An Expenditure of Munitions
Twenty-seven orphans
cleaning and oiling,
polishing up their rifles. Continue reading “3 Poems by Gary Carr”
Island Nation
I stood there and watched
the scowling coast
as rocks became
as liver spots
and waves passed
generations;
grey England’s changing
faces: foam and roar
erased
and formed
new morning’s
golden desolate shore. Continue reading “2 Poems by Ben Williams”
Less Than Human
Get lost,
Less human than me,
I’ll go to sleep,
In thousands of movements,
Under the eyes of heaven,
Amounts to devils I can’t see,
I could pray,
For a life more humane,
I should cry,
Hands stained with sin,
And get on running,
To the East, Continue reading “2 Poems & 2 Flash Fictions by Aina Izzah”
My Eyes
My eyes are vexed
not from crying
but from the tally
of sins unwept,
allowed to swell
in dull, blue renderings
just below the surface
of head and heart,
like a tattoo of tears or
a debris dammed creek,
symbols of damage
past the point of
erasure or release. Continue reading “2 Poems by C. R. Resetarits”
Dirge of the Dying Year
My first thought was, “Run!” Others chose suicide. Soon I was stumbling around like the bad kids who huff glue. Mothers dumped raw meat out into the street in protest. Sirens began to woo-who, woo-who. I was in a headspace that was pricked with stars I couldn’t identify, 50 by last count and all of them always promising to return to their wandering orbits. Now what do we do? There’s just too much in the workings of the world that’s hidden and unknowable, even by a person with an education. And that person was standing where the bullets began to rain into the limousine. We’re living in a boisterous age. Velocity is advancing everywhere, the walls covered in flames and the flames behaving in ways no one thought possible. I’m afraid of human beings. We run things in the forest while the wolf isn’t around. Eyes that don’t want to close at all times ruin everything, pretty much every word. The sadness will last forever. I can’t remember now why I ever thought it wouldn’t. Continue reading “3 Prose Poems by Howie Good”
Iconic
The half-suns laid in brick —
tan curves on a red face —
close in on each other
but never touch.
They will not come together
to brighten the sky.
They will not kiss your face
with rays of light.
The Arsonist Magazine edition 01 – featuring flammable materials from 30 international writers artists photographers – Coming Soon
Dream Wedding
I.
The dress is white and silk and sheer. Mother puts a hand on her chest, tells me that she is so proud but I look at her wrists and her string of fate clashes with her softness—an accessory out of place with her flowers and stars.
II.
I walk down the aisle covered by a veil of light—the handiwork is flimsy, I know the weaver’s still getting the mechanics of it—holding a bouquet that has been wilting for days now; it stinks of anger and disappointment, pungent and bitter and sour.
III.
My fiancé lifts the veil: I wonder what he sees—I, no longer a girl, but nearly feral, nearly clawing out a ribcage, with lips bleeding roses and charcoal masking eyes. I wonder if he can still recite his vows in the face of an oncoming storm.
I.V.
The rings are the sun melted down to fit both of our fingers. The varnish chokes the air in my lungs. He says I do as he slides his ring on my finger, something in me screams and collapses, shattering into muted petals. I say I do as I slide my ring on his finger, I hope he hears the clink of ball and chain linked around our hands.
V.
The night after the reception he’s in the bathroom and he won’t come out. With the door in between us, I ask why and he said that he did not marry a wolf, he did not marry to be eaten alive. I told him that someone had to, for tradition’s sake. I also said that girls weren’t meant to howl at the moon every night.
Leaves, Blades, Cupboards (I)
Show me your bones.
Tell me what they would say
if they could speak their reasons.
That is your smile hand-sewn over pursed lips
(in time the stitches have disappeared).
All but a card trick—sleight of a poised hand.
I understand this well, all show and no tell—
the body a floor plan of pain.
TINDER OF THE “DESPERATE MAN”
selling points include “fairly good shape”
liberal politics a breezy concept of god
checklists presenting
banged-up circles for easy handling
into this desperate mechanics turns
the gears of hard consonants
hikes, bikes, kayaks, walks
toils of past-time that toll hollow
now you want a goddess to flame
on one immune to the sting of obsession
Safety Pin
Will a safety pin be enough
To quell the din of racism
And help those on the sharp end of abuse
Loosen xenophobia’s noose?
Are you pinning your hopes on too little?
SUBMISSIONS FOR THE 1ST EDITION OF THE ARSONIST MAGAZINE NOW OPEN – SEND US YOUR BEST – CANT WAIT TO SEE WHAT YOU MADE X
FRANKLIN HIRAM KING WRITES A BOOK CALLED “THE SOIL”
The one who begs
the elements
to be no more
than elemental
also prays
that his wife’s mouth
may be more
than the dust
she swallows trailing
you around
the dry seasons.
It’s simple that way.
Simple compounds
into the whole
of the universe. It
does that every time.
Inevitable
The hardest worked waters wore out
The rivers lost in time
Perhaps it is a way to maintain happiness without people
To fly freely from
For The First Time
There’ll come a time
When you’ll be going through my things
And my intimacy will be no more
A Natural Tendency
some minds take pleasure in counterpoints
absently answering some deep call
they move in a hushed, ice-clear trance
and lucid, inescapable rhythms, low beneath
so to beseech them as full as for it
the inexorable growth
the signal to a sacred plea… Continue reading “‘A Natural Tendency’ by Christian Patracchini”
The Heat
when we were young
and time was free,
our skin danced in bronze
crafted by sunlight’s constancy
our footsteps whispered
in fields of green and the distance
between us was a heartbeat,
caught in the hum of laughter
about something silly, I’m sure,
but now the reason is gone
as much as who we were,
once—when summer knew us best
for all I know now is heat,
how to harness it by air conditioning,
while seconds rise like goosebumps
to steal the rest of youth away
When
When people use fund-raising and donations,
As ways to pacify their rising guilt.
When trafficking destroys a generation,
And shelters are unfunded and unbuilt.
When children under ten are mutilated
For sinful natures they do not possess.
When bodies are both lusted for and hated,
And violence is blamed on how she’s dressed.
Coach House Series by Paul Hawkins
cut-up text
medium: mixed media on found card
dimensions: various
date: 2016
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 