Booz Allen Hamilton; A Punch in the Gut; Ephemerals; Fulvia Mutica

Booz Allen Hamilton

Five eyes
three less 
than an evolutionary predator
three more
than twitchy
brim of a pork pie hat
propped against the wall’s
tight corset of concrete
s evered shame
and eyes panopticon
watch us rabbits 
jumping moon
dropped dreams
of sentient sex dolls 
and space tourism
our neighbours and wives
the rims of their smiles
and if anyone breaks
from the peloton
ramparts bundle
the grave doomed
to the Black Maria
and cells
iron indivisible light

Stalin vulgar
a conscience trifled with
his moustache turned earth
on a shallow grave
bodies dismembered
anatomy hung 
in the air
before it digs in the ground
the vast concourse
of human cruelty
Lavrentiy Beria 
a Berlin Gauleiter
too many machinations
an industrial golgotha
plenitudes of blood

what if
we made it fun?
made it
at our reflections 
in the blurred cinema of bay windows 
ectopics of tiny lithiums
cradled in our hands like praying mantis
the mass carceral
of our undone minds
until we are so bereft
of confidantes and relations
so LA freeway lost
between the platinum hoods of perfect strangers
we drive our dead men off the deep end  
we babble 
to the star making machinery
look at me
Freddie Mercury
primping and sedated
by streaming snap, crackle and pop!
while the electric grid rubs our sleepless temples 
raw to the first guavas of sunrise
and all our burning secrets 
like why does his penis
turn to a candle in your mouth
exposed in less time
than it takes to cup a hand to an ear
and whisper

no torture cells 
in Lubyanka

no martial law
no fire whips- fiber optics
no hissed threats- autotune
no show trials
only twitch streams
no begging for your life
just small talk
A Punch in the Gut

The heartbeat taunts the suicide
boom boom boom not by your own hand
so long said the mirror 
what a waste
necked craned into
the oven inside your brain     
how does one stop a beating heart?
hanging swings the body like jazz
drowning floods the lungs with amphibians
breathe monoxide and you will inhale Mars 
cutting into veins eureka!
but higher until steel touches the first palpitations
a pimple to be extracted from the chest
skin the leather strop
no note
the cut is calligraphy 
a cascade, red 
a colour that spirits charge into
sacrificed held up high vultures tear
at the heart thrown down the stairs
falls into eyes with no iris
falls beyond the brush strokes of an Arles sunflower
falls onto a blade cast like an arrow from Cupid 
and the heart slits
and the heart shucks
and the heart stops
at nothing
each spatter of blood bearing fruit

Since June
the sun was no longer morning
or California
but a pink nickel
pulled from behind the ear of the devil
it wanders from east to west
past the drowsy sentries of fire towers 
and teeth and bone blanched
and hollowed of witness
in search of beetles to bake
yuca and sweat to taste
bustle into the black eye
of a fry pan
slow to braise
the alarm
the lungs a sandbed pennied
with a diaspora of particles
ash falls from the sky
like autumn in Pompeii  
shall we sup
consumed by hacking coughs
and the pale foam of our phlegm 

Since July
stopped coming
when it’s called 
only cocked its head to  
smoke season
a rogue son sheer
willpower pulled itself over the girth of the land
fueled by dry
martinis and gas guzzlers
cabins, cattle, the mid-riffs of the Cascades
the small town 
all plagued
to the scattered rubbish of campsites
the desert
does not advance
in slow corkscrews of sand
but jumps through the walls
joyrides updraft
into callas of air
that loosen the sky
from its empire
and brings it down closer
to the people 
who zip line
over the falutin mansions used as firebreaks
the acrid smell of burning slash
no different than traffic
backed up forty kilometers
from strip malls to the West Wing
forty winks we slept on it
owl eyes, too late
the emptied shelves, the gun toting
order drives
the grill of a Humvee
into a breadline 
mown red faces of rust belt 
open eyes sprout lichen
nasal buds
ephemerals grow along the ridges and valleys of death
your wood sprites, your fallen cathedrals, your mercy
the truth that roars like a fire

Since November
was a flood
sneaking into the basement
to finish it
with the rotten wood of galleons
we acclimatized
measured the girl’s growth spurt
by the water line
and waited lunatic cheerful for December
when the ice pack moaned
and wolves stalked the herd
through the low ceilings to the boiler 
we watched
brought the popcorn
wrapped in a tin foil hat
waited, rounded up the odds of survival
under umbrellas that foamed with anger 
at the endless
handclaps of rain
the thundering hooves

of the sea
aiming right for us
Fulvia Mutica

Oh salivate 
such a tasty
armoured personnel carrier
your hair washed 
with a french braid of seaweed
lips licked and tongue anaconda’d
around your cockles
lies languishing nude
in plein air
the sun medals
like a Marian apparition
the sea
the colour of Muscadet  
dries skin to the grain of an old gaucho
wicker basket
on the shingle beach
brimming with ganache
cava, pudendums of split bivalves
the full mouth slides
meat from the half shell
swallows, sings low
beguiles lips
to the colour of red poppies
ammonia leaks
from blackish jowls
and the circadian sag under our eyes

get thee behind me
of Yersinia Pestis
and fuck you
nose aflame
in the necropolis of Irpin courtyards 
we want a vacation
life of cosplay
willing deal with the devil
rushing to the pomegranate hues
of our right angles and slants
small olive
skulls in our tipples

to Eden

grinding against 
the cocktail dress of night 
seven a.m. stands before the sun like a guilty child
in the helix of sheets
lies a dead contagion 
sling shot of taste and smell 

I want to respire on your eggs
before breakfast
two pangolins spreading


Shane Molyneaux is a new poet (debut). Shane writes about a variety of issues including, politics, parenting, relationships and refugees. Shane has recently completed both the Weekend Poetry Series at Simon Fraser University and the Vancouver Manuscript Intensive (VMI) program.