hpn

Home Planet News Online

     The Literary Review


Page 31

                                                                                                                                                                           Swipe left        Swipe down


Midday moon in a black leather jacket

Midday moon in a black leather jacket
strode past my window
on a path that owned
the asphalt sky.
She carried her sneer
to a washed dawn in
a midnight bathroom
of shadows.

In pallid mornings
we would leak water
between index finger
and thumb. Rust bloomed
like frost overnight
for the men arriving,
progressing like light,
empty of money.
We watched,
peeled a layer
off the day,
exposing the delicate skin
and grease of evening.

(in tribute to the poems of Arthur Russell)

  R. Bremner__






Trickle through pine needles

Trickle through pine needles
up to the ignorance of clouds
where you will feel safe.

Beware the wisdom of tree trunks,
the confidence of their swagger,
the melancholy tilt of their branches.

High up in the air
no one can reach you
while you rest on clouds
and laugh at trees.

  R. Bremner __



Edie

Edie. A new thing follows, rising above
the corner of a young woman.
A hanging muse by the hour
of American character. Drooling to
start the mundane terror, the idle rich
rolling into sex with the mysterious and
needy. We admired her disdain, prim
and daring as it was. Behind grim music, it
was time to drape a rose on her last night.
Earth dared to think, and prodded her
chrome horse down into her dazzling vanity.

She was passed the torch at birth, to be
lively,
Pretty, sexy, proud.
A stabbing racoon.
A glittering moonturn captured and
released the triumph of the seedy goddess.
Her talent carried a lamp in the
abyss,
and skipped it.
A haunt on loan from the gods
gave a throaty laugh
and, in sadness,
looked for the next new thing.

(in tribute to Mark Fogarty’s poem “Dame Edith”)

  R. Bremner __


Grinding eyes in a rubber room

A job.
A job that is a life that is a job
pushes its unclean hand
up through your rectum and rips out
pieces and particles of you, casting
them to the wind.
A job that slices your head at the neck
then defecates down the hole it’s made,
then reaches down to pull your hiding
soul loose from its moorings
straight up and out the headhole
where it can spit on and suckle
all of the
creativity, chew it and swallow.
A job that ridicules the mess of a man
it has made, and waggles the waffling
corpse for co-workers to chuckle at.

But behind their shield of laughter
is a terribly itching fear that no
scratching can ease, the fear that
the same fate has already
claimed their bodies, with their souls
already retched out in the rotting
sun.

  R. Bremner__


Joe Frank, 1938-2018

Joe Frank was
the color of vodka-and-tonic;
the taste of dry tamarind;
the feel of old leather;
the smell of boiling water;
the sound of footsteps in the rain.

Joe Frank died today
and all these devices
go with him
to that sardonic place
from whence he came.
goodbye, Joe Frank.
I will miss you
on the rebound of a séance
on a wet Wednesday afternoon
when the tide is low
and the taste in my mouth
is as bitter
as yesterday’s coffee.

  R. Bremner__




5series3
          © Bob Heman: 5 series - #3