Introducing Joey Gould: The One Time You Take Her to the Lake

It is easy to love one who stares so hard.
She speaks to the breaking water,
eyes ninety degrees away .

You know the vowel structure,
the tongue tuck, the flick of lighters,
the grey solution slowing your veins—

alternately, there grew the lump
in her chest. Then she flew away
from sureness, pale sojourning.

A speedboat’s wake splashes here by a private dock
neither of you owns. Neither of you owns
much. As for any sort of kissing, she
is beautiful but already swimming away
into a blinding sunburn cooked into the pond,
into the flesh-gap between the stories
inked into the skin of her narrow shoulders.
She needs them touched up. She once had

much longer hair, when she forgot
for seven years—consider yourself
also a side-effect of the chemo.
You never learned to swim.

This story poets tell you to read,
it is beautiful & aloof, it runs out
of pages, will not listen to you begging.

Someday you will see her
finally in the ocean, too far away,
too unconcerned with the jagged shore.


Joey Gould is a long-time contributor to Mass Poetry, for which he assists the Poetry Festival Planning Committee, leads workshops for Student Day of Poetry events around Massachusetts, writes web articles for MassPoetry.org, & judges slams for Louder Than a Bomb MA. His work has been printed in Paper Nautilus, Drunk Monkeys, The Compassion Anthology, Memoir Mixtapes, & District Lit, amongst others. He has twice been nominated for Bettering American Poetry and once for a Pushcart Prize. Since his first public reading as a fellow of Salem State University’s Summer Poetry Seminar, he has performed in The Poetry Circus, Elle Villanelle’s Poetry Bordello, and The Poetry Society of New York’s Poetry Brothel. In addition to his Mass Poetry work, he has taught workshops for the Salem Poetry Seminar & Salem Lit Fest. He coedits Golden Walkman & writes 100-word reviews as poetry editor for Drunk Monkeys. Most important, he likes Pusheen & painting his nails.

You can follow Joey on Twitter @toshines

Lettered jailer – Iulia Halatz

You look so sane

potentially careful and serene

Smirk-at-arms

atoning for

the perfumed gaiety

and colorless skies.

The fire in the autumn

dictates the ice in the new moon.

My love,

When are you going to make up your mind?

Set me free

word upon word

I throw in your face

unsubmissive of your bars…

When are you going to break the gloom?

Sorrowless

is your world

You grow your stamina

from my pain…

Minstrels sing of legendary lands

You sing of the legendary cavern

lettered for me.

Some words are

like the spring wind

building with

cherry blossoms

the library

of scent…

Some words

tell

the snows of June

makeshift

a gilded cage

Lit only by a shadow…

Your words are the haze

that glimmer in the distance

Dystopian love

ruling

over eight kingdoms.

One day

I am walking

in a field of poppies

with a sun

that clears

a golden path for me.

The next day

I am bleeding

on thistles and thorns.

You are betrayer

of words

and pilferer of dreams…

Your love expires

every time we drink

the shade of the evening

and the rumours in the stars.

 

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

The noise of this brain – Devika Mathur

 

And so I crumble in my own jaw line

Leaking from the iris,

A stoned mahogany stuck

Beneath the frivolous sky,

I lie like a pond, open and scarred,

Rummaging through your eyes,

To seek something that belongs to my lip.

I fail.

I fail the second day as well.

My mind talks pills and potions

A volatile adamant touch of burps.

A ripple lost and secured.

My mind is insane, forever.

 

Devika Mathur blogs at https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/

 

 

distempered

hands in the garden

distemperdrying abscess acid slaver cakes
corners of creaking
gripe flaps

madness’ molting molars
rip into peel, roman genuflector’s
guilt deep

last squirming maggot’s redeeming
curtsy drools frothing eulogy
from constricted glacier
pores

glistening, sweaty rotten
stench of greying,

long strangled, loving
lucid waste piles of
endearments,

grisly gasping rattle slips,
death’s final “fuck you” to
tortured trek emits

in all its putrid, puerile
glorious half-wit

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

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Red Beans and White Rice

Nicole Lyons

Hypocrisy served
with a hefty side of red beans
and white rice,
and a pledge to love
the red man almost as much
as you love the white,
is still hypocrisy served
with a hefty side of red beans
and white rice.
Bless your heart
and a true patriot’s soul,
take care of them both,
those brown refried beans
you fill your gullet with
may have expired inside cages,
best to send them back
where they came from and stick
to black beans marked free,
the ones you can grind
without outward displays of guilt
you don’t even feel.
Mix us up a brew on Sunday morning
when red flags ripple
against blue skies and you
all meet to pat yourselves
on the back beneath the eyes
of a bearded man on a wooden tee
who would shake his head in disbelief.
Line up in rows in pews
and raise…

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My Second Miracle

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

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My Second Miracle

I hate social media. I met my ex-wife on Myspace. We got married two months later, at least if my memory serves me correctly. My marriage outlasted Myspace, but it felt just as vapid. But, at least out of married I got two miracles. I never wanted a second child. I started late, and I was afraid of having a girl. The odds were against me. Because I was never particularly lucky, I knew my second would be a girl. I sat sweating nervously while they performed the ultrasound.”Congratulations, its a girl!” My ex was beaming. Fear rushed over me. I would spend the rest of my life worrying about my second miracle. Today she hugs my neck and tells me how much she loves me. Her little voice and pure smile pulverizes my fears. I still don’t like social media. It is not a place for…

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four in the morning

S. K. Nicholas

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it’s four in the morning

and could be i’m drunk and gone to the world

but i don’t think booze is the reason i’m

coming apart at all

no, it’s something to do with these bones of mine

and how they don’t belong

not anchored nor attached to anything

or anyone

i exist in my own state

in a place that’s far from

those that would have me become the same

it’s four in the morning

and i’m a drunk that’s lost a bet with life

but i’m not sad

just bummed out that before i know

it

it will happen all over again

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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