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

                                                             fly jealous

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.