Lady K

MOTHER (THE COW)

Bearing your offspring
Into mid life- trundling
Your shopping trunk on
Wheels, wits as sharp as a tusk.

Your ivory path
Carving a fire break, landscape
To sustain the herd-
Footprints forming water holes

In the dry season.
The grey matriarch keeps the
Family close-knit in
The absence of males: the rogues.

Relishing each new
Arrival, remembering
Each death, returning
To the very spot to grieve.

Sue Johns

 

EATING THE ONEIRIC

The eyeball of morning’s diffuse love stumbling through the parkette, strung out and praying for that great wash of blood-on-the-tracks love. Blind torpor crumbling, doffing its hat to female sex organs left out to dry in the sun. A car brandishes its own schizophrenic creations in a rusted tire iron waved menacingly at the tanned heads of old men. Crackled lips suckling at disease, ashamed to be seen consuming a priori awareness before the onrush of a textual butterfly, firm hips in tight, bright dresses that can redeem the day somehow.

Desire gnaws blithely on bytes of pirated information. The armed masses will arrive soon with their allies riding shotgun in bottles of pilsner ferried secretly through the night. Directives issued by an angry, fading sun. Skeletal torsos will undulate in the void and perform fellatio on the assassin’s sleep.

Embers coiling at the feet of eros. The infatuated spiral tends to its own colony of our forgotten futures.

A waning sense of causality streams from yellowing bones trying to hide behind a window’s sad tremor. The retching of gunfire. Lonely women tracing moths in their own flesh in a desperate bid to connect with bug eyed propaganda. An unholy, bug eyed grin crosses the street with empty courtyards set to stun while jaws drop at the spectacle.

Cold reverb, sweat soaked necks, amphetamines guzzling what is left of muscle toned pleas for some kind of sanity to emerge. Witches drop to their knees in awe and dread, get up and start noisily slurping at wads of jism hinted at in stained jeans. A frog leaps up out of nowhere and douses them in hot grease, to their surprise and delight. Hormones choke vision, bombs blast the stars in tribute to dog skulls and jade. Hands pass oil stained fauna quickly, furtively, afraid that imagination will expose the ample curve of its ass to the undercover cop calmly observing everything at once, just waiting for his chance to lick the cross with long, lusty strokes of his forked tongue. His subconscious is soaked in gasoline, resurrected by the pitch and play of big ideas working the dimly lit labyrinth of alleyways melded to his pathology. Globules of the third scream will be deposited there before it’s all over.

Robert Chrysler