crew to sleep – ghost #4

snow cabin

Memories act as detritus, lettertorn ice
avalanched into my cabin: I stare at the ceiling
for hours, paralyzed by my sleep meds,
by fear, or by the memory of a memory.
Atop the submarine I am rooftop dazzled
by a piercing white sun. I wince at a beauty
that can kill me. We are not seeking a white whale.
We are not seeking anything. We go out to sea,
& we sleep. I have an application around here
somewhere. It reads, Fill in the blank: I function
as a _______. You get the job if you leave it blank.

 

SBGS December

photo: Thomas Henke

the insomnia – d.s. maolalai

the snore
came suddenly
like dynamite
popping in a cave.
he woke to the sound,
shocked out of sleep,
and lay there
listening to his heartbeat
and wondering
if the roof had fallen
and were the children
alright in their beds.
the next one
came
from the pillow next to him
and minutes later.
it seemed
each night
that behind her face
was a lamp-post,
hit
with occasional
cars.

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png

DS Maolalai is a poet from Ireland who has been writing and publishing poetry for almost 10 years. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize.

 

spells – ghost of the scarab

she took me to spells and what i mean is
she took me to the edge of her bed
and draped legs on each side of me
lips on each side of me
eyes preying/praying outside of me
tongue pushed inside of me
and she pressed down on top of me
hips swinging billy idol fast beat swing
and immediately i wanted to write a letter
to whatever cosmic collision birthed her
and thank said cosmic collison
for what was truly her work in her
unadulterated presentation of honest soft lips
as dizzy she took me to spells and back to rock
and roll and some more and finding myself pulling
subtly at her clothes with my fingers
and my teeth she demanded me to be honest
with the intentions of my fingers and my teeth and pulled me in
fingers crawling back to you to reach for what lies beneath
and damn damn bangarang clothes strewn true on the floor
each deep breath flooding the floor and each deep sweat
a reminder that sometimes brunch tastes like silk rope
and sweet death and god damn she had me singing baby
straight from my chest and baby, you had me tied down
by your teeth as we started to reach and we started to
reach and we started to end and can you really sleep beside a dream?
wherein you find that there can be so much light in the dark?
and wherein you find that when you’ve been fighting and fighting
and fighting for a sense of reality
that maybe what you’re truly craving
is a taste of magic

she took me to spells
and i died so many times
in the confines
of her room

so soon after she gave me
a sweet tour of the space
she was claiming
as her own.

submit to soboghoso.

found wikipedia poem – the french destroyer bambara

commercial energy / varying order and similar error constants / floor to collapse / derived from the equation / throughout the history of pine / totally nude erotic dancing is expressive conduct / an optimal balance of biological control attributes / ixnay on the hombre / she exhibited her etchings / many people who committed minor offences were executed by him / the project on middle east democracy / the war continues / interlopers from the future responsible for this / to support any government / to form a new coalition / radio stations and translators / purchase and drain / trials and friendlies / the french destroyer bambara /

submit to soboghoso.

Intangible Ceiling – ghost #62

The great barrier reef has been officially pronounced dead.

The coffee at work is burnt.

There are at least three bats living in my broken fireplace.

There are ghost children in the back of throat.

They taste like the sea in the places where the sea is garbage.

The news is being spoken in braille.

Trains are falling of cliffs.

Men in hats are sneaking around strangling women.

There is a room that is nothing but mattresses and for some reason I want to lay at the floor and stare at the ceiling at the synthetic lights

pretending they are the only sky I’ve ever known.

So manageable

families of flies dancing around a false god

unaware of the tempest that is brewing through the intangible ceiling.

submit to soboghoso

i want to eat every petal of every flower in every field – ghost #13

i want to eat every petal of every flower in every field
and fall asleep at night with a garden in the dust of the gut of me
churning into the soil of my stomach like some strange motor oil
and waking me in the dark soul of the night with new fucking flowers
new burning new beauty flowers organic and undaunted and honest
as night birds climb in mass on the top of the roof of this opera
and congregate to listen to the sound of me being born way too late
and way too late is never way too late when you’re born an opera
when you born of dead things as unusually and impeccably alive
a parade traveling through a graveyard at dusk inside of me
and never a question of what could have been because it all has been
because it all has been and i am awake and hungry and searching for petals
and searching for petals to ingest every segment of humanity over and again

i begin.

i begin right fucking
now.

submit to soboghoso

cropped-cropped-cropped-sobogoso.png