Joshua Martin Ensorcelled In Mad Mandibles, Stopgap Mansions, A Removed Cowlick, Panther Strikes, Pig's Feet, And Spasms Galore

Cannibal sun

Cannibal sun

     look! look! look!

an oil rig

     a sheet of disasters

               spreading

stammering verse until

greener earthquakes ensue

          mad mandible

          maverick staircase

                    stains

            &             all the

       other catastrophic

                               mementoes

once a laser thin operation

     away! away! away!

          an army of

          medieval mummified

          remnants

the size of a carpet sample

            awake to invoke

            stadium seating

                      visible snake charming

                      folding under like a shirt

in limping tattoo

overpass of a

highway

           skull lessened

                grouped together

                according to

                guttural sounds

      dropping                    a

                            droplet

never made sock puppets

into heroes

         or stakes

         into ornaments

    or                          brides into

fathomless                               lashes

brimming to fill

                       stopgap mansions

then through storms

beach covered speedo

skipping to beating

tornado puddle

                     saddled w/

                            debt trampolines

         forthcoming dimensions

         spear themselves

                                 soiled enough to be

                                             refuse

                                                  wasteful in

    diameter

speeches                yonder                     wonder

                  taken                 as a

                     given                   as                      a

raging

              crumb

worm kissed

worm kissed scrawny tongue

and collapse beside a stove

w/o pipes a grimace shivers

the flight it takes to sign a membership

          last enhance

          against a fence

          posted chalkboard

          headless promenade

                      whether running

                       in place of division

                       intervention could

                       spell constant

                       foiled zone of

                       multiplied rejection

                       mattered less than

                       horizontal symbols

                       used to spell

                       a dear john letter

                       pasted to an

                       apple core

then this did

to an unto to

an enormous hawk

wingless as contrarian delight

famous injunction

against a train conductor

of the spirit engulfing

cowardice like a stone

unturned

to be the cowlick

once removed

                                      fatty fatty fatty

                     advanced state

                                           of disrepair

decomposing teeth

to meet a formal dress

                         a tire attired

                         in the latest

                                membrane

                monstrosity

clever enough to will a motorcycle

to sleep

          for a limb is a cellular

                                   mishap 

          for a branch snapped

                                    a diamond

                                                  full title

                                                  left un-

                                        observable

spasms galore

spasms galore

          gunk

sinking ships masterful

zoned out to a zonk!

buried enough spare feathers

to contemplate a swing set

through letterbox deception

the panther strikes at

                         midnight

help! there’s

                a

        GOETHE in my

                   SOUP! &

i don’t know

what to do about it!

the healing power of

sulking                  the dripping

         perfume of

pig’s feet &

                 for the cost of

    a corner

                    you could

get a dime

                       for the sake of a

             priest                  you could

get              a

                             disease

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the book Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Prolit, E-ratio, Nauseated Drive, Fixator Press, The Vital Sparks, and Breakwater Review among others. Check out Joshua's blog at https://joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com/

Harris Coverley with a Velvet Straightjacket, a Turning of the Page, the Flesh of a Peach...

Say Anything

 

I cannot make love to you right now

the moon glows too bright on my back

the sallow beams tickle my eyelids

it cools and burns in all the wrong spots

I cannot focus with all that going on

I cannot make love to you right now

the sea so near to us

is simply too loud

whistling and bending its turquoise waters

back and back and forth and rolling, rolling

it’s giving me a headache

or the likeness of one

at the base of my skull

and eye sockets

 

I cannot make love to you right now

my joints are sore with the day’s walking

my jaw is sore from the talking

you had me do with those people at our adjoining table

sore also from the ribeye steak you had us share

(tough, so tough)

 

I cannot make love to you right now

the sheets are too rough in some places

and too softly kept in others

it makes me itchy and drowsy

and distracted and too calm

 

I cannot make love to you right now

your dress is fitted too tightly

I cannot work it loose

it’s like a straightjacket made of velvet

and money

(too much money)

 

I cannot make love to you right now

for when I look into your eyes

they are mirrors of a memory

in which are reflected back some other lover

like a stain

something soaked into a carpet or wallpaper

like a fear of something

an unspoken oath

 

I cannot make love to you right now

the air of salt

and seaweed is making my nostrils sting

and my stomach rumble

and my heart feel heavy

and lost

a pebble in the sands

of your skin.

Equinox

I am not the mere sum of my parts

I yearn for more than this fragile body

 

Sat by destiny’s river

The waters of life flowing

The stones crouched like old men

The grass sweet with innocence

 

A smile is on the sun’s rays

Love on that brown horizon

 

I turn the book’s page and...

Drowned in Love

 

I am not raw

or burnt with love

I am softened

humbled

meekened

 

like I have been broiled

in love’s little oven

 

I have passion for a phantasm

a nothing

a ghostling

the feeling of a woman

 

and yet she remains

a faded picture on desire’s wall

 

she is like the gold of a temple

laid out on a bed

like the flesh of a peach

between my lips and teeth

like the taste of sweat

umami on a wandering tongue

smooth like marble

on a freshly shaved cheek

buoyant like joy

in a man-child heart

 

I am drowned in love

the nicest death of them all.

 

Harris Coverley was nominated for the 2020 Rhysling Award and is a member of the Weird Poets Society. He has had verse most recently accepted for Polu Texni, Spectral Realms, Flying Fox Flash, Scifaikuest, View From Atlantis, Ordinary Madness, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and Better Than Starbucks, amongst many others. He lives in Manchester, England

Mike James and The Mole Women of Ear Canals, Licorice Wrappers, Cat Allergies, The Need For Stuffing, and A Miniature Angel

The Miniature Angel

A boy went to his father with a cardboard box. His father was busy sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a pipe, wondering if the day would surprise as much as last night’s fortune cookie.

“I have something to show you,” the boy said. Then he opened the box and showed a miniature angel stuck beneath a stick.

“What’s this? How did you get this?” the father asked.

“It’s a miniature angel I caught in a shoebox trap. Angels can’t escape from or resist cardboard.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I’m going to keep him beneath my bed until he’s told me all of his secrets. I’ll give him a nightlight and a honey jar so that the shoebox is a lot like home.”

The Largest Couch 

There once was a couch so large it held three towns from end to end. Farmers drove their carriages across and waved at one another if they came close enough. Hikers slept in shade among velvet slopes and studded indentions. The sun was an expectation the people and the roosters knew. Choirs spent their days learning new hymns to sing beneath the late-night moon. Old hymns were recycled, along with old white pillows and old, old blankets. New stuffing was always needed. No one had to be asked to give. 

The New Cat

There was once a little girl who ran into the living room and exclaimed to her parents, “I’m not your little girl anymore! Now I am your fluffy cat.” “That’s too bad. I don’t like cats,” the father said. “I’m allergic to cats,” said the mother. Then she sneezed a dozen times. “We are going to have to find someone else to take her in. We can’t have all this sneezing. No we can’t. Your eyes are already puffy and red,” the father said as he looked at the mother. “What about the old lady in the gingerbread house?” said the mother between sneezes. “Yes,” replied the father. “She always has cats outside on her fence and in her driveway and on her front porch steps.” Then the mother and the father leaned their heads against one another and tried to remember the old lady’s name. 

The New Bird

There was once a little girl who dreamed she was a bird.

When her mother came to wake her she had already built a sleep nest on her bookshelf. It was made of twigs and licorice wrappers and the shreds of old blue cotton pajamas.

The mother looked at the nest and said, “Now this is mess. These twigs and wrappers won’t do. Thank goodness there are no eggs in here. One bird is enough for a single woman. I’ve got a career and there are many sunsets to think over.”

The Woman in the Gingerbread House 

There once was a woman with 100 children and each had the name of a flower. She was a busy woman. She was, oh yes, busy. There were soups to cook, teeth to count, a postman to gossip with, and carrots and potatoes to plant and to harvest. There was something to do as long as the sun shined, which it did dimly to brightly most hours. 

After dinner, a lucky child pointed at that night’s picture from Da Vinci’s Anatomy. The mother began a bedtime story. So the children learned about the Apes of the Tendons, the Fairies of the Liver, the Mole Women of Ear Canals, and the Very Testicle Cowboys.

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee. He has published in numerous magazines, large and small, throughout the country. His many poetry collections include: Leftover Distances (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), and Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog.) He has received multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations.