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The Chickasaw Plum appreciates the below two submissions from poet Ross Leese. Mr. Leese describes himself as follows:
“My name is Ross Leese, I live in the North of England and am approaching my thirties somewhat uncomfortably. I've been published on several (but not enough) internet sites including word riot, poetry cemetery and zygote.........My girlfriend thinks I'm too handsome to be a successful poet. I'm not.”
another stab at immortality
I imagine the decay
in my mouth
to taste like
the roman empire
like the vikings
like the mongolians
like napoleonic france
like nazi germany--
like an invasion.
I imagine the decay
in my mouth
to taste like
artificial colouring
like western morality
like shallow graves
like christianity
like the rainforests--
like invisibility.
I imagine the decay
in my mouth
to taste like
tv hypocrisy
like all too perfect jazz
like a bullied child
like extremism
like racism--
like life.
I imagine the decay
in my mouth
and it tastes
(funnily enough)
just
like
me.
if only
the poems would just stop coming out
for
a minute or two
and let something else through
maybe
something useful
like a single shred of common sense
or
the ability to hold a pleasant conversation.
if only my windows were cleaned more often
than
once a bastard year
then
maybe
I'd see far more beauty in the world
see nature in all her glorious glory
instead of being stuck in this micro room
these four walls
with
a
tv screen constantly letting me know
we
are
all
at war with the world
and that I live in a murderous nation.
do I really deserve this?
is it any real wonder I'm fucked off all the time?
if only the god damn poems would just stop
then
maybe
I'd get up and do something about it
rather than sitting at a cheap computer
bemoaning
everybody's faults
bar my own.
§
Poet Peycho Kanev tells the Plum that he is 27 years old. He lives in Chicago. Peycho Kanev grew up in Bulgaria, and moved to the United States in 2007. He lives in Chicago now for reasons unknown even to him. He is 27 years old but actually, he is 2000. He thinks that writing poetry is tough, hard cruel game and if he had a chance he won't do it anymore, but he can't stop. He just can't stop. He has been published in The Guild of Outsider Writers, Spoken War, Word Riot, The Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Pyramid and many more. He will continue to put the word down.
expectation
the end of my sleep is sneaking
between the light of the bulb and
the alcohol:
I saw you on the street how you
watch the painters working at the faces
of the passing people and the unbearable
buildings, how they suck their pipes and
listen to the intolerable waltzes from their
little radios
now it is midnight
and I am kissing your breasts
I taste your soul as my hands reach out
searching for love in this room sodden
with stink of bread, wine and death
we are walking on the steps of others
before us
and we live within our small summer and
now we are shaking and awaiting the winter
and you look me in the eyes
(what a feeling), somewhere outside
the dogs are barking and cats are sleeping
by the fireplaces:
you want to tell me something,
I light up a cigarette and look in your
eyes
I wait for the oldest curses
of all.
The Chickasaw Plum - Volume VI - Number 5 - May 2009
In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, the above articles are distributed without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the included information for research and educational purposes. The Chickasaw Plum has no affiliation whatsoever with the originators of these articles nor is it endorsed or sponsored by the originator.
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