THE LOTUS EATEROf all the fiends Ulysses faced,
most hideous and insidiously placed was a compulsion, first undetected, later injected. Knowing his strengths, his hopes, his weaknesses (one), it tugged not at him, but at his son. The suitors' lust extinguished, Telemachus teetered, bored by sub-urban tedium and ennui, he sought solace and found it, with the Lotus Eaters, trading his armor for the pleasures of pharma. Oxy 20s, 30s, 40s, the escalation quick and easy, blissful devastation. The blight, invited, invaded. Young and old, they braved the cold, sold all they owned, for a soujourn to a summit few survey and fewer survive. It's a long way down. They don't fall, they plummet. Odysseus, seeking salvation for his son, casts about gamely, but vainly. Which foe can he vanquish, which sorceress plead with? He does not bow to acceptance, but remorse? Of course. Maybe if he'd stayed, the boy wouldn't have strayed? No, addiction arose only after his arrival. All that matters is survival, to bring this to a halt. But was he as a father, then, at fault? "No," Penelope soothes, "this is hateful fate." The implication plain, Ithaca's favored son debates which God or Goddess he must kill. And he will do it, Telemachus thinks, pausing on the edge of the needle prick. Then, the syringe like a dagger in. I am sick, he perceives, a liability to family and those who love me. I must flee, escape this labyrinth—but wait, only Theseus achieved that trick.
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The Solemn Oaths and Fair Assurances of Coopey FallsSay what you will about the passage of time,
But with it I’ve learned that when a force Of nature, instructed (I know not how) in Dancing a two-faced gavotte, begins to think About God, it begins to think. At Angel’s Rest, I asked, “What kind of empathy is this,” While looking down on the Columbia River Gorge’s empire. I’m sure the angels meant No disrespect by not responding. Cognition Grew less modest. The view molested air Infused with cognac’s repetition, a sort of Power plant for prayers. We can’t discount The possibility that every higher call to good Available to hear up there – as numerous as The laws that fill the corruption of a nation’s Soul – will go unheeded, when the hikers Overrate their ears, and underrate both love And soap. The sky was ambitious of fame; The Faraday constant was constantly crossing Itself. Pretty Boy Floyd would blow some Cash to see the riverbank from there at sunset. To understand irrational behavior or an odd Belief, just look into that person’s altar; any Idols there, it doesn’t matter which, provide Your answer. I worship now at heaven’s coat Check. Coopey Creek was strange, but can’t- Miss stuff was stranger; I must’ve seemed Like a lion tamer biting his nails to the eagles Overhead. (“Be patient, little one; that’s by Design,” is what they’d say, if they could Hear my stony mind and touch my sandy Mood today.) Propaganda, with oars and Sails, departed for the moon. Envy, without Spears or bows, did something only freak- Azoids would do to feel superior; I’ll not Pervert the trail’s intent by going into detail. Everyone edits everything, every chance They get, but this memory’s in the big Leagues now; a cedar cathedral. I sold my Hatred of higher standards, as if I was An arms dealer, to the clouds. Nights Without a strong foundation are exhausting. The grass was very dry up there; winter, Leading up to that day, had been a real barn Burner. Fish anointed that day with honey. THE DREAM THIEF’S MISTAKES
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: (szellem)válaszok, A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya . New: Kiterített rókabőr. English poems published: Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine, Scum Gentry Magazine, Pussy Magic, The Zen Space, Crêpe & Penn, Briars Lit, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Theta Wave, Cape Magazine, Neuro Logical, The Daily Drunk Mag, Unpublishable Zine, Melbourne Culture Corner, Beir Bua Journal, Crown & Pen, Dead Fern Press, Coven Poetry Journal, Journal of Erato, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillover Magazine, Punk Noir, Nymphs Literary Journal, Synchronized Chaos, Impspired Magazine, Fugitives & Futurists, The Dope Fiend Daily, Mausoleum Press, Nine Magazines, Hearth & Coffin Literary Journal, Our Poetry Archive (OPA), Juniper Literary Magazine, Feral Dove Magazine, Alternate Route, CENTRE FOR EXPERIMENTAL ONTOLOGY, Bullshit Lit Magazine, Misery tourism, Terror House Press, Journal of Expressive Writing, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, WordCity Literary Journal, Wilder Literature Magazine, Roadside Raven Review, Death'sDormantDaughter, Rasputin, Amphora Magazine, THIN SLICE ANXIETY, FLEAS ON THE DOG, Dumpster Fire Press, Horror Sleaze Trash Magazine, Outcast Press, DOGZPLOT Magazine, BLACK STONE / WHITE STONE, Impractical Things Magazine, Medusa's Kitchen, Beatnik Cowboy, LET’S STAB CAESAR!, THE PEACH Magazine, FATHERFATHER Magazine, Gorko Gazette, Jupiter Review, Word For/Word Magazine, Poetry As Promised Lit Mag. Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.
Blockagelike paved-over grasslands,
my eyelids have been rendered infertile unable to produce the saltine drops from my blue-iris flesh spheres that hid behind smudgy glasses ShipwreckedI came upon a shipwreck
Where the ocean meets the shore And I listened for any signs of life But all I could hear were the waves Lashing furiously at the jagged rocks in their way. I fought my way against the relentless wind And around the dunes that suddenly appeared before me when the moon rose Taking cautious steps so I wouldn’t end up sinking into the endless holes that might trap me As I headed towards the battered ship As I approached, my skin prickled from the ghostly aura Permeating the air And with no sign of life I climbed gingerly onto the broken boards Making my way down the ship ladder To the deck below. A wildly swinging door Beckoned me into a cabin Where I had to crouch down to get through the twisted doorway And I realized that I knew this place. My eyes searched the room And landed on the cherry desk In the corner. I ran my hands along the polished wood As I had done many times before Until I accidentally knocked a pile of photographs onto the floor. When I bent down to pick them up My heart stopped when I saw his face I knew him even through the years and desperate attempts to forget And I closed my eyes as memories flooded over me Slamming me onto the floor. When I opened my eyes I became aware that the picture that had landed face up Was the one when we had first stopped looking at each other Already heading our separate ways before we understood what was happening And a surge of sadness washed over me as I looked up Aware that I was still mired in the wreckage Of what had once been And the water was seeping inside now And I knew it was time to find a way out Before I drowned. |
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