I am sexless. We spend this night like jellyfish.We sting and stingeach other and it thrills me.We tiein careful knotsuntil we fill this tank up. This spills over–this water that will never be drunk. Stevie Blue is a student from Leicestershire.
Category: Poetry
When This Train Comes
When this train comes crashingIt’s okay cause I’ve got Je-sus The lights flickerAnd go dead There’s a woman reading the PsalmsWe’re under 100 millionTons of water, Under 100 hundred million gallons of the Hudson The lights have gone offBut she’s still gripping her bibleIn both hands like it’ll be her phoenixLike it’ll point its nose…
Mars
My brother and Iliked to stand, feet inweighted boots and play catch the easy way, the balls curving slow. We’ve matured since then – he explores while I, laboratory-bound, study the things he bringsback; strange aliens. The best place to throwwas on a moon, withsoft gravity andgentle drops, our claspingfingers firm around the sphere. Our…
Crash
First, there is only a sense of wonder.Simple answers tossed up like dice; who, what, and how lying somewherein the sparkling flotsam of the senses.Their fragments mix with the metal and glass. Vision rises like a radiant blister.The glamorous flash of exploding flowers,gold, pink, and blue, a celebrity’s welcome.Sound will have to be added later,…
Op Techs
Even our shoes muffled, we drift in herds down their streets, bodies flapping cloths of liquid blues and greens. We sink to feeding. Our voices slice the air above slabbed bread or meat, accustomed sights. We rejoice like gardeners in pride of pruning, in snips and rearranging, success and failure fenced by useless bones and…
Lost Jacket Blues
The last time I saw it it was stepping off the curb between two parked cars in Cleveland, its pockets empty but for her hands, its top button loose and dangling like the head of a hanged Nazi, though others swear they’ve since seen it from behind and in the somber company of rain, notwithstanding…
Pronouns for My Sister
We—the plural “we”—we wonder what God was thinking, when He made it so that we don’t feel the cut until we see it, open, black, and emptying our entire volume of blood on the ground. How our conjoinment ends, that is another question altogether. The surgeon—God the surgeon, or Gautama Buddha, if you prefer, the…
Words
Words don’t listenWords don’t talkDon’t do nothingYou write them downThey just kind of sit there Noam GR is a twenty year old well-mannered young lad who enjoys walking that fine line between walking a fine line and not.
Like That
When I first thought of my own death,I had no poems to put it in.Just me and the bed tucked under a cold ceiling that pulled away into black mouths. Years later,I imagined someone’s hands on my hips, my breasts. That scaredme in a different way. The ceiling paused and watched, the bed tensedunder me….
The High Fall
I vault, somersault and plunge, an anchor,into the wetness that tastes like mint. The back slap knocks my breath. My gasp obliges the lifeguard to yell at me once, as if I could catch enough air to answer. When I was drowning at Adventure Island in the wave pool deep end, I didn’t know how…