Issue 7: Mark Johnson
[Two untitled poems]
In the gloaming plastic
genuinely, and for free
improves the off, cored
ghost, arming it with/ proportions/. Peach
noses fat folds of umber airlock
fat, fat the peach noses because peaches
can't ripen the governor of rooms, who can't stay hard
gets rid of twilight as a way to lose
of a slash it made in fog!
If I am busy disappearing
gloomy airlock suckers by means of mine screen's
well, money is the wooden ghost;
yesterday the fact of
the supposition of noise
music an unbid lot of airlock fat
going up again finally to snorts.
Comma floored on wet nettles,
superfluity of black bile. How is it sense to say
misshapen pebble, panicked recollection it's yet one
more morning, I heard a foreman cry in his
sleep they were great jokers, always joking.
That spot of dust a raindrop darkened
not alone long.
Three white clay walls and inside them, protruding
a wooden pole of unknown use. Snow
zone, oar shadow. Holes and fissures
corrupt and swallow moonlight, a strange engine
at work heating the night,
the fantastic wrongness of Nature.
Heat dried into black shot the blood inside
mosquitoes, in a manner never prophesied. Doze.
Doze. Panicked recollection, gathering scree,
stripping the un/loved land of fences, of flowers,
of grass lightly bitten
Mark Francis Johnson has published work in a range of journals, including Holly White, EOAGH and Otoliths. He runs an artspace in Philadelphia called Hiding Place.