Archives
April 2007
Fiction:
Non Fiction:
Poetry:
Part Timer
by
Jessica Denton
the greatest joy
was losing time
in pleasing herself
some called it 'pottering'
she called it 'life'
it was a luxury
afforded by few
a bucket of coffee
a packet of fags
and a decent view
no clocks or traffic
no where to be
she was a rare thing
getting rarer every day
she read while eating
and gardened in the dark
she never shaved her legs
or wore a bra
she loved privacy and silence
and long empty days
she was content
in a life lived
part time unimpinged
Equation for Love
by
Sarah Lambretch
One you
Plus one me
Just one union
And you'll see
That four lips
Plus one kiss
With one touch
Is all bliss
And two hearts
Plus four arms
And four hands
Is all warm
And one squeeze
Just one hug
Equals two together
And one love
The Guinness Drinker
by
Greg Buddery
At about 6.00
There are four words in his head:
pub, drink, want, now.
He goes without sense,
stands beneath beams,
eases the drink down his throat,
laughs with those
he grew old with,
slots two quid in the juke box,
chooses Exile on Main Street,
tells them he met Mick once
(and shook his hand, of course).
By the fire,
there are men
in bronze frames.
(He could have been famous once!)
Later, he scars his name
in the mahogany table,
blows cigar smoke to the ceiling.
A copper bell announces the end:
he crawls out:
uncaring.
Cold Gray
by
Michael Johnson
Below the clouds
forming in my eyes,
your soft eyes,
delicate as silk words,
used to support
the love I held for you.
Cold, now gray, the sea tide
inside turns to poignant foam
upside down & separates-
and only ghosts now live between us.
Yet, dream like, fortune-teller,
bearing no relation to reality-
my heart is beyond the sea now.
A relaxing breeze sweeps
across the flat surface of me.
I write this poem to you
neglectfully sacrificing our love.
I leave big impressions
with a terrible hush inside.
Gray bones now bleach with memories,
I am a solitary figure standing
here, alone, along the shoreline.
E MAIL TO DAMNISO LOPEZ 26
by
Duane Locke
With swirling streaks of a reddish brown
On their bright green skins, fat, large lizards Lounged
On a time-greened, gray Italian wall
By a small street of white pulverized stones.
The lizards were arranged
In tranquil spatial intervals
As if composed by Piet Mondarin.
A strand of the yellow of her Slavic-Teutonic blonde hair
Fell in a spiral over my green shirt.
As I sit here in a special heated chair,
Sipping cognac, I mediate
On the undecidability
Between image and reality,
digressed to recall the moment in Italy.
Language is inadequate to give
A clear, unambiguous, determinate view
Of actuality, and language brings the gift
Of giving something else, a linguistic reality.
Art:
"Cover Collage" by Andrew Sloan
