Daily Archives: July 12, 2016

The Closure of Forgiveness by Christina Murphy

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

The spirit’s recovered body,

mending grief from dust to dust,

mediated by destinations and layered visions

resembling the whole / fragmented

and the fragmented  / whole

in points of duration-less time

In the anonymity of lost identity,

we call to you, Andromeda;

rescue the falling and the failing,

hold us in the armor of halos

and saintly poses disembodied from the flesh;

find for us comfort in the ritual of

blue infinities and cloud-hands folded in prayer

From your rock tower, speak with compassion

of loneliness adrift in union and isolation,

and of lifelines lost or tenuously found;

help us climb from grief to hear your words—

smoldering

freezing

calling to all—

to invite / besiege the closure of forgiveness

for the mind’s solace and the heart’s redemption

Christina Murphy’s poetry is about consciousness as subjective awareness, and her work appears in a range of journals and anthologies including PANK

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Day After by John Grey

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

While your last night

cruised the silk road

to the light-swollen stars,

today you log long hours

under a tree,

like a fallen apple

wondering whatever happened

to all that weightlessness.

Where, in evening’s dark promise,

women were carafe-shaped

with the nectar

on their lips to prove it,

in the heat of noon,

one could just as easily

call you from a window,

to move something,

trash probably;

a mountain maybe.

When entire hours

hypnotized you

with their flash and feeling,

these sun-cooked flesh-eaters

merely dull you to the bone,

plop you where they find you

until the raspy voice of duty

shunts you here, there,

with your head cauterized

and heart nowhere to be felt.

It’s how lives are lived around here

sometimes, to the fullest,

most times, in spite of themselves.

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The Egg Cracks by John Grey

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

No surprise to Louise that Amber was drawn to the stars.

The throbbing of distant light, a long ago story told now

in a night sky, pitted, pierced, perforated –

a raging science shining with supposed gentleness.

Amber stood at her window, engrossed in the gentle beams of starlight.

She believed in Heaven then. Everything in the firmament

was a rung on a ladder, spasmodic but straight,

perfect for girlhood’s propagating blast.

Louise’s reign was over before it began.

The stars were something so vast they were containable.

But the boy next door was a different kind of shiny vaulted ceiling.

Louise knows the crack, the release, of something

a long time hatching, a gradating of the insides released,

all fissures all of the time, first above but eventually below,

when the woman emerges and Amber begins to look ahead,

and sometimes even down.

There’s no way to spare a…

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Lisa’s Edict by John Grey

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Ban sex in this house.

Even ban talk of sex,

And then thoughts of sex.

Let this be celibate house

#494506780 in the history

of the sex-free world.

We have the babies.

Why go on with it.

And we can drink caffeine-free coffee,

soda without sugar,

even beer without alcohol.

And let’s watch no TV.

Just stare at the blank screen.

Nor read newspapers.

But remember the news

from long ago.

Don’t answer the telephone.

Don’t even have a telephone.

And no book but the Bible.

The expurgated version that is.

We can kneel beside the bed

and pray that death come sooner

than later.

As long as that’s the express

wish of God that is.

Maybe we shouldn’t kneel

beside the bed

because that’s the scene

of all that sex

Okay, I know I shouldn’t be

talking of sex.

Or even thinking of sex

But I saw you praying

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The Body Washed u/p on the Bank by John Grey

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Last night, at dusk, a young girl and boy

found a body washed up on the bank of a river.

They were just sixteen, out for a romantic scroll,

when they came across that woman.

The fading light made the smell even more overpowering,

darkened the green of her cheeks.

I’ve never come across a body.

It’s not like finding a much-desired gift

under the Christmas tree.

Or discovering, with fork in mouth, that I really do

love asparagus after all.

Or the revelation that I know the answers

to the test in front of me.

It’s surely the very opposite of these

and I can’t imagine what that would be like.

I can only wrap my head around

the absence of a gift,

the gruesomeness of an unlovely vegetable,

the repeated stonewalling of a question,

and I know that it is none of these.

Last night, at dusk, a…

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