John Grey, Sergio A. Ortiz, Paul Tristram

Two by Three

 

 

John Grey

The Lives of Others

 

Through the window, I can see the vampires

creeping home to their coffins.

And what of my nights?

Staying home, watching television,

reading a book that's as dull as rain-drops.

These creatures have fresh blood

on the tongue, the fang.

They're sated in a way I can't imagine.

The woman's face in street-lamp light

is pale but beautiful.

For all the loping of his arms and legs,

the man's head is as erect as royalty.

Two young ones trail them,

children of a dark forever.

How beatific their evil grins.

They don't bother this acne-covered teenager,

his face pressed against the window,

his sorrows moistening the glass.

For all my too tight jeans,

my pop idol poses in the mirror,

my blood's like watery tea to them.

They've had voluptuous virgins

or unwitting Romeos

in their ravaging.

Soon enough, they'll be resting peacefully

in their Godless graveyard dirt

while I'm off to school,

to be pushed around by jocks,

ignored or laughed at by every girl

bar the freckled one in glasses.

Through the window, I can see

what my life would be like

if I were a folkloric revenant

and not a sophomore at Mt Clare.

I could seduce a cheerleader

with nothing but the red glow of my eyes

and then drain every drop of blood

from her gorgeous body.

My mother says I'll grow out of it

My dad says it's time he explained to me about

the birds and the bees and, of course,

the family business.

Just my luck to be the Van Helsings' only child.

 

 

Side-Effects

 

Josie's left cheek is blemished

by five parallel ridges.

She says it's a side-effect of spirits.

These other women form a circle,

giggling and chatting,

as if communication with the dead

is this week's fad, paranormal Trivial Pursuit.

She knows better.

 

Josie remains calm but serious,

joining hands and encouraging

the others to link up also.

Lights are dimmed.

Her head bows,

lids close over

her ordinary vision.

Then her mouth jolts open,

as if forced from within.

A low moan is followed by

a tapping sound, a floating face,

candelabra waltzing through the air.

And then a voice,

deep and ponderous,

asks, 'Who is it disturbs me?"

 

For a half hour or more,

this spokesman for the other-worldly

entertains the assembled

with what they wish to hear

or terrifies them with all

they'd prefer to remain unspoken.

 

Finally, Josie snaps her head back,

all strange sounds and sights cease.

The light's switched on.

The look on her face is of bewilderment.

The women are impressed.

One is happy that he husband forgives her

for leaving that sliver of soap in the tub.

Another's daughter, missing in San Francisco,

is irrevocably found in the after-life.

 

Josie's face shows the strain of others' emotions.

One scar instantly heals. Another welt takes its place.

 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He has recently published work in DM du Jour, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Cape Rock and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Poem and Spoon River Poetry Review.

 

 

 

Sergio A. Ortiz

Map of a Mirage

 

The streets, houses & books,

the possessed rooms, the inviolate joy

that inhabits gardens. Climate change,

the enigma burning on the wall

like a hunting trophy.

 

All this, nothing more than a blink, a mirage.

A foggy carnival, a congregation of elves,

the light sleep of an ascetic in the desert.

 

Clocks have a mocking air about them here,

almanacs are true satires, doors & windows

close & open on the most confusing landfill.

 

Remoteness, a sonata to the ears.

Ah, the dream of the encounter was so short.

What are these trifling thoughts against eternity?

 

 

We cannot be so frank & shocking

 

as incomprehensible lizards

repeating themselves to rhododendrons

 

We will always shake the palm trees

a centuple centipede

continues gnawing at skulls

 

It'll know when to jump

into this cultural encounter

where we end up despising each other

 

Yes, he who does not like it

can put on his clothes & shake the semicircle

 

What difference does it make

why should we care …

oh, the glass of God

oh, the verse of God as God

and this fucking supernatural reverie

 

The Cyclops play

with the corpse of our sadness

in this dead goodbye

 

 

Sergio A. Ortiz is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in DM, DM du Jour, FRIGG, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Bitterzeot Magazine, Moko, and The Paragon Journal.  He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard. A Friend of the Macabre, Sergio lives in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Godspeed, amigo.

 

 

 

Paul Tristram

As Barbaric & Beautiful As You Are

 

You do not hold the key

to the magic inside my heart… I do!

There are eleven doors

inside the cranium circus.

The tunnels

are simply never talked about

or open to view.

There’s a toothache rhythm

bouncing and grinding along

every wrong path…

and they rat-maze,

snake & ladder

and ‘Down The Garden Path’

in all manner

of false, haphazardous ways.

The lamp light is dim… when lit at all.

Bones and cadavers

crunching beneath tired feet

are no direction.

Merely a symptom

of the ‘Wandering Lost’ spell working.

If you reach the caves

before nightfall?

… that’ll be delirium and delusions…

for there is no daylight

within these battlements

without my knowing permission.

The screaming’s from Sneak-Thief’s,

caught and hanging by their toes.

… and I’ve already talked you inside

the Mantrap

you’ve foolishly just stepping into.

 

 

Got To Write A Classic, Got To Write It In An Attic

 

No, your Honour. I’m Ok standing, but, thank you.

As I was saying, the argument began over nothing.

I barely even remember what was said now.

He came home tetchy and it just started.

It’s weird, but, the entire atmosphere changed.

The palpable silence in between the razor sharp words

was eerie… and almost pulsating with menace.

I’d recovered from the kicks and punches two weeks later…

but, the mental anguish is permanent and unfixable.

I was in ‘Care’ as a young girl, for a couple of years.

My parents divorced and neither wanted me.

Then my Nan, God Bless Her, took me in

and brought me up the best she could as her own.

She was the only warmth and kindness I’ve ever known.

She passed away last Summer, nearly finished me off…

and he was singing the very song that we played

at the funeral as he was happily stamping all over me.

 

 

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press).