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Deep Tissue Magazine 13
John Thomas Allen
Rest In Peace (after Jules Supervielle) Opal radiance– thumbprint’s dust on a mirror The young woman’s reflection in the moving sale. I will pray at the fountain be fore you. Fracture moon. A thimble caked in plasma dust. A simple flame asking to be doused. A tiny nub– That’s all the fairy asked for later-your dentures.
A dimple sun. The stable of nuns a dark horse with rosary beads instead of a tail Woman in the mirror.. a camera filming her shut "Spiritus Sanctus," an actress stops rolling her funeral. This man shrill and vituperate. a needle under the thumb Hanging frames of non cognizance. an echo in swats The moving pictures begins to play A crate of cobwebs museums off display. Taxi on the river Styx– a dead man’s bicentennial. Juggling frames, the painting changes! A bomb falls screams hush pop rocks on a Blackhawk’s screen. "Have you seen me?" The missing poster only ten years old. Pink missal paper, the dates added incorrectly. Sundraped lemonade
The pitcher of in the sun Saboxin
DOA They called the dope, and indeed You were dead on arrival. but never to me. silt teardrops fall on sycamore plutonium.
In Memoriam: Harold Hart Crane (July 21, 1899 – April 27, 1932)
Sealed violets fell from the worn accordion on deck blue eyed man, the dusted hat leaving blank spaces–b blanket statements, you might say. black as the rail you leapt from, sailor shoes damp with confetti the threaded roses of blurry nights picked at random, the smell of blossomed gin unfolding into your ripe red nose, No one can hide in mid-air. I am sure that a special waltz was performed below deck, young flappers and tight lipped
sailors wandering in secret, slipping along the bar’s rail, the jazz all wrong, knowing it might have been a Bridge. I am sure the lashing marble currents of the Atlantic carried your secrets down deep in blinking meadows of foam. But for that moment, Hart when you met the sky in a seaweed wreath you were exposed the knitting women bartenders, and seminarians all looked up. No one can hide in mid-air, Hart. not even you
A Note From J.B. In New York John Berryman said, track my broken lily pads spill ahead of me. Follow the sun rise over my drowning feet. What do you mean? You’ve never heard Sound whine? The sun barking your earlobes-halves which bounce across a mind’s borders? Before that I’d like you to meet Henry Bones and a girl we’re filming. Her hand is cold. Brushing her teeth under water in front of the camera, take off the diving gear and you will see me.
The Drug Window A locked door. Walls white, whiter than a clown’s glove at high flame. The medication window is lit with balloon coma. Good patients sleep pressed against moist elastic.
A hand unwashed. Friendly or genteel enough to be shook with cuffs. The smoking den stinks of silence and non-sequiturs. The fingers wave, lit in nicotine flame. A lamb unwashed. Brittle wool, hooves pumping upside down, washing tenor metes from Haldol’s elderly face.
My Rubber Combat Girl She had offered a ring, pressed close in passion’s heat against the birthmark near my temple known only to us. The proposal had been a long time coming; if it was hasty, I reasoned, so be it. Suggesting a honeymoon near her home in a cozy landfill where birds had grown quiet with rain and oil, I hesitated. “The place where time sleeps,” she said, dangling a mistletoe of white tree shrubs over my head, ringing silver powder, bursting caches of hot moonlight. Drawing closer, we embraced: a body as firm, supple steel. I squeezed her hand, tender as gripped rubber. Heavy enamel fell from that cold mouth, clumsy lead notes of my only love’s symphony. Pulling her tongue back, the chambers of my heart fired. A clicking wind chilled my nape as six black eyes fell into place.
John Thomas Allen is a 28 year old poet living in Albany, NY. Having traveled the world’s cities extensively, his work is an attempt to blend the seamier side of life with compassionate vision. His credits to date include publications in Tipton Poetry Journal, Flutter Poetry Journal, Sein Und Werden, Ampersand Journal, Thunder Sandwich, dream virus, Illiterate Hooligan Press, Thick With Conviction ("Best of the Net Award" nomination for a poem entitled "The Mice" contained therein), Arsenic Lobster Journal, Zygote In My Coffee, Forever Underground Magazine, Prism Quarterly, and has worked as an editor for Breath and Shadow Online, a Journal of Disability Culture. He currently works at an emergency aid shelter in his hometown and is translating the poetry of Portugese novelist Mario De Sa Carneiro with Treasure Gibson. He would like to thank Franz Wright and Charles Bane Jr. for their indispensable advice and friendship.
Are You Home? I am sitting in the tense comfort of this work chair, mind wonders off missing you, eager to see you, greeted after the usual rough day, with a warm smile and coffee, wanting to bring light to a tired, worn mind.
Constantly looking at the minutes slowly ticking away, just to walk out of this door, and right through into ours, into your arms that make it all better, with the touch of gentle quiet understanding, reviving this body with soft, caring eyes.
Waiting for the laughter, that infectious laughter, that pauses just to take time to listen, making the smallest feel so important, the best part of the day, being next to you. Hun, are you home?
Ghost Dance The low muffles of a hypnotic dance, days of slow movement towards resurrection, cleansing by renouncing temptation, voices of the tribes were the only instruments, bringing back the Indian dead of yesteryear, a time of family and rejoice not mourning, sharing in the belief of the prophecies of tomorrow.
The prophecies of tomorrow were what lead to slaughter, the hands of the white that had bullets of fear, fear of the ghost dance, shirts of the unknown, extinguishing what they did not understand, bringing fathers, mothers, and children to silence.
I stand out and look at the plains, think of the unthinking minds of the past, my ancestors that did not understand, the slow singing and chanting of peace, the hope for a tomorrow executed, I stare at the embers of the dead fire of innocence, and cry for the forgiveness of the lost ghosts of dance.
The Rat Catcher Most people look at me with unneeded disgust, knowing I am a dirty, grimy looking old man, but a man that has to work, and I am doing what I know, what has been passed on through generations. I have always been taught, that there is nothing wrong with worn, dirty working hands.
I spend most of my days as a silent rat catcher, that is why people stare at my filthy demeanour. It does not bother me much, because it gives me a constant job with security, puts food on the table for my family. They have never had to go hungry, and I will make sure they never will.
Spending days in the darkest of corners, laying or checking traps. The people that run their homes, have become so finicky and timid, paranoid over the scamper of any little feet. That is when I get a call.
Walking through these homes, seeing things I am not suppose to, adults being bullies to one another, children left to feel inferior in their skin. With pierced lips, I just go about my business, what is done is not right, never treat family or others that way.
As I collect the rats every day, thoughts of this happen, how I am saving food or sickness, that these little fellas eat or cause. That is what people say I do anyway. Believed that I actually destroyed the rats, just let them go deep in the woods, hoping they will find a giving home, instead of being hidden in the unforgiving wet and dark, like the rest of our humanity.
Finally Falling The sky is finally falling The warnings are over Once clean mother land has been soiled Been chipped away for so long We have taken away the beauty Tarnished the landscape Done for our benefit Building fences of segregation Taking pure air and replacing with grey Believed machines would enhance living Gave nothing but boundaries Where we do not have to look another in the eye
So many warnings from the land You can only pick away for so long And ignore the true intent Where we were to respect and understand Those of culture and race To take time to breath Appreciate what was given to us The power to walk and build hand in hand
We are, now, to feel The power that the mother land will yield Lands destroyed by swirling winds Buildings turned to rubble The whirlwind of wrath What was once sheltered Flooded by rain of tears Anger given with thunder and chains of lightening Taking back what was never truly ours Ignorance as we turn blind to the real message Of the sky finally falling around us
Andrew Scott is a native of Fredericton, NB. Andrew started writing as a way to communicate and cleanse his feelings. The poems written are based on all five senses of emotion. They are stories of him and others, based loosely on conversations and observations. These are brought to him by visions in his mind and relating to his characters as they were real people. Once they are thought of, these people come to life as their story is told. The reader can relate as these are emotions based on everyday life.
You can hear Andrew each week as part of the Speakeasy family on Sunday nights at 8:00 EST on Reserve, the show where you call in to give your writing influences. This can be found on Blogtalkradio.com/reverse
Andrew has a belief that all can relate and should share in these stories as they have affected him for the better. All people can contribute to affecting someone’s life and we should celebrate everyone’s story. Without them, we would have nothing. To contact Andrew, email …email@example.com
http://twitter.com/JustMaritimeBoy http://myspace.com/ Just A Maritime Boy
You Think You Know Love
I know you got this yearning A feeling like your emotions rule And so they do Every time you say that you’re in love All that talk is just a blown up hieroglyphic The one you see your perfect state of being in Because to you love is conformity And that usually means – someone else conforming to you
And all the pages written about love Have never addressed this one thing How to not judge for the difference in another human being You say you love your husband But I don’t buy into that line of bullshit You can’t even love yourself
Lest your neighbor Traipse over your property line And you want to kill him Supposedly because he violated Your possessive everything
You talk and talk but never deliver And I have tied the knot with the likes of you Only to be thrown to the wolves Fed to the sharks And about the time I realize That this is just another damaged collector’s card Not worth the paper that it was printed on You say some shit like you want to stick around See if we can make things happen
You and all your imaginations are the worst side of humanity You think you know what love is But what you really know Is how to demand Everything from the person that you keep telling “I love you” Adding: “You’re so special”
If they succumb to your sinister mental calibrations
Like I said before I could say “fuck you” But I won’t Because I know that we are incapable of this notion of love We have not evolved enough Let alone discovered How to love ourselves
You have sequestered your own style of decryption Of what you think you have to have From someone that you say you want to spend the rest of your life with But I ask you now: What’s love got to do with all of that – Not a goddamn thing We are still mental primates And the more you throw those stones known as words That breaks the brow of that human in your vicinity I will continue to call you out Remind you that you know nothing about love Even when you think you do
The Furniture of Time (after the painting by Yves Tanguy) something simple to sit in Louis IVX decomposed (dead now for centuries)
flamboyance reigns anarchy a bit of the baroque
time turns wood on a lathe
time too (says Dalí)
empires survive as plastic furniture
settees to spoons
Spider (after the mobile by Alexander Calder) banality sublime the universe //as it really is//
//or was// Clown Face nebula
Little Dumbbell Swan
//when you wish upon a star//
//scattered light reaches inside the brain
of heaven shines//
we see whatever we are we are whatever we see
The Imaginary Village (after the painting by Mark Tobey) crowds gather in the village square statues quiver in the cold elbow to elbow hand in hand making maypole circles all citizens living and dead dance
sing expose their genitals flesh as white as the marrow of the sun blood nearly drained nearly imagining themselves as real when the moon rains fractured stones into waiting arms
I live and write in New Jersey, and my poetry, many of them ekphrastic, has been published in numerous print and online journals throughout the world. My ekphrastic poetry appears in Alba, Anastomoo, Counterexample Poetics, Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising and Otoliths, among others.
Verified Renditions 21
Embracing praying mantises versus
onlookers’ paying extension of the dangling overture
until the until reclaims open hand anticipations’
Verified Renditions 22
You recall sway of a median voice. Per se, animal (an, plural?), cracked etch of lightning’s verbal mirage. Created sustenance. Denied as death to the failed self-infliction. Burned monologue the, entire history of a self unravels, wholly. Pardoned requisite, flow of together’s flame of incessant ember. You dislodge these conclusions, dislocate them: distinguish hearsay from the overheard reaction relegated by throwing hands whose personification enthralls reflectional inaccuracies revolving center of a talkative disassociation.
Verified Renditions 23
The space appeared empty appeared ossified, analyzed by the hoping spectrum of returnable distractions. Body of its vertical desire, hid beyond
shadow of a meandering contraction, pausing pressurized prints into sequential cylinder of its delineated interpretation.
Verified Renditions 24
Fundamental form a tributary silence outlining momentum’s ornamental
Verified Renditions 25
Lamination of hybrid devotion, faith fiction fabricated fantasies desired upon acknowledged anecdotal prophesies. He winds an invisible silver-tone watch, watches imprint of mind’s imaginative cycles during mid-morning, slight beyond midnight’s
landing as if winged by weary ambulation atop or too, across various landscaped homonyms dedicating language toward excessive mind-manipulation.
Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. He has received the Gertrude Stein “rose” prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Over 2,900 of his poems have appeared in places such as BlazeVOX, Otoliths, infinite space, Poetry, Yes, and Fact Simile. He has authored 46 collections of poetry, including Compatible Aspects of the Disparate Endeavor (NeoPoiesisPress, 2011) and Differences of the Parallel Devotion (Desperanto, 2011). For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: www.felinoasoriano.info.
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