six poems – margarita serafimova

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The days – salamanders, were passing, white,
against the background of an elapsed summer.
The synthesis was a baby.

 

 

 

 

Everything is headlong –
to be touched, skin to skin,
and to become one.

 

 

 

 

Time was speaking.
It was saying that the future was past,
and the past was never.

 

 

 

 

I love you!, I was saying to the underwater bells of light
where I was seeing him above the sea floor.
I was loving him with bliss,
and I was knowing him.

 

 

 

 

Ουροβόρος (Ouroboros)

He is caressing my breasts,
I am caressing his hands,
which are caressing my breasts.

 

 

 

 

All life created itself so that
I would feel in your arms
the way I do.

 

sbgs cowskull

Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017 and Summer Literary Seminars 2018 Poetry Contest, and long-listed for the Erbacce Press Poetry Prize 2018 and the Red Wheelbarrow 2018 Prize, as well as nominated for the Best of the Net by the BeZine. Margarita has three collections in Bulgarian (the most recent being The Insolubility of Splendour (2018)). Her work appears in Agenda Poetry, London Grip New Poetry, Trafika Europe, European Literature Network, The Journal, A-Minor, Waxwing, Orbis, Nixes Mate Review, StepAwayInk, Sweat and Tears, HeadStuff, Minor Literatures, The Writing Disorder, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Orbis, Chronogram, Noble/ Gas Quarterly, Origins Journal, miller’s pond, Obra/ ArtifactCalifragile, TAYO, Shot Glass Journal, Opiate, Poetic Diversity, Novelty Magazine, Pure Slush, Harbinger Asylum, Punch, Tuck, Ginosko, etc. Facebook

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nightmares – ghost of esperanza

ghost yard

I have these recurring dreams of protecting myself

In one, I was hitch-hiking.
I had a purse full of knives in case of danger
I still remember glancing inside my purse trying to determine
Which one would make me the safest?
Which one could I grab the quickest?

I once heard a story of woman hitchhiking
She got picked up by a truck driver who put his hand on her knee
He tried to grab her by the neck and push her face into his crotch
She stabbed him in the leg
and threw the truck into Park
and hopped the fuck out

In my dream, I didn’t need the knives for protection
In my dream, I took the truck

I had a dream
That my brother’s friend took me in when I needed a roof
I told him that I would not hug him
I told him that I would pay him because I didn’t trust a handout
He eyed me like cake
he waited until I was asleep to touch me
He said he only wanted to tickle me
In my dream, I said I didn’t want to be touched or tickled.
In my dream, I put pepper spray can to his face
and said he didn’t get to touch
He said I was cute when I was angry
In my dream, I peppered sprayed the fuck out of his eyes

I had a boyfriend who once gave me a knife to protect myself
He said he never wanted a bad thing to ever happen to me again
He yelled at me the day I forgot to carry it in my bra
He yelled at me that same day for trying to say “no” to him
He was proud when I remembered the knife
He was surprised when I held up the knife to protect myself after he broke down the door
He was stronger when he wrestled the knife out of my hand
and showed me in the mirror how you hold a knife
to someone’s throat
MY THROAT
my blood on the floor
He instructed me to clean myself up

I broke a mirror and fled
that wasn’t a dream
it was a living nightmare

I have this dream that I don’t carry all this anxiety
That I don’t have to think of the best ways to protect myself
That I can walk around
and not be so goddamn scared

sbgs cowskull

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maybe i’m in a murakami novel – ghost #62

ghost yard

Maybe I’m in a Murakami novel. Maybe I never got off that train in Japan. Maybe this is enough, I think, as I sit on a subway, contemplating my disappearing cat, my disappearing lover, eating a sandwich, my bags all shuffled like a chaotic orchestra. Maybe there’s death to be had. Maybe there’s morning that has yet to be sipped. Maybe there is a transcendentalism to bingewatching television. I am bingewatching people in the park. I am closing all of the garage doors to my emotional relevancy. Maybe I never left the city. Maybe the city is in me, a creature of habit, half asleep on a train that goes in circles beneath the novel of my moment.

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sometimes a building will not let you – ghost #4

ghost yard

Sometimes a building will not let you
move around itself the way you want:
you feel an architectural punch.

You step over the leaves, & there is a branch
you did not see. You feel it in the back
of your leg, & again feel it for days.

You see a voicemail. You must have missed a call.
There are no missed calls. You cannot fetch
the voicemail. You turn your phone off
& back on again. You will do this again.

sbgs cowskull

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three deaths in thirty seconds – ghost #13

ghost yard

it was over and dead
and the ground produced no flowers.

it was over and dead
the cable cords were cut.
the television looked like a race war.

the fridge was unhumming.

i was dead and buried in the cushions
of the couch.

i was dead and all my poems were dead too.

and it all came in through the windows.
new breath new flowers
new life new love

new angels of electric health.
new standards of electric wealth.
And I screamed back into the wind in a
way that no day could ever forget and it
screamed back and my eyes were the size of life and
my pupils swallowed the sky and I fell down happy on the
couch
and I died,
I died,
I died.

sbgs cowskull

there is an idea of a ghost #13, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory.

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four hybrids – howie good

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Miss Plum in the Bedroom with the Candlestick

Crime was common back then, and the law itself often criminal. Nobody was safe from the thugs prowling the city. It took a constant and wearying vigilance to survive. If I happened to fall asleep, I’d wake up afraid. I think I was afraid she wouldn’t be there, peering out through a crack in the curtains. Why you here? I asked the first time she appeared. She just gave a fuzzy, fragile smile. The ambiguity was intentional. When you leave details out, it opens up possibilities for what can be – an ancient tree whose entwined branches support 34 brilliant candles.

Shredded

Private lives are now lived in public. That’s the problem with putting Velveeta on enchiladas. It’s only a matter of time before the celebrity chefs start to show up. I pedal away as if I have to actually get somewhere. Everyone I owe an explanation tries following me – sons, daughters, parents, co-workers, etc. We’re a wandering soap opera. “You can’t paint them trees,” protesters yell from the sidewalk. I just want some semblance of normality back in my life, some sort of quiet, and my heart to stop agonizing like a flock of gulls being sucked into a jet engine.

Shadowlands

When you look back over your shoulder, you see yourself looking quizzically back at you. You always assumed that you’d been given up for adoption. Now, more than 35 years later, you know. It’s night, and everything is also nothing, the dark howls and whimpers of women in search of their shadows.

The Later Years

Given a choice, I would want to be the sort of shrewd, goatish old man it’s said Rodin was, strolling about the boulevards and back alleys of Paris, while the work in marble went on nevertheless in his head and a young Russian-born French lady leaned lightly on his arm, and if her eyes were a little too wide apart, or if she didn’t actually read any of the books he recommended, he wouldn’t care, because it had just turned spring, and the air was like a mix of wine and brandy, and they were always at least somewhat drunk.

sbgs cowskull

Howie Good, Ph.D., a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of The Loser’s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize from Thoughtcrime Press, and Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry, among other books. He co-edits the literary journals UnLost and Unbroken with Dale Wisely.

Photo: @sweetdangerzack

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you rearrange men under the sea with your hands – glen armstrong

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I take comfort in long lines.
I am not alone.
I pretend

that I’m a prisoner,
grateful for small slips of paper.

The stars belong to bankers.
They are strictly catch and release.

I pretend I’m all sorts of things
that I should never
pretend to be.

My youngest son wants to know
about our progress
and his mother.

sbgs cowskull

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.

Photo: @richardguest9440

 

things i hate: a process of progession – dalton telschow

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1. List Poems
2. Stealing memes and turning them into poems
3. Irony
4. Lists
5. Repetition
F. Inconsistentcy
7. Acting like something never happened
8. Continuing to hate at all
9. Seriously tho lists
10. Maybe structure? Order? 9a: am I a fan of the static? Am I encouraging it like I never was?Nurturing it like a baby bird when it’s actually a metaphor for chaos if I built that metaphor correctly. Put the right structure into it. Loved and tended to it like it was my child
11. I’m never having children. I’ve seen the wires of my mind, and I wouldn’t wish anyone else to be wrapped up in them.
12. I’m wrapping myself in wires and cables and playing guitar so loud that the tar retreats, if only for a moment
13. I’m learning to live in moments, and grateful there are so many of them
14. My god there are so many of them and a lot of my wires are frayed now
15. I’ve forgotten so many moments. My brain has been fried and smoked from pills and pot and I have failed to see the mechanics in coping. Now I just see the gears turning. Everywhere.
16. Apophenia is the perception that unrelated phenomena are connected
17. Fuck
18. My art shall be my children, and when I’m gone hopefully they help make this world a better place than when I got here
19. Hopefully
20. A better place
21. Than when I got here
22. Ending abruptly.

sbgs cowskull

Charles Dalton Telschow is a Denver artist on the cusp of 25, and he has just released his second book of original poetry, “Blueprints For Bridgeburning”, available on Bandcamp. Telschow is also the man behind the upcoming local solo music act, The Polite Heretic.

photo: @fm.ghost

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