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Tuesday, May 31, 2022

New Poems: Jack Henry


at a rock show 

she smiles up at me 

as we stand together 

in a crowd of thousands 

at a rock show. 

 

i ask her name.

i cannot hear.

she says something. 

doesn’t really matter. 

 

her friend says, 

she’s crazy 

 

i say, 

she’s a spinner 

 

minutes pass by, 

she smiles up at me, 

says, 

i know what a spinner is 

 

& i smile, mutter, 

i doubt it, 

i don’t think you’ve been to Manilla 

 

she smiles up at me, 

fiercely, & says, 

i’ve never fucked a grandpa 

 

& i smile, salaciously, 

say, 

there’s a first for everything 

 

she takes my hand. 

steps in front of me. 

the concert begins, 

just as my mind begins 


to race. 


pick up (truck) 

she waves goodbye 

as her friend rides away 

in the backseat of an Uber, 

then turns to me, 

eyes wide & expectant. 


a slight chill lingers 

in the late Spring air 

as we stand next to each other 

just outside  

the Riverside Municipal Auditorium, 

minutes after the last notes 

of a rock show  

melt into a cloudless night sky. 

 

options weighed, 

suggestions offered, 

opportunistic 

and otherwise. 

 

she takes my hand, 

says, 

            so, where are you parked? 

i lead her astray 

down toward the rabbit hole. 

 

we kiss, awkwardly. 

she is a foot shorter than me. 

 

as i climb into the driver’s seat 

of my pick-up truck, 

she says, 

            how far to your house? 

i say, 

            i have a room at the Mission Inn

 just around the corner


she says, 

            do you need the blue pill? 

& i laugh uproariously, 

 

             i took it an hour ago, 

as i put the truck into gear. 


morning 

a dull gray light 

creeps through blackout curtains 

as i blink to life, 

aware, suddenly, 

of a naked woman by my side. 

 

she stirs, asks the time, 

smiles when i tell her. 

 

i have nowhere to go, 

            she says 

 

then neither do i 


ODDS and ENDS, 2 poems


terror in the aisle  

she takes my hand,   

leads me to the back row 

B-Movie double feature 

on a Saturday night. 

 

lights drop low, 

first movie begins, 

Plan 9 From Outer Space 

in glorious black & white. 

 

couples huddle together  

at the front of the house, 

an old man eats stale popcorn, 

a young couple brace 

into a kiss. 

 

she glances at me & 

i fidget in my chair. 

the theatre feels warm & 

i can’t catch a breath. 

  

the movie takes over, 

i find solace in the flickering light. 

she takes my hand, 

places it high on her thigh, 

nearly under her skirt 

 

i gulp down air 

struggle to breathe 

my throat constricted. 

i can’t catch a breath. 

  

i swallow  

hard  

struggle to breathe  

my throat  

constricted  

  

Bela Lugosi smiles 

down at me. 

flying saucers 

over Hollywood Blvd. 

she takes my hand. 

i can’t catch a breath. 

 

i must be dying. 

  

ssshh 

you can only say 

so much 

before you are censored 

community standards 

rules and regulations 

stand in the corner 

don’t say a thing 

it’s all against the law 

 

…the dream police, 

police, police 

 

pornography forms 

passionate pictures 

whether it’s coitus 

or cake 

we bathe in the glow 

we cannot get enough 

 

and the planet is burning 

people still starving 

the rich only grow stronger 

we’re under a proverbial thumb 

 

the oligarchs of Amerika 

deserve the same option 

as those out of Russia 

it’s a similar war 

just different weapons and tactics 

fought in dark cabinets 

where the wild things still roam 

 

soon we will all be prisoners 

we will live in gray cages 

 

oh wait! 

my love 

we’re already there! 

 

© Jack Henry 2022 


bio: jack henry is a writer. he has found some success in various journals and on-line publications. he has a new book coming out in the winter of 22/23 called "los angeles" from GUTTER SNOB PRESS. he has a blog page at jackhenry.wordpress.com.


Tuesday, May 17, 2022

Featuring Poetry by Mark Anthony Pearce

 


THE FOUR RIDERS


Four riders 

Dressed in 

In black 

Cycle

furiously 

Through 

Castle Park

Attempting

To reduce me 

To a bloodied

Smudge

Upon the face 

Of the Earth

I shake 

My right fat fist 

A Bloated 

Anachronism

As the 

Guys and dolls 

Of careless night

By the bandstand 

In their 

Grotesque fineries

Laugh

And smoke 

Their Marijuana 


Bristol, May 2021



EIGHT YEARS IN THE BRITISH ARMY


‘Eight years 

In the British army’

And all it’s got him 

Are a few 

Copper-plated coins

From my wallet 

By the swanky 

New flats

Affordable homes

Along the 

Northern boundary 

Supposedly 

Reminiscent 

Of the old castle wall

That Olly’s army 

Destroyed 

Not fit for ‘heroes’

With rank black teeth

And Welsh accents 


Bristol, May 2022



FIRE ON CORONATION ROAD


‘Shit!’ 

He sticks 

A long 

Wooden branch 

Into the ground

By the 

Petrol station

Placing his

Black leather jacket 

On top of it

Wears a 

Baseball cap

Crazy look 

In his eyes

Apologises to me 

For his obscenities 

I notice

Several bottles 

Of Vodka  

Anchored by his 

Right foot 

‘Look at 

Those fire engines!

The hotel 

I checked in 

Is barbecued!’

He’d only gone out 

To get some poison 

Knew what porn 

He was going 

To watch tonight 

And his hopes 

And his dreams 

Quite literally 

Went up in flames 

Guess he’ll 

Be wanking

On the grass 

Tonight then 


Bristol, May 2022


Biography: 


Mark Anthony Pearce lives and works as a Receptionist in Bristol, South West England. He is an author of six books of Poetry, most recently ’She Smells Dead People’ (Hickathrift Press, May 2022). 


His poetry has been published in numerous titles including Obscure Quarterly, CAPGRAS and online, Inefável, Winamop, Horror Sleaze Trash, Duane’s PoeTree, Piker Press, Ten Million Flies & Open Arts Forum. 


He can be contacted on email: markanthonypearce@gmail.com