lucifer

no alchemy here in the

forest of the mind where the

murdered children will only ever

be what they are

no roads in or out and the

buildings have all

been reduced to rubble

kirchner watches the soldiers

burn his paintings

rothko considers his reflection

in the bathroom mirror

isn’t sure the pills will be enough

and so he grabs a razor blade

and there is nothing you can tell

your children but pale versions

                         of darker truths

there are no poems worth

writing, only those worth stealing

only gods waiting to be defiled

a blessing

devil is a pagan beast and

the days pass slowly in

the back of his luminous mind

grey sun in a chrome sky and

the crushing weight of all of your

sad little self-inflected wounds

all the ages of man just

leading up to extinction

give the gun to your

lover’s son and tell him who to hate

try to find words for the

things that really matter

and are you a believer?

are you a holy beacon?

let the ones on fire burn

let the suicides believe in

a better world

no gracious gods here, no

laughter of children in

wildflower meadows

crow dreams of the ocean but

lives his life lost in the desert

has his pills and his cloven tongue and

the vague news of a priest

held prisoner there

has a mouthful of broken glass but

still screams his belief into an

indifferent sky

whispers motherfucker

says nothing

but pulls the trigger

has visions of bloody handprints

across his lover’s naked body and

understands that his heart is a cage

that his mind is

a windowless room

stands alone in the darkest

corner and finds the devil there

after charlotte st.

so

make yr life

easier

all poems are

poems about death

all sunlight

is literal

keep changing the

names, of course,

because too much truth

is the same as too

much heroin

keep telling beth

you’ve always loved her

but say it from a

distance of

10,000

miles

jesus it’s

got to get boring

being such a

fucking

sap

the oblique

sunlight in the

spaces between houses

map of loss

geography of both

memory and sorrow and

then what?

find the man with the

crosses carved into his palms

find the one with the head of

a crow,

with the mind of a jackal

the junkie hymns are

what matter here,

and the prayers

of murdered dreamers

gold and myrrh and that

all gifts are weapons

that all lovers

believe in resurrection

the heart betrays the body

                                    yes

but then the

body betrays the soul

ecstasy precedes despair

the desert spreads without

mercy in every direction

malice

a lack of pain, maybe,

or at least a diminishing of it

warmth, but not peace

tension, yes, fear, yes, on and

on both of them until they feel like

all you’ve ever known, and when

you tell the kid to cut himself,

he does

when you tell the woman to

get undressed, to get on

her knees, she does

sorrow is its own

form of blindness

hatred is the driving

wheel of western thought

if you close your eyes, you

can already hear the next

war approaching

dog on fire

baby is found dead in

the back seat

is red and blistered

and the air between his

tiny hands

too hot to breathe

the world of

human error too

large to comprehend

John Sweet

the bleeding horse, avenged writings by john sweet, and then some.

I Am Tired of Hearing about the Underground

                                                         

I am tired of hearing about the underground.

Like there are moles under the marble flooring

feeling their way through the darkness.

It is the written word.

Yes, it is a tough racket.

But all this nonsense about shit eating alligators

down in the sewers.

And the way some embrace it.

Like the guy who pounds spikes through his nose

for the travelling circus.

Give me a press that strives.

Never at the expense of itself,

but with dreams large enough to

fall out of love with.

Malta

The mail comes

and she asks me

do you know anyone

in Malta?

No, I say.

Well you got a package from Malta,

it looks weird.

Did you piss someone off in Malta?

It looks like one of those packages

full of anthrax.

I stand back and tell her to open it.

It’s taped shut, she says.

That’s to keep the powder inside,

I say.

Then she tells me the good news is that

the antibiotic she on right now

is the one they use for anthrax.

When she opens the package,

a single slim volume of poetry

falls out.

I am one of the contributors.

I guess I do know someone in Malta,

I say.                    

She keeps looking down into the empty

envelope as those she is disappointed

there is nothing else.

One of Micheline’s (for Brenton Booth)

this

no bullshit wordsmith

from down under

started this

no bullshit magazine

called The Asylum Floor

and he

got in touch with

Jack Micheline’s son

who said

he could look

through his father’s paintings

and choose one

for the cover of the second

issue, which may not

be a big deal

in the circles you travel,

but you can bet

your ass

it’s like Mardi Gras

in these

parts.

Words on a Flyleaf

Anyone can put words, but what are the right words?

I pause to think of something poignant and come up with nothing.

Something sincere, we have had enough nincompoop

witty already.  But what to say… 

And it hardly helps that the receiver of said sentiments

is standing over your shoulder the entire time waiting to see

what you write.  A man should not suffer performance

anxiety from signing a book, but that is what is happening here.

And you can see your very skill as a wordsmith questioned,

the look on the face saying: if a man can’t write a few words

down on a flyleaf, how the hell did he write the book?

Did he write the book?  His name is on it, but that doesn’t mean

anything these days.  People put their names on everything

without even thinking.  And each time pen approaches paper,

it gets a little quieter in the room.  As though you are a groundhog

that mustn’t be spooked lest their be six more weeks of winter.

And pen touching paper finally, I dash something off. 

What a ridiculous fool I am.  Smudging my hand in a silly

black ink that won’t come off.

I Don’t Write in Closets

I’ve been told I couldn’t write my way out of closet

which is fine with me because I don’t write

in closets.

That would be weird.

All those white dress shirts

hanging above you like

lazy bedsheets

after the clan.

Which reminds me,

critics are flies to the manure pile

that is their thesaurus.

Looking for ever colorful ways

to drag a fishing line behind the boat

of popular opinion.

Hoping someone will sink

thinking that means they have

finally come up for air.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan 

in her panties and a long shirt

 

i saw the woman

across the street

smoking a cigarette

in her panties and

a long shirt the

other morning

 

i spent a little

longer than usual

looking for the

newspaper that

morning

 

i believe her

husband noticed

J.J. Campbell

the closest thing to happiness

 

i often find myself

dancing with a devil

and pretending i'm

actually enjoying

the ride

 

happiness is a

fool's errand at

best anymore

 

one of these days

i will be dead and

none of this shit

will matter

 

that's the closest

thing to happiness

i can imagine

J.J. Campbell

ample regrets

 

there are

moments

when the

lush trapped

inside of me

wants to put

a saddle on

that unicorn

and embrace

the pain of

a brand-new

tomorrow

 

somewhere

lost in the

sorrow and

remorse of

ample regrets

 

i can't help

but imagine

her lonely

eyes and

my lost soul

awkwardly

bumping into

each other

 

spilling a drink

and then having

to decide

 

be angry or

fall in love

J.J. Campbell

Response to a Suicide Note

You have more to live for

You just don't see the

clouds of your brain

right now

Throw it away

Stop

STOP

There is a lot more to live for

Think of the things that make you happy

They are in abundance

Focus on the good

There is much insight to be had

Think this through

Think this through

Talk to someone

Get the help you need and deserve

Throw it away

Throw it the fuck away

You don't need it

Everyone is here for you

Rooting for you to get better

If you can't do it for you,

do it for me

I don't want to be writing

about your suicide for the

next 20 years

Adam Levon Brown

Stars in Your Eyes

Fast forward one month

We were officially a couple

and the sun shined on me with

all of its praise for the first time in my life.

Waking up every day was an exciting journey.

I would awaken to a nibble on my ear,

someone sitting on me, or someone laughing.

She was heavily into skating, so our first

weeks together were spent at a skateboard shop

called Sk8ers. The display model of a skateboard

was in place for people to practice their moves.

Just to emphasize how bad my injury was,

I was bed-ridden for a week

I walked up to that board like I was

Tarzan and ready to slide along the trees.

I tried an Ollie and the board slipped

from underneath me as if I was one of the

Mario Brothers being swept away by an angry turtle.

I landed on the cement floor underneath and wondered

what the hell had just happened.

She laughed and laughed and laughed.

The pain was excruciating, but my ego took the biggest punch.

 I hobbled over to the couch and she followed behind.

While nursing my shrunken head, she initiated a kiss.

The fireworks from the movie, “Mulan” exploded into my head.

While drunk on dopamine, I decided to try to say something romantic.

All that came from my mouth was,

“You have stars in your eyes”

Damn I was good.

 I knew that at any moment, we would be off to my parents’ apartment to begin making out.

This wasn’t the case.

She laughed even harder than when I fell and I sat there awkward, with a face full of ketchup embarrassment.  

I quickly changed the subject and asked if she wanted to go eat.

She wore a smile that seemed to say,

“God, I’m with an idiot, but he’s sweet.”

We left to the Mcdonald’s down the road. She walked, while I strutted along like a geriatric

pool of sweat.

Adam Levon Brown

Misery Hates Company

It's not that I

don't love you.

You must understand

that I've made loneliness

A lifestyle. I am so broken

that tears no longer come.

You must understand

that the Sun is just a

contorted memory.

Darkness is my truth

And I plan on telling it.

Fly away, my dove of light.

Adam Levon Brown

The Numbness Pervades

Dead eyes can

only see so far

When the vultures

come to feast

There will be carrion

that will resist

They will resist

but die trying

Such is the darkness

that swallows my psyche

An enigma of a black

hole trapping my spirit

In its chains of misery.

Life succumbs to lies

and bones of the celestial

become numb

Death is your shadow

that follows

And In the end, there

is only numb

Adam Levon Brown

Queer Confessional

Thinking about men

has only seemed natural

to me for 21 days and 6 hours.

Years spent denying my very core

and reveling in the fact

that I could do it.

The war has ended

and the dust has settled.

Cobwebs in my heart

have been replaced

with a renewed vigor.

I don't know where to go

from here, but my eyes

are set to the sky.

I am free.

Adam Levon Brown