Talking about weather they say meat substitutes are spies like prose poems or undercover agents who can’t keep their mouths shut, who keep talking about the weather meanwhile my grandpa died the way he lived— talking about the weather, flirting with nurses, dead-set on never letting tofu pass his lips when you live in a […]
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Poor Jesus Intermingled with emails from hot horny models, offers of ED help, notices that people are looking at my LinkedIn profile, ads for Elixir of Eros and 24-hour bathroom remodels – I’m suddenly receiving daily junk mail from Jesus Christ. Subject – The biblical error they don’t want you to know or a question – Exodus […]
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“Gravity Grateful” Looking down from high places doesn’t bother me at all but when I have to look up at things, like buildings, it makes me nervous cause it feels like some kind of force like a magnet or something is going to pull me up and lift me off the ground which is a […]
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THE LANGUAGE OF REEDS On that day, the eyes of the sky were open to each of his sins and uncertainties. The night before, drowning in drink, he called out the names of all who had ever loved him, begged for a bigger, longer talk with the gods of time. He found him self kneeling […]
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A Mint Left On The Pillow Not a cure, more of a ritual She’s got the curve of the moon from the ribcage to the thigh Serotonin levels off, Birds dropping down the tree branch by branch Leaves and blood, A final guffaw and twitch. Sitting patiently, waiting for the newness, The change, Thoughts not […]
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“pellucid” I am still here floating in this grey space knowing nothing but this blurring smoke that I breathe and exhale pondering on whether this is living or simply being alive but if this is what life is then kiss this life from my lips blow out my candle and do not call out my […]
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Red Pick-Up Truck Daddy stood sticks In the corners of the bed And tied on a tarp To keep the worst of the sun off us. He laid down blue moving pads And lifted us little girls With our frayed cotton dresses And brown, bony knees Into the bed with coloring books And a few […]
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Make it clear in my mind, Jesus,
am I whacked-out on Double Cross Vodka
or have I flipped out calling myself
Limburger omelet chef?
I hate question marks and angels
with crazed wings.
You know the type, John the Baptist
toking weed, stoned out of his mind, storyteller,
foul smells from poor hygiene, eating habits
open mouth, swallowing grasshoppers,
so silky, smooth as sweet honey.
Add 3 eggs in a skillet, Parmesan/Romano blend,
2 cheeses add-on, shiitake mushrooms, turmeric,
chopped kale, hint hot chili peppers, cheers.
Scramble me, I’m cracked.
I rock faith in jungle music, dance nude.
Everything is a potential poem to me.
My omelette, my life, my booze, master cook,
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As we walk across
Asks me of my prospects
‘Soon I’ll be fucking dead’
He seems to think life will work out for me
But for a brief moment
We are lost
Eventually we find my mother
And grumpy Grandma
Before eating fish and chips
My eyes looking up towards the sun
Bristol, August 2006
Where he worked
And did not like
To be reminded
That he did
He was always reliable
But found others far from it
He cursed them
Under his breath
As the days rolled by
With cigarettes and coffee
To try and ease the strain
Sometimes it rained
Sometimes it was windy
And jobs would not be done
He sat in his chair
Made phone calls
He would nonetheless
Face his humiliation
With a rare bravery
One of his sons
Wrote on a piece of paper
And stuck it on the wall
Of his office
At his sons sense of humour
Because by Christ
It felt like one
Colchester, April 2007
Mark Anthony Pearce lives and works as a Receptionist in Bristol, England. His poetry has been published in University of Essex Poetry Journal, BS Poetry Magazine and online, Inefável, Coronaverses, Winamop, Horror Sleaze Trash, Duane’s PoeTree & Piker Press. Mark’s writing has also featured in ‘Anne Bean: Self Etc’ (Live Art Development Agency and Intellect Books, Autumn 2018)
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IMPRESSIONS OF THE SICK HOUSE
I watch in the world,
amused by massacre and gin,
homeland walls, holiday wars.
Viewed from the barred gate
darkened surveillance cars prowl,
aimless under winter afternoon skies.
Cold weather tramps straggle past
construction generators, pavement gaps,
work order water leaks.
I take into consideration
the symbolic and the sin.
I deny memories useless to me—
week-long binges, wives I’ve cheated with.
Unsettled by panic attack, I leave
a dark bedroom for couch and cable tv.
Lessons located in news video,
detention gangs scour migrant dives,
mercados, work warehouse.
I look away, watch the ceiling fan
swirl shadow circles on the blinds.
In jeans, a Steely Dan tour tee shirt,
almost ready for silence,
I allow days clear of music.
After Creeley’s The Flower
I think I layer tensions
like bottles shattered
in ditches the thirsty
Each faulting gesture
catches in my chest,
cracks knees in a fall.
Tension is a wasting blade
It slices that one
and that one
and that one.
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