by Joseph Victor Milford
it really is a good option that this entire species should die with no record of it. entertain this.
i loaded a cannon with peach-pits, a shotgun with peanut shells, a pistol with a cherry seed.
i always thought i could lash anything together to stop the bleeding of the world. idealist.
cairn and crib. corn in the fridge. holidays and their bagpipes. tensions in the hovel. wreaths.
when i think of dragons i think of koi and how they live in my underbrain in meningeal soup.
in the winter, as we drive parcels home, i can see all the nests in trees now. makes me happy.
what does it mean for the panopticon to shred its Tarot card into your hands like canopy rain?
you can eat snout. you can eat hoof. you can eat jowl. you can eat guts. you can eat memories.
like a spider that makes its underwater web i think i should kiss you in a bubble. a trap-whisper. in the blue mist of the morning i cleaned sleep from my eyes and a slingstone cut my cheekbone.
cannonballs through bass-lines twist my guts into better knots that no bullet could pierce.
end loop. dropper loop. bowline. figure eight. clove hitch. end loop 1. end loop 2. end loop 3.
you can only drag so many skulls behind you before you have to make a metropolis.
necropolis leaves its skulls to calcify. great cities of the soil. skull-holder, plant bulbous seeds.
he crawled out of the coma in the deer carcass and a year later you could see antlers growing.
Alexander Selkirk sleeps in a tent in my backyard and befriends neighbors and stray dogs.
things went agee. the wind was esse. we found ourselves trying to cage miniature tornadoes.
Fomalhaut rises 4:31am. Algorab meridian to come. Shaula rises as well. Procyon sets 10:41pm. i count how many carwrecks i have had and compare those to the fact i ever occurred. wrecker. i would love to fly to the moon. but i can't. actually i could actually. still, i like my sawdust life.
i opened stables—cleaned them as Hercules. there were rot grubs bigger than wrestlers' fingers. played guitars so hard strings ran from me--women said i'd never be a man until i played a harp.i was so nervous--instead of butterflies, i've got frogs. i had short arms and deep deep pockets. the electroplate technique for ormolu is not too hard to perfect in a properly equipped shed. the path integral within the canonical S-matrix primarily will make Wick's expansion gleeful? parking cars on Indian burial grounds which are actually Cherokee cursed our supreme courts. i hate when wind makes me lose my chain of thought. i actually then chain wind and chastise it. do sharks crave light so much that they wait for the blood from the sun to fill their black eyes? when someone gambles, his face changes--incredulous morphs mutations. loud as hell mutes. i thought she was behind me. she may have left forever. parakeets in cages. me with empty pens.
JOSEPH VICTOR MILFORD is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He is also the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. Joe Milford also edits the poetry journal RASPUTIN and he is co-founder and poetry editor of BACKLASH PRESS.
by Ken Allan Dronsfield
Although intoxicated within my ethereal madness;
bound within the chains of soulless treason.
I'm desperately in love with this Gothic sadness;
whilst staring into the mists of disheartened reason.
Walking and stalking through the dark rancid streets;
stopping for shots as the pain's finally receding.
Through smoke and crowds; so reverent and discreet.
A bottle to the abyss, heartless and bleeding.
See their frightened eyes view my crumpled prize;
there in the lane of the White Chapel fame.
A gutter splashed with blood and wasted faceless lives;
Feeling not of blame, nor absolved pious shame.
Destiny awaits all that tempt this pattered wraith
from the harbors of doom, to the arches of festoon
stealing of souls from those; a dervish dance
I'm in love with the blood of all devoid of romance.
Muffled be the moans through incised dreams;
Inhaling a mind while exhaling into hell.
Humming in rhyme; of hope and whispered screams.
Clock talks bye, and so should I, pack and leave as well.
KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD is a Published Poet from Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years and enjoys hiking, playing guitar and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. His published work can be found at numerous print venues.
by Lou Gallo
There’s always some great old poem,
Decades, maybe centuries old,
That you’ve missed, poems loaded
With thee’s and thou’s and shepherds
And bonnie lasses;
And poems being written right now
That you miss because
There’s only so much time and energy
(Blake: genius is energy;
Krishnamurti: time is sorrow).
And then there are poems
To be written in the future
By mad geniuses who will die young
Probably by their own hands,
Poems you can’t even imagine,
Poems that might have saved you−
And these , these you love best,
Those you will never read.
LOU GALLO's work has appeared in Fiction Fix, Glimmer Train, Hollins Critic, Rattle, Southern Quarterly, Litro, New Orleans Review, Xavier Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Missouri Review, Mississippi Review, Texas Review, Baltimore Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ledge, storySouth, Houston Literary Review, Tampa Review, Raving Dove, The Journal (Ohio), Greensboro Review,and many others. Chapbooks include THE TRUTH CHANGES and THE ABOMINATION OF FASCINATION. I am founding editor of the now defunct journals, THE BARATARIA REVIEW and BOOKS: A NEW ORLEANS REVIEW. He teaches at Radford University in Radford, Virginia.
by Barbara Brooks
The doorframe stands empty,
poison ivy creeps the outside.
The siding warps into weary smiles,
studs peek through the empty spaces.
Wall paper hangs; a faded flower
dying of neglect. Stairs creak in time
with my slow climb to the second floor.
Windows sag like veiled eyes.
In the sun's rays, dust motes sift downward.
Peeled open, the metal roof lets spring rain
pepper the dusty floor. Winter snows will
cover the lost.
BARBARA BROOKS, author of “The Catbird Sang” and “A Shell to Return to the Sea” chapbooks, is a member of Poet Fools. Her work has been accepted in Avalon Literary Review, Chagrin River Review, The Foundling Review, Blue Lake Review, Granny Smith Magazine, Third Wednesday, Shadow Road Quarterly, Indigo Mosaic Muddy River Poetry Review, Boston Literary Magazine and on line at Southern Women’s Review, Poetry Quarterly, Big River Poetry, Agave Magazine among others. She currently lives in North Carolina with her dog.
Belle Rêve Literary Journal is a southern literary experience. Our mission is to capture everything that makes the South and its residents unique through the best contemporary literature we can find. We publish new works weekly.
Passionately Ran, Compassionately Fed.