Our Father who art in the eye
of the beholder I make all things
newfangled wine in old ways
to skin a categorical imperativoli
garden path of righteous mome rath
outgrabing the graybeard lion
in his lares and piñadayadayada
so what ellis island and two if
by seahorse joust around the corner
drug kingpinafore he’s a jolly good
swagman overboard of directory
assistants required of thee but
to do justice to this fine poem
A neonate, none newer
A neonate, none newer,
ate an oaten entree
near a teeter-totter.
Art wet? Want tea? Want water?
Want rennet? Naan? Annatto?
Want a tater newton? Taro?
Arrowroot? A two-ton torte?
Roar not, O roar not!
We own error, we atone!
Neonate on teeter-totter now.
[Oligogram: AEO NRTW]
The other shoe
Underlying the climate of dread and despair
is the great unspoken fear that plutonium
will be demoted to the status of dwarf element.
Americans, as famous for their ignorance of history
as for their knee-jerk affinity for buzzwords,
fail to recall that the plutonium bomb was Fat Man,
not Little Boy. No, if you want a dwarf –
or for that matter a sprite – element,
go yell “Get a halflife!” at livermorium,
which measures its own in hundredths of a second,
whereas plutonium’s, at least in its top form,
is eighty million years.
Esther Greenleaf Murer is a relic of the 20th century who has given up trying to make sense of the 21st. She has been writing poetry since the age of 6 and got serious about learning the craft when she turned 70. She published her first collection, Unglobed Fruit, in 2011. She has been featured poet in The Centrifugal Eye and Kin. She lives in Philadelphia.
A ceramic bowl full of sugar. My sisters and I wore knee length skirts in the house. We were the unrefined, raw and loose crystals that needed to be poured into a bowl. My mother was another wild one my father had tamed. She was his sugar in a sachet. Bright, yellow bananas were also placed in a ceramic bowl, but without great fanfare or symbolism. My sisters were not allowed to see anyone at middle school. My father loathed peeling bananas. It was a bother to take the skins off, but he always checked whether we wore our undergarments before we left the house.
except : me
I am a teacher and poet from the Netherlands. My work has been published in The Bastille, the literary magazine of SpokenWord Paris.
Russian as a second/third language
I have made a patch for zombies
on the catwalk. It is flat & matte
& chops up audio in real-time.
I want to try to make jungle. I
want a clean amen break. Reboot
is an abstract illustration of a
classic learning game, a lazy way
of not trying to call something an
obvious remake. Women who wear
glow in the dark lace lingerie love
fun! Shop the huge range online
now! My active lifestyle starts here.
This is a complex poem – and the challenge of posting online has possibly surpassed me – if you’d prefer, you can download the pdf of the poem by clicking here. Otherwise have fun exploring the images below.
Clay Thistleton has taught creative writing and literary studies in universities, community colleges and not-for-profit organisations for almost two decades. He is the author of Gef the Talking Mongoose and Other … Poems (Blart Books, in press): a collection of found poetry that investigates the phenomenon of ghosts and poltergeists that have the ability to speak or write. His current project, Never Mind the Saucers, examines documented instances of alien-human sexual contact. Along with his son Dylan, Clay lives in New South Wales, Australia with a fluctuating number of feral cats.
V and I meet
In aisle six amidst sandwich bags, bread, condiments and dressing. V’s aura reeks of blackened tin foil as she prices jams by sugar content (in grams).
V beckons I to produce and their conversation is conducted by lettuce leaves.
“Did you know there’s a boat?” (asked V’s lettuce leaf). I knew.
“Did you know it doesn’t have sides?” the leaf pressed. I knew that too.
A disembodied head of cabbage muttered his discontent through the rest of this dialogue.
Anyone with information on these events, please make contact.
An MFA graduate of Goddard College, I spend my days working on nonprofit endeavors. My poetry has appeared in Down the Dog Hole, inkscrawl, Really System and others