Poetry

Conservation of Energy

by on Aug 4, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Proposition: Hating the world is strictly logical when your loved one is dying. Proof: You watch her neurons choke You watch holes inside her brain grow like blackened maws from another dimension — oh, what endlessly wasteful multiverse! — you watch as her brain itself shrinks disease–riddled (or, better said, disease–irresolved since there’s no solution to this particular puzzle) convolutions de–convoluting speech bubbling over into babbling memories of how to “sit down” or “swallow” being sat down upon and swallowed by creeping entropy. And you understand that each iota of her death is nothing but diminished energy, a loss of information, and these things — energy and...

Read More

A User Guide to the Application of Gem–Flowers

by on Aug 4, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

You will need the riper gem–flowers, those that grow on cliff faces around this time of the year; they attach to flesh easier. You can moisten them with your tongue; this does not start the bonding process. You need to break the skin before application — we recommend an obsidian knife. Gently pull apart the edges of the wound and press the gem–flower in. It lodges in a few minutes. Pain is helpful, as is a release of endorphins. Instruct the recipient to keep breathing. The recipient might experience exuberant behavior; good communication is essential. Do not forget about restraints. Skin discolorations near the application site are possible; do not be alarmed by the...

Read More

Cairn by Dark by Cairn

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Read the conversation the stones have to make the wall. Read their will. How the low passage humbles you warns you what you must give up to enter here: when you crawl, it’s your first–born child; when you stoop, it’s the best year of your life; when your bones crack hard enough to make you hiss against the walls and roof, it’s a painless death among those you love. Still, you enter, though the passage bends and breaks you, knowing inside you can rise to your full height giant now, Long Lankin, Longshanks, lucky you, blood beating behind your eyes. What can you see? The generations here gone while your pulse still beats? What is this mud you stand in as you read the...

Read More

Baba Yaga Tries to Donate Money

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Showed up at a gala with a pocketbook of bones, with a checkbook of birch bark. No valet parking for my mortar and pestle? No, my dress of twigs is VERY MUCH black tie! What do you mean, too old for your fucking gala? So that did not go well. Though ash and soot make excellent skin poultice. Please don’t mention the flash flood and the decorative explosion unless you insist. At a gallery opening. My dress of twigs is considered avant–garde! But what did you say about the skull necklace? “Goth is so last year” — how OLD are you, again, delicious child? Did not need much roasting. Those of you who think grandma is only joking are probably onto something. Your non–profit...

Read More

The First Stone

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

i) We are closer to the animal than we think. Birds peck at their food. Chicks are fed, beak to beak. ii) We open our mouths for the stream of data gathered by the machine. Chew time is time wasted. iii) The gag reflex becomes a vestigial process. We are adapted to swallowing in one go. iv) The machine rounds us up in a circle. It shares the story of a dark–skinned woman winning the crown, most beautiful in the world. Her image peppers the stream. v) Somehow it is wrong to be beautiful and dark at the same time. vi) Someone throws the first stone. vii) The queen smiles through broken teeth and bruises. Her crown remains clipped to her hair. viii) Only the machine...

Read More

Sentience is watching a sunset

by on Jul 1, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

New land. Fertile. Free. And barren. Barren except tree, vine and the Chinchanu: The silly cat–like critters with beastly claws. Barren except for the shuttle’s scorch marks branding fresh blue grass that The Chinchanu eat. Barren except for the settlers’ tents standing like termite hills between the trees that the Chinchanu climb. They line up with beastly claws facing the setting sun. How quaint says the man with big yellow bulldozer and new shiny gun. Melanie Rees is an environmental consultant whose work involves playing with soil and plants and animals. When she isn’t gallivanting in the mud or stuck up a tree she writes speculative fiction and poetry. Her work has...

Read More