6 Poems- Craig Podmore

Inflation: We Are Safe

Pointless savagery,

Bankers eating plates of children

And the proletariat gutting silly idealisms

For their frivolous self-righteous-modern-fallacies.

Macbeth

The maggot in the decomposing gums

Raping the sadness –

In your lens, Myra Hindley is a backward saint.

Birth, Ascension

In the spit

It sodomised and bludgeoned

All of what made it,

A misanthrope –

God’s hands were blood stained when its mother cried.

Hence, the noose, the torn rope…

A Brutal Fucking Smacking

A bruised face tells the truth

That we as human beings

Tend to the suffering

In order to seek meaning in the flesh

And its questionable existence.

Confession

Inseparable is the marriage of martyrdom and human brutalism –

Every act of violence is a menacing mirror

To what we find as glorious, possessive and frightening.

A Bloodbath Makes More Sense Than The Sign of The Cross

Sisyphus stitch marks on my hands,

Prometheus in the ether

Chewing deities of my salvation

To a mass of discarded meat.

Just when I thought God may have answered one of my silly prayers.

Craig Podmore is from Manchester, UK. Erbacce-Press published his first book, I Am a Gun in 2009 and his second collection entitled The Abattoir Heavens and The Holy Ghost back in mid 2010. Most recently, his first full-length poetry collection with NeoPoiesis Press, Love Notes From A Soldier’s Diary was released in the summer of 2011. Also, he has currently self-published his first novella, The Symmetries of Pain and another full length poetry collection entitled The Hell in Me, the Hell in You is on the way soon with S A M Publishing. His material has also appeared in Gloom Cupboard, The Plebian Rag, The Scottish Poetry Review, Epic Rites, Ditch, Poetry, Danse Macabre, Calliope Nerve, Horror, Sleaze, Trash, Sein Und Werden, Sex and Murder Magazine, Gutter Eloquence, Ten Pages Press, Mad Rush Magazine and Fashion for Collapse. Craig is also a photographer and filmmaker.
 

6 Poems by David McLean

Light Like Falsity

light falls shedding falsity

and Spinoza's strictures on souls

being absences and the all-pervading

nothing, liquids subtle

at least as much as piss is

so light falls shedding falsity

like love, like the nothing

we love to touch

Red Shoes

all the corpses are wearing red shoes,

like a telephone post might lean against evening

they prop themselves up in inconvenient coffins

because life has been here once

dressed in leather and evident eternity;

but flesh is all about stopping:

the corpses are wearing their red shoes,

everything else that feet have forgotten

Monochrome

the day dies like a film

that wasn't boring at all

when it happened;

there is light

and amphetamine logic

instead of distress

because everything should be electric

mold, warm snow, a groggery

to sleep in instead of being,

suspicions of color coming next

It Is Too Late

it is too late, evidently,

and history is children falling

from stones through old sleepy snow

to a silent hallway

like an empty packet of cigarettes

and a dirty plate,

all sorts of things

that are quite like death;

fetuses and marmalade

and sex

Not Bleeding

walls do not bleed ancient unspeakable

evil, just dust and boredom

and a faintly anxious concatenation

of absences;

death does not require the services

of madmen with axes;

just moths and modal fallacies

and things even children

would be ashamed to believe in;

there is no evil even in churches,

just impotent dreams,

just weakness and too little meat

One Inexorable Season

and winter has fallen to become one inexorable season

not worth breathing in, ice to line the sky

with butterflies and cobwebs, spiders

still defining night with patient legs

that pull a meaning from simple endurance

and old kings sitting beside disconsolate stoves

in hovels. one inexorable season

to fill houses with nothing,

dust and rooms painted like suicide,

flies and the spiders to love them

my blog

puppies & monks & medieval memories from Heavy Hands Ink at Lulu

laughing at funerals from  Epic Rites Press at SPD

Cadaver's dance from Whistling Shade at Amazon