day by day we wait
for what
by strident daylight monotony
or some moon demanding anticlimax
sick and wasting hours between
servitude and excess
brawls about the city
strewn with
clacking and pop
of operatic gaiety
say we
won the World Series
slivers not lost
on the thumb of the maker
dynasties lacking the mistrial
of dire awakening
hungover
or not at all
Before Her There Was Fire by Christopher P. P. White
Before her there was fire
And it was so bright and hot,
Painfully hot and it never let up;
Always burning and keeping that
Orange blaze brighter than the sun
Shining through the car windscreen.
Before her there was nobody
And it was the worst kind of hell,
Painfully hot and it never let up;
Always feeling the pressure of an eternity
Filled with the only lovers I thought
I’d have; those fucking magazines.
Before her there was fire
And after her there were the ashes
Of one hell of a romance.
And it was so bright and hot,
Painfully hot and it never let up;
Always burning and keeping that
Orange blaze brighter than the sun
Shining through the car windscreen.
Before her there was nobody
And it was the worst kind of hell,
Painfully hot and it never let up;
Always feeling the pressure of an eternity
Filled with the only lovers I thought
I’d have; those fucking magazines.
Before her there was fire
And after her there were the ashes
Of one hell of a romance.
women in bars by Larry Duncan
i don’t do them any favors
i’m only there on the weekdays
when it’s light
and anyone with half a chance is still at work.
but I have a weight that arches my shoulders
and a rail thinness that cuts a nice angle
and they seem to like me
because I’m there
and they’re old or tired
or broken or insane
and I have a habit of smiling
in a way that is old or tired
or broken or insane
so I buy them drinks when I can
and they buy me drinks when they can
and sometimes we lean into one another
touching shoulders when a certain song comes on the jukebox
because it’s still so early
and there are still so many hours
left alone in the day
i’m only there on the weekdays
when it’s light
and anyone with half a chance is still at work.
but I have a weight that arches my shoulders
and a rail thinness that cuts a nice angle
and they seem to like me
because I’m there
and they’re old or tired
or broken or insane
and I have a habit of smiling
in a way that is old or tired
or broken or insane
so I buy them drinks when I can
and they buy me drinks when they can
and sometimes we lean into one another
touching shoulders when a certain song comes on the jukebox
because it’s still so early
and there are still so many hours
left alone in the day
Two Poems by Matthew J. Hall
death and art
had it not been such an unproductive
non creative time, the blank pages
would have been filled with shaky sketches
of disfigured rohypnol victims
open-mouthed corpses
bursting veins
tooth collages of asphyxiated babies
all running around like bloodless gorillas
as the portfolio gasps for breath
as the canvas is split in two
as death imitates art
and art imitates death
eventually
all
the
noise
will
pass
had it not been such an unproductive
non creative time, the blank pages
would have been filled with shaky sketches
of disfigured rohypnol victims
open-mouthed corpses
bursting veins
tooth collages of asphyxiated babies
all running around like bloodless gorillas
as the portfolio gasps for breath
as the canvas is split in two
as death imitates art
and art imitates death
eventually
all
the
noise
will
pass
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- Black-Listed Magazine
- Black-Listed Magazine is an online literary magazine. We publish on a rolling basis: weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. Send submissions here: blacklistedmagazine@hotmail.com