Deep Tissue Magazine #18
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
Deep Tissue Magazine #18 © 2014 Deep Tissue Magazine 11 Black By Precambrian Lullaby when the lights go out and the room is dark still awake but holding, breathing, resigning to the lark all bottle’s empty and tears run dry smelling foul air and still remnant lie, shadow hands caress your favor sight returns to dark and shadowed rooms, efforts no longer labor blind-will follows echo to the plume unseen unseeing lips grace yours to trip and fall to rip softly squozen rain to knell and dance lone praises even evening lazes with lost and drifting crazes greeting sole companions, repeating appealing calls as lengthy onward familiar blind clarity knows, and warm will find you back as lengthy onward familiar blind-clarity knows, and warm will find you back when holding-hopes turn to black, when hope turns black 22 Another New York Poem By Puma Perl he’d been around a few times never stayed long until he found himself suddenly famous he never thought it would happen didn’t even care she thought it belonged, rightfully, to her she worked harder, worried more, fucked the occasional stranger 33 now she stood in the back of the room he was drunker than he appeared a girl in the front crossed her legs the guy in the corner watched hehe still didn’t care not much he didn’t see her leave the girl with the legs tried to catch his eye he considered the guy int he corner wound up with a redhead at the bar who didn’t know who he was he liked it better that way she walked home the long way 44 the table was stacked with books half-finished drafts, poem bones she pushed it to the side smoked cigarettes, ate ice cream maybe it would help 55 "i want to be homeless" By Glen Still i want to beg and hollar beg you for your dollar have you turn a blind eye i want to walk a couple miles till my feet are defiled and god don't love me anymore i want all my vision to suddenly perish all the things that i once cherished i want to hang my head as if i was i dead i want to die 66 i don't want the benefits that you have how would i keep them in a plastic bag i don't want a pension i won't live past fifty five i want to wake up when i'm cold feel so all alone i want to experience life unfold knowing no one loves me i want to struggle to find food to dig in the dumpster just for you 77 because i know what 'll find will be heavier than my grind so i want to explore the corporate trash find a place to stash it just for you i want to have to steal my clothes dodge the bullet of the unknown i want to wage war on god and karma i want a thirty day rescue mission when i've come to the end of my session to kick me out the door because i won't subscribe to their agenda i won't enter their program 88 that forces god down my throat i want nothing like you want i want pain without a heart i want to be stone cold without a reason i want to go without a shower feel more or less empowered for weeks at a time i want less than any other human being does i want to ember in the ashes deteriorate into the masses i want to be the one 99 that just can't dig myself out i want to be despicable hold a sword up to your candle i want to be everything you can't handle i don't want to conform to your standards at this point i've given everything i have into being homeless and i don't want anything anymore 1010 A Walk in the Park (I) By Nancy Davenport they are worth the walk the pink fluffy cherry blossom trees in the park I carry them with me all morning when I say my prayer when I count toto ten when I am afraid in the bank and need to take a deep breath, I look down and see a cherry blossom petal 1111 Potential By Rose Aiello Morales The first cat is dead .. I killed it with an eye, evil in the telling of a tale I boxed as a set piece, called the potential a name begun with 's'. Belief is a seldom thing. The only motivation of a life's fits, random mumblings notwithstanding, I could not manifest goodness. The box was open, closed. Occupying past transgressions, reminders left in secret places found 1212 by blind feet and hands, I could see everything, there was nothing shown before me. The second cat is relative. I found her in a dream suspended, white ghost of a passing thought, I will not open mouth to speak nor lift a lid upon fast moving morns. I will breathe her into life Or damn her into ether Limbo, all possibilities are here and not today, tomorrow I will dream the box again, tied in a bow, a brief light peeking from a corner. 1313 someone's at your window By Chris Nelles someone's at your window. you or i i cannot tell. our differences decline between the bells that city all. the cosmos is adrift and drifting into us, where circles start beneath my eyes, before the mornings make you rise. again the cock crows twice, and ochre strikes your breast awake, our sighs unfocused, saddened by what's in between our shattered life, our kitchen bare of beauty's ring, while ringed in canopies of bitter rain. 1414 a black swan glides on lotuses, on lily web that calls us, clarion, to shores where corpses are released as roses, under outstretched wing, and necks extended, shivering in blood, all throat, and robin red by heart, by too much damage witnessed from a growing sense the future moves, as eerily as selves set free from lovers locked in past lives, lived through our refusal to let go of death, of dread, a misery restored from tasks, or portrait texts revised from breath. we drink a new wine from an old skin, burst it open like a wound, a sin; 1515 executrix of spirit bled in flesh, the flesh incarnate, animate, and lifted up a long and drenching flask. and still we doubt each other, pacing out a measure, and a draft, preferring what has passed us by, and what will pass tomorrow into yesterday, and sorrow's sudden splash, forever hopeless watch, with telescope; the deep sky laughs, and nails us each, and everyone to every star, to every scratched out eye that hears... a black swan blooms, a moon too near. a black swan plumes, a moon too far. 1616 who will wring from this our squandered life By Chris Nelles who will wring from this our squandered life, our pauper's wrath, come pressing laundry loads upon a beaten stone that will not fracture math, a tolling bell, a telling path, a certain confidence that strolls among the upper class young upstarts, like a golden boy who's favored from the start, and given all the world, and strives for all the stars? who will salvage us, the salvage serfs of song, if gloom's dominion looms as never ending fog, and banks the promised wave with certain good and promised evil throbbing in the wrong? who will mourn for us, and who will cry aloud, 1717 if hope is scaffolded with rope we have supplied, and hanged from towers spinning in G-d's eye? the flowers have all blanched, as if my pain rose up without my known consent, and bled them, or in sympathy of death's approach, gave color up to hearts that cannot feel the arrow's plunge, and all the girls i once supposed to bed, or love, the wives i purchased with a puerile origami, folded bodhisattvic verse, to rend stained bonds. they tremble like apocalypse, an unhinged door, and freely i pass out, pass in, pass through, to where i cannot pass, and there await a quiver, quivering in shallow graves, a flint rock hewed, believing death is life, and life but callow, un-profound, 1818 and you a harbinger, a penetrating horn, upon whose sound i fathom wonder drowned. 1919 Visions of Truth By Mike Carson There was a time when he thought that he began dying at age five, long before he fully understood that none of it mattered; because living and dying are simultaneous pursuits that only seem unconnected or looped to those that deny the visions of truth to ever enter their event filled, but strangely empty lives. There was a time when he thought that 2020 he could never find a lover that would understand what was trapped and frame-less within him. He was still harboring such thoughts long after he met the one who held the key. There was a time when he lived with no fear, loved without fear, wrote with no fear, but now he could not say which was the biggest fear: those days long gone or their return. 2121 There was a time when he thought he held some secret power, a force to change the world, a way to make them listen, but the more he listened to what they said, the more he read what they wrote, the more he watched what they did, the more he understood that what he held was neither secret or power, simply something they would never understand.