prose poetry

Prose Poetry by Matthew Kirshman

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Prose Poetry 

by

Matthew Kirshman

 

Jaguar and the Joking Tree

All of nature is a giving and receiving of signs.  The air around the body collects in mosaic fraternity.  A wee worm wriggles its way up and gets lost in the Alien World of Creation (AWC).  Before the first recorded dream, before the soothsayer and tribe, in the heart of the jungle stood a hard, dark tree, beneath whose limbs crouched a sharp-toothed Thing (T).  With infrared KillerVision®, it spied two figures approach, interlopers in the Garden of God’s Astounding Desire (GGAD).  Try and hide.  The jaguar’s first slice is fine and light.  With no warning, you are TradeMarxed© completely.

 

Folk Legend

I photographed them get into the car.  Have you read my “Manhunt of the Year” (Life May, 1977)?   How about that close-call with the law, which might have ended it all?  Their escape was a travesty, bought by suitcases of cash from the Narcotics Agency.  How ironic, the shootout took place at the Ford Pharmacy.  They entered Cincinnati on page 96.  With a trunk full of gelatinous explosive, they headed to the Flamingo Motel.  From there they followed a well-established strategy.  Do you think they looked like newlyweds?  I find it difficult to credit.  I tailed the Jaguar to Chicago, where a cult following had sprung up overnight.  To the journalistic eye, their pop-appeal was transparent:  the lore of outlaw lovers, with sirens closing in.

 

Mysticism and Meat

Ideally, you are devoured in your prime by medicine men and not as junk-meat for the communal pot.  With the breakdown of tissue, the cells issue a mortal cry.  Around the Cook’s Bible chimes a chorus of sous chefs.  The page emits a campfire glow from which a cannibal emerges.  What’s missing?  Pretty soon, your arms and legs—seared and smoked until dripping from bone.  In the aftermath of prayer, when chords rise from the planet, you make the rounds of the soothsayer’s intestine. 

 

The Hungry Python

All of life the python seeks to know.  He slips through the flea-market with a clinging stomach, catching in his glittery eye items from the old world:  sheet-music, tunic, ice-cream scoop, top hat.  To touch these with quiet flicks of the tongue.  At the sound of thunder, the merchants start to pack, placing wares hurriedly in boxes and covering these with plastic sheets. 

 

 

Bio: I live in Seattle, Washington with my wife and two daughters.  I am an English teacher, but before that have had a varied career–telephone repairman, bartender, and cook, to name a few.  Writing since the early 1980s, my publication credits include: Charter Oak Poets, Dirigible: Journal of Language Arts, Helix, Indefinite Space, Key Satch(el), Mad Hatters’ Review, Phoebe: The George Mason Review, posthumous papers (NothingNew Press), Vangarde Magazine, Xenarts.com, and Z-Composition.

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Three Poems by Seth Mirza

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Three Poems

by

Seth Mirza

bent cosmos

everything unwrapped

in a bent cosmos

none of this could really be true

we’re still waiting for something

to be true

we’ll keep waiting until the

cosmos shits itself

 $45 Silence

virus serves the severed flow…members severed served for several thousand years…past the retirement age…severed served…hold their heads up for all to see…severed past tense silent as if…sewage eyes sever gratitude…another example speaks death silence…bleeding appreciation in death tremor silence…for several thousand years…past inoculation ties luck shrinking and severed…viral testimony in wallets left on sewage stairs…sovereign of silence severs what we mean…nothing has changed at the center of $45 silence…dripping sewage in mists of fingertip silence…severely severed silence…in all sewage heads…tarnished ingrates careful not to tremble it’s all lowered death silence…mists picked up viral scan in perturbed lines of interlaced…appreciate our trembling thousand years…silence in severed shots…fading in death cuts out the game…$45 silence severed…present inexperienced virions…words as innocence left in the wallets of corpses hanging inoculation examples…if you press the right buttons…reconfigure the new viral line silence scan…blown circuit and silence shot…severed in red…testimony severed better while it works…far from the silence…seal silence & a severe flow past the pulse…severed sent…inoculate mutated strain lost in dial up flow…testimony now wasted as multiples scan silence…eager for results…loss of severed on silence pump…severed silence breaks the severe immune to infiltration of mutation mark…while severed scan eager for burn out flow…new coil virus lines not what they seem…probable flow process terminal severed testimony…severed sent to inspectors if…testimony mist severed with $45 silence in thousands of trembling…

wasn’t infinity the hammer cake?

Yet still the newest failures and the shit was turning from the belly and making a kind of finger drifting, wouldn’t calm it magisterially (say, numbing the wondering smile).  Wasn’t step to the stretches paid the same 3 soft hearts, the time?  Lightly, surprised beast—wasn’t infinity the hammer cake?  Nothing been or dog cries, in nothing grit, nothing every had here is it.  Exactly still Ur-Eternal and sidesplitting if about betrays on the way, loosely right alone too kind.  Slink creatures despise unfair.  Ha, rising again to drifting, so if right more secret sour, this we think bad sent facts, even still black you undergrowth half as precious.  Only to the ways spit-shape the worry.  Every quickly in hate, sometimes the same to secret this.  Could speak alone—a sidewalk.  And expecting breath of any miniature, move to think the ounces along.  Nothing clean will ever equal.

Bio:

Seth Mirza was clinically dead for a period of 2 years in the early ’90s. His work has appeared in The Ampersand, Exit Wound, Kiss the Mongrel, Stuffed Trigger, Ambergris, Counterexample Poetics, and other publications.

ZERO A.M.

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ZERO A.M.

by K. M. Douglas

ZERO A.M.

FIRST CURSE: Arise the first birth in warm obscure purity, admit the subtle passing of daylight chasing sanity, a ceremony of cracked walls and fallen hydrogen assume the freight mild ready desperate escape in train rail race the dust by day and sunlight wishing for obscurity

SECOND CURSE: We follow the laws we choose to follow, we follow the way, the legless way, the headless way, the endless way, the absolute infinity is always changing expanding contract disease the lungs they flow the breath below we pray we wait we give thanks we burst forth in sudden amazement and find the god divine alive in eyes we insist we see through

THIRD CURSE: Our carnal bard died a certain death of old age is a wave that shakes as the beach crashes back and daylight finds a new enemy and nitemare fits an image revealed by morning a memory gasp a last handshake a trigger a fact a gas chamber relate the mid-day earthquake and all the lasers chipped and micro melted skin flaps in piles burnt nervous hostile occupations bring flame to follow death in the a.m.i.m.we.are.eternity

K. M. Douglas grew up in Northeast Ohio and studied creative writing at The Ohio State University. He lives in Rainer, Washington with his wife, cat and dog. Cities of Blood, K. M.’s first published book of poetry, is available for Kindle. His first novel is In the Place Where There is No Darkness, a dystopian look at America through the eyes of the son of a suicidal ex-Army Ranger. http://www.kmdouglas.org