The Butler's Hangoverwelcome on my faith and heart your smellThe Butler's Hangover by tiganusi
to my merciless nose--my prophet wrapped
in clothing inevitably seen and not seen;
do not hear complaints from my heart
sweetheart--he says he doesn’t remember
talking but all night until dawn I heard
a mourning cry--fear not
the man without a heart--let me:
he was my lotusflower bone risen
fresh from my garden pond--
I’ll eat the oak wine country and he
can kiss my cup
|BROWSING BY NEWEST FEATURES|
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
Floral Still Life: Materials and Longevity
The Ghazal: An Introduction
GENERAL PHOTOGRAPHY ON dA
Gallery Structure: Digital Darkroom
Gallery Structure: Traditional Darkroom
Self-Marketing 101: Submitting to Niche Galleries
Wedding Journalism vs Wedding Portraiture
Good Subject versus Good Photograph
Focus: Still Life
Focus: People and Portraits
Focus: Humor, Fireworks, Miscellaneous
ABCs OF PHOTOGRAPHY
Acadian Coffee Cake
The kidnappingHe'd put the forty-watt bulb in deliberately. Its dull glow filtered through layered fumes and added just the right touch of atmosphere.
Three thousand bloody words.
He swore and sucked hard on the spindly, hand-rolled cigarette. The raw, bitter kick at the back of his throat nearly made him choke and he spluttered, swallowing the reflex and the smoke and holding his breath until red lights danced in front of his eyes.
In the corner the girl cowered, limbs crunched tightly against torso, her weeping muffled.
The cigarette dropped into last night's coffee mug with a faint hiss. Grunting heavily, he reached around the desk, fumbled another paper and carefully pinched a tiny wad of tobacco.
Not much left. Damn.
Two of the joss sticks had gone out. He relit them with his lighter, savouring the burnt sandalwood that thickened the atmosphere. The laptop's shine was muted, but the nearly blank white page was beginning to be irritating. Licking parched lips, he checked the word count. 166 Word
Senryu Series 121.
even the printer
he still wakes up
his grandmother dies
in the lemonade
I choose not to round
on the preacher's back,
a new boss, the age
of my son
the boss graduates
with my son
the same old bats
even his shadow
I purchase 10 acres
deep in love
she invades my side
of the bed
meeting her dad
a loose thread
in my sweater
do us part
No Train For YesterdayI spend two & a half smiles on strangers,
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on. Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
Oh, God, a couch and the miles between hearts.
Girl leaves her husband after one year
and is online dating a month later,
dating that billionaire who barely talks to her,
but it’s better to have just ‘something.’
girl calls you weird for sitting on the same couch as her
when you go to watch a movie together. But
The electronic light of your phone, and the miles.
She says “I miss you” and Godthemiles.
It is easy to predict the future here,
but only because distance negates reality
before you even begin.
And how you wanted to kiss her
watching a movie sitting in two chairs next to each other
on your computer screen in 14 Rue Kléber Mercier.
And how your sister thinks she looks like
Conversations with an old poetHe is grey-whiskered furniture, a pub fixture;
akin to the ashtrays and rickety seats
frequently occupied by bickering students.
'What is poetry?' they asked him one inebriated evening.
He thinks back to some long, hazy hour
when a glass of bourbon sought its six brothers
and a vast expanse of blank paper confronted him.
'There is purity here,' he mused,
'it would be barbaric to taint this beauty
with crude splotches and scribbles of ink.
Far better to leave it clean.'
The bourbon gave him a clarity of thought:
the unmarked parchment was perfection,
a masterpiece of condensed meaning;
a post-modern wet-dream of unfettered potential.
'What is poetry?'
He emptied a thoughtful pint
and then, with reverence, placed before them
a pristine page from his notebook.
Blue Nuns in a Barren LandThe work of God,
they say the word of God,
is the finger of a mountain crushing
an evergreen forest, as a thumb put-places
the page; a bookmark made of eternity that forms the Now.
And if you disagree, as some authoritarian would,
place your page upfront, with all its words,
and let them choir as all choirboys do
before the unpleased crowd
of Me and You.
The shades will grow, we both should know,
for all deliberate things do so.
The grass will feeble by the wind,
so the wrath of His nose maketh it low.
And in the midst of crowing fiends
where Gehenna's gape is wide and grim
a blue trail 'll form of heads held high -
the taciturnly nuns will glide by.
No man is right
prior ere of deeds,
but he who dares to
cross the river Styx by rowing
naked with no fear of remorse in his heart.
That is the man which Zeus feared most,
that which Thor-thunder's arched before
and grounded at the forest deep,
where evergreens grow wild
and proud before the mountain.
The boughs stretch ad infinitum
Where The Whoryelle RoamWay down the dockettes where the whoryelle roam,
A place where short skirts adhere tightly to skin,
And clespigs stick fingers in velinge and moan,
At pay-per-hour ceilings stained grobbery dim,
The johns shoot their spunk over wobbling jib-jubs,
While we sip our vodka and dream of some work,
A nice leshiess, three wee kids and a tub,
They wipe their schlots off and return to their lurk.
Its hard to be honest this side of the track,
There just isnt room for samaritans, see?
For even the bigjobs are cutting the crack,
All fosprooping gutlas, between you and me.
If this fooken subsence is good as it gets,
Withtake all your clislen, and max out your bets.
Give and GiveJackson3 walked home from the factory in knee deep snow, although the snow bothered him about as much as the sun did in the summer, which was not at all. The water couldn't penetrate his joints, and a thin layer of laser warmed air kept the moisture away from his lenses. He dragged his boots as he walked, using his heavy angular feet to clear as wide a path on the walkways as possible for the people who might travel there after him. Most people weren't weatherproof.
As he passed by the scaffolding where the workers were refacing the old Drake, he stopped, unclipped his carry-all and fished inside.
"Hey Jacks. Some crazy snow. How's the factory today?" The voice preceded the middle aged man from the shadows, and Jackson3 waited as he carefully unfolded himself from the cardboard and tarpaulin shelter he kept tucked out of the wind.
"Snow is snow Peter, it has neither life nor intellectual capacity, so therefore it cannot be crazy." Jackson3 watched as the man shook his head. "The factor
Midlife Crisis III’ve had this hobby for a while, being a pigeon. It started when Marjorie suggested I stay on at work past retirement age and keep her in the manner to which she had become accustomed. I’ll be honest, to that point I hadn’t given much thought to my future. I mean, I might have taken up fishing, got an allotment and pottered a bit in the shed, you know. I assumed I’d retire, at least, but do something to keep myself out from under Marjorie’s feet. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy my job, either, but policing’s a young man’s game when all’s said and done. You have to know when to call it quits and avoid becoming a laughing stock. So anyway I didn’t give her an answer then and there; said I’d think about it.
I’d seen a documentary on Channel Four about a man who became a squirrel. Well, I say became a squirrel. It was a pretty poor effort if y
September Cat HaikuA purring cat
tramples across my keyb
Beast of BurdenThere, the wind she feels is driven by
creatures bounding across a universe, tapping gently her neck.
She sings an aching chorus composed in fear
she sings, she sings endless verse to each.
O' come here hare or horse, o' come here bird and bear
nest and trample upon my golden hair.
Bloody my brow; bruise deep my skin
poke my eyes with berry bush stem.
Here, crown my flesh caked tangles with hoof and feather.
Now, with your ears focused on solemn melody; can your eyes see only darkness?
Mock her with growls and squawks.
Use your claws and talons to end her lyric
and compose a natural song in her honor, for she like you is long since dead.
This, TooI point to the hair on my knuckle
and you say, “yes, this, too, I love.”
It is longer than the year before, curling
a little farther from my body. I say so
and you say, "I know."
I pull it out to two options: am I angry
that you saw my body betraying youth,
that first little slide, and did not tell me?
Or, do I pat your rounding belly and say,
“yes, this, too, I love.”
Bruce Wayne's Girlfriend“Bruce Wayne's Girlfriend”
I was Batman’s girlfriend;
he was twice my size
and a great kisser.
Or maybe he was just an okay kisser
because I’d close my eyes
he was you.
I woke up
I’d move in with Batman,
who kept so many secrets,
who seemed more in love
with that one
than he could ever be with me.
It was nine a.m. and I
went to pee,
Living the Everyday Haiku1
climbing the first vertical
it comes to—
a snail on my shoe
leaves falling everywhere
I look, how easy it is
to let them go
I marvel at every
rose bush petal
holding fast in the wind
seed packets in a drawer—
dormant dreams of an herbal garden
cutting the moon in half
but not the piercing wind
still in bed—
winter scrubbing the remains
of autumn from the trees
7 (seen on local news today)
waves scattering cliff side
spectators with sea foam and awe
how cold the night—
no sound of cricket or bird
yet his breath in slumber
pulling taut the bed sheet,
outline of my tortoiseshell comb
lace curtain patterns
from a kitchen breeze
fill the empty fruit bowl
chopping winter vegetables
my thoughts of summer plums
reflection of my rouged lips
on the window sill
through a water glass
pomegranate halves, red
on half-read newspaper
beijing hymnEverything's come up cats and sparrows
after a harrowing day on the town; people have come clean,
set down their worries like beer on a coaster. Even the propaganda posters
are looking cheery in their red coats today: there's a certain spring in the air,
the skies are blue and gold with it; and here's me sold on it,
sitting in the street like a jackass singing to God.
There's the migrant worker, brick-footed;
putting down his hard hat to light a fag. There's the rag,
the shirt he wipes his face with. I hear him babbling, voiceless and ear-plentiful;
I see him wrinkle quickly as a stream. And I see him tan like a cherry in summer,
all road-dust and brown. I see him building a tiny shanty town;
I pick up that idea and put it in myself.
There's the street kid in her sticky face
and hands; there's the mouthful of rice she represents
roaring with joy. I see her chasing, racing the city wind and the sound of fall
running blind; she can make two hundred paces in those little plastic shoes.
Hello Mister Magpie, How's Your Lady Wife? /"Dead!" replied the magpie, aflutter with sorrow, as he pitched himself into the sky to escape our pitying hearts.
Meat LockerMeat Locker
I had gone down shaking to the freezer
where my face waited in a pail of milk
when the door closed, and I wasn't afraid –
I realised, like lifting free the stubborn
radius from the forelimb, this room lay larger
than the banked meat above, the shop
and its window, the chill street and its ceiling
of stars – that room shut behind me.
Perlescent fat of marmoreal Greece, ramparts
of rainbowed steaks pulled me onwards
while the little lights of my eyes, the stoving
touch of each my fingers sparked a thaw.
If I stared long enough the flesh began to move.
I had that glimpse of the butcher, then,
as he staggered between the aisles
of sweating carcasses that swayed apart,
stopping to bring down the cleaver,
to make small and consumable, to carve off
clods of gristle for his dog
or tapered shapes, supple geometries,
and gently squeezing each in his hands,
prefigured for the chilled cabinets above.
10. N43Riding the night bus back to your
red-curtained studio, mud skies,
streetlights like lit Gauloises,
Got a smoke? a white boy asks,
& idly on the chill pane scribes
a heart, slits a line through it.
From the dry ice & drum of a club
he loped. If he’s surprised to see you
riding the night bus he doesn’t say.
The night is electric. Connected
he skims his phone. Where is he
going? It’s been a while since you
dated but when you bite into him
he’ll taste like freedom you’re sure.
Near Highgate, he jumps off, disappears
into woods. We must lead independent
lives & besides, what do you love?
I used to speak French - Je ne parle plus francais(audio included)
(version francophone plus bas)
I used to speak French
The sheets are crumpled at our feet -
my head rests on your chest, and
I quietly listen to your heartbeat:
one for you, one for me,
one for you, one for me.
I play with the sunlight in your hair;
with your fingertips you draw
teeny circles on my back.
Seinfield is on -
Je ne parle plus français
Les draps sont en boule à nos pieds -
ma tête repose sur ton torse, et
j'écoute les battements de ton cur :
un pour toi, un pour moi,
un pour toi, un pour moi.
Je caresse les rayons du soleil dans tes cheveux -
du bout des doigts tu dessines
de tout petits cercles sur mon dos.
À la télé, il y a Seinfield -
nous sommes heureux.
-SophieC, february 2012
SpoilersI own six heavy seconds
nested in the pearly, bluish dunes
somewhere in a ripple, surely.
I am the owl that was
on sycamore perch, staring through the wood
at strangers blooming in the dark
their false skins rusted stuck;
I've dreamt them northern onions-
how I'd peel back each layer
and cry at all the evil they became.
The seldom in our hearts is often overwhelming,
encouraging our envy- allowing us our joy
somewhere in a ripple. Surely
this is not the way
we're meant to live.
[The above is a found poem biography/artist's statement made of animated gifs. Oops.]
I'm C "Mark" Perry, the picture-taking former Gallery Moderator for Photography who proselytized about pringles, pandas and polaroids. In meatspace I worked as a designer and staff photographer for several years, then swapped into marketing management; I still freelance, show and sell my work but I don't like to talk about it. I'm a once-upon-a-time lit kid who's had a poem/editorial published here and there. I paint too. P is not my favourite letter, but you'd never believe that based on this paragraph.
I was around the site, dAmn and IRC on a few other accounts on and off since before dinosaurs had feathers, most notably on the account `IBinsanity, where I probably left you with a very [un]favourable first impression.