Where Bojana saw a ship, I saw… this
Where Bojana saw a ship, I saw… this
Ornaments, bars, neon
and people: by their useless regrets they have colorful streets and a grazing fever
Feelings of peace and security then take over, adding them to crowds
smoking outside restaurants
bleating, masturbating –
the orgasm like pastries sold during an execution
In the mornings sometimes I cry
but when the night comes we fuck on slides
–he strong, me greedy–
in a playground
as damned as his arms
when he’s away
These misplaced cravings for the divine
can become as addictive as shoplifting
The clenched me, my secret burning,
urges his growling, his strength,
We take eternity where we find it
If only I could feel the sun on his skin
lap it up off his neck
but I can’t even fantasize
being stranded on an island with him
without imagining the whole shipwreck
so I bury my wish under the loose swings
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It feels great to be Dodging the Rain again
Here comes streetlight
and me again
a lover’s cheap charms
all over her diary
for naked game
her throat moans deeper
my sliver of smile
how can she know
true love cuts
red is a singer
in vocal cords
to stain her dress
death is a river
to wash her away
my knife is fed
I feel them grow
Basilike Pappa is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. Her work has appeared on Intrinsick, Timeless Tales, Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics, Bones – Journal for Contemporary Haiku, Sonic Boom, and Visual Verse. She is a member of Sudden Denouement – A Global Divergent Literary Collective. Most of the time she can be found reading near a window in Greece.
Proud to be on Dodging The Rain today. Thank you, Neil Slevin!
Melinda stores memories inside chickens – uncaring birds.
Eats. Cleans. Makes a cup of tea.
Sitting by her window she knits long scarves. Hobbies are a good thing.
It all feels like calling home and speaking in a foreign accent, or like a strange cat sitting on her armchair.
Melinda used to have her rooms full of nightingales. Sometimes she flashed them at people. Well, she is only human.
But counting nightingales before they sing all their songs is a cheater.
It comes as a missed train, as rain inside the brain; as unequal exchange, torn page, minimum wage. It comes as derealization, depersonalization, as minding the gap but still getting your foot stuck in it; as varicose vein, chest pain, not so sweet martha lorraine. It comes as blue, to paint blue the heart; as human factor, x-factor, max factor. It comes as…
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Cogs, grunts — infatuation supreme…
Read it here
(Image: Franck V.)
It’s all about birds, ferns, singing trees really. And salesmen of vacuum suckers.
You can read it here
(Image by Craig Carry)
A god playing with clay or a little girl playing with mud? Read here
Glad to be on Visual Verse again.
(Image by R. Coad)
Today I’m on Free Verse Revolution.
That emotionless tick,
that tack, like a wink,
I nailed you to a wall
but couldn’t keep you
Always that tack,
that same tick,
I wrapped you around my wrist
but couldn’t hold you
I clicked my tongue out of rhythm
danced off beat
sang out of tune
to confuse you,
but you always keep an eye against me.
I took a screwdriver to you
to untick your tack, untack your tick
I ripped you open
but couldn’t kill you.
That tick, unquestioning,
and tack unrelenting
what will you gain from my ending?
Basilike Pappa is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. She believes that in poetry an image must montage the mind with false cognates, and that god is sun on a copper coffee pot. Her prose has appeared in Life & Art Magazine, Intrinsick and Timeless Tales, and her poetry in Rat’s Ass Review, Surreal Poetics
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My latest on Sudden Denouement.
Winter in radio frequencies
his mad orchestra
the pale state of heaven
Sluggish days / cemeteries
for pencils – broken
Are you upset? Walk often
Until communication returns
sleep wake attack escape
the kitchen knife
gleam of the underworld
Windows are reflection / also inspection
But if I fly through them – broken
(as long as they’re not open)
Anathema to insect screens:
instead of sticky tape,
with nails to the frames are attached
Afterlife does nothing on a whim –
Resurrect somebody or make a replica – do it fast
When I repair myself
in the green and gallant spring
when birds do sing
the pine-wood grows alive with wings
face rentals suffer much
will go through
a mild case
In the green and gallant spring: In the…
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I was delighted to find out that my poem, Grounded, was published on last month’s Visual Verse.
You can read my poem here. If you have the time, do check out the rest of the submissions, they are brilliant. This issue features a couple more poets from Greece. No wonder, considering the photo prompt.