Exhausted, on its back the sun
by Simon Perchik
*
Exhausted, on its back the sun
–from so far, brought down
by its unbearable weight
not sure it can be lifted
cool, become the moon again
and without stopping, listens
for the darkness, holds on
to all that’s left –you look for her
as if every night is mixed with mud
and mountains not yet ashes
though you can make out her shoulders
still warm in this enormous silence
split in two, growing hair
and lips and flowers, holes
madness and nothing else.
Bio: Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
What Fells the Gulls Crying
by Peter Magliocco
"Even the comatose they
don't dance and tell ..."
-- Lorde, Team
You fill the void with pretty pictures
& parse words of little meaning
to create an art out of sundry chaos
equal to ravaging the empty spaces
with a force not dying.
We are immortal anyway,
having lived in the time of comets
with alien ancestors fleeing from
the earth churning into nothingness.
Their subliminal voices remain
anointing us with aural balm
through humanity's musical march
over time's broken river
With a clearly unworldly message
blowing the stars up one by one
from the night's spectral panoply,
before the oceans wash back dross
we pollute the water of life
Silenced by technology of men
devolving into the amoeba
of lost ages
Bio: Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he occasionally edits the lit-zine ART:MAG. His recent sci-fi novel is SPLANX from Cosmic Egg Books.
