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
oyster
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.
