acne credo kitsch
from Naugahyde assembly panters.
Pythons corroborate the rheostat’s tickling causation flue,
adoring adumbration’s petticoat membranes.
Lancers tried by the skein of explanatory cygnet cringers
abide in tidal immolation trysts,
squelching solid gawkers with crawling rice militia bolts
and leonine detergent heroes.
Some need musical undertows of cribbage fare
and bonded purity’s warm spatula,
frilled with foolish fog bank flatulence,
foppish watchman steam, and sybaritic merriment,
won by sharpened ball peen humpback noggin raps,
bumpy shed repeater copies of catwalk prison imposition,
and seashore crooning bellowed deep into the natal piety
of evening armchair kisses.
Others shamelessly peruse the scatological catalogs
of inline scorn and jubilation’s tawdry disembarkment skewer,
helping the condemned in dwarfed evisceration panoplies
of poplar pestilence gone sour in burly April cadences,
twisting savage shoals from bayside gruel
to scattered sunrise dumping fawns in bifurcating seasonal circuses.
Toying with mulish enmity,
anonymous brokers sigh and pelt the passing train
with braying eel skin clothiers, coughing up caboose contents,
smudging seditious cockpit loins with prized perpendicular stubble,
sworn to haberdashery by a gloomily emphatic nasal bumpkin’s filial commode.
Excursions from manhole covenants reveal plated sweep days
of cosmic egret news and teary flyboy circumstance,
pitting soaring pock mark joy against a stolen applecart’s hubristic demolition,
all for geegaws of monocle bemusement bricks,
fluttering to August in a syllable’s tawny moan.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry,Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
new moon peeking
through gossamer clouds -
space pilot waits
within his yearning
(above poem appeared in scifaikest's August 2012 issue)
a long day on
the assembly line -
my soaking tank
filled with hot lubricant
almost to the brim
(above poem appeared in scifaikuest's Feb 2012 issue)
As I stride this busy cobblestone
road on my way to a surprise bash deep
in Darkening Forest, ravens perched upon
lightning-decimated remnants of the old
hanging tree chortle “good evening, good
evening,” a huli jing in human form with
long red hair, a thick luscious tail and a
sensuous smile undulates across the road-
way in front of me licking her lips as our
eyes meet and I would choose to follow her,
but, “good evening, good evening!” from
the dwarves sitting beside the roadway,
belongings in their broad backpacks and
fear across their faces, and a “you’re late,
you’re late, for a very important scrape!”
insists an upright marmot holding a time-
piece as he scurries by...finally!! - the
thirteen foot (and some few inches) dire-
ogre, its four arms with taloned hands
swinging assorted deadly weapons snarls
“good eating, good eating” as it leaps toward me
from the shadows of a weeping willow’s drooping
branches - I block a descending spiked mace
with my titanium razor-sword by shearing through
the waist-thick forearm, dodge the venomous spear-
shaped tongue flashing past my face and counter
with a slash across the protruding lipless lower jaw
shearing off 3 of 8 two-foot incisors while spitting
chewing tobacco into the beast’s flat, fist-sized right
nostril (note: I am not fond of chewing tobacco, but
as we all know, tobacco spittle forced up dire-ogre
nasal passages - both nostrils is best, but one works
well enough - inevitably results in a berserk, unfocused
desire to maim, mutilate and dismember all nearby
flesh and bone plus a tree or two) engage the three
remaining arms, the lower right arm swinging a tree
limb, the upper left jabbing with splintered remains
of a circus tent pole, tattered flags still attached (one
has to wonder where that came from) and continue to
evade the ever-flailing forked tongue as I yell to the
ravens circling low overhead and the lovely red fox
peeking from a wild forget-you-never bush, “now this,
my friends” - parry, slash, cut - “this, friends” - scrotum
kick, stab - “this” - whack, screeeech! - “is good hunting!”
ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Writing the Whirlwind, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)