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Jamie Sharpe :: Four poems


All Leech Diet

New, fat-free, addiction. After death
life isn’t matter. What Vicodin fiend
craves ice-cream? Hunger for

acclaim, paychecks, publishing in
The Walrus. Tusks stick me. I’m eager
to staff underpaid interns baring

Kraft Dinner for breakfast. Sushi
schmutz on fat whiskers. Eskimo kisses
leave their mark. Bloody genius,

dimes in your hand spring
dollars but they’re spent.


Pall

Got good at getting
society’s creature comforts
without participating.

Damned if I can
fill the TD1 Personal Tax
Credits Return.

It’s clammy here under
this communal blanket.


Semaphored Hello
To the Ivory Lighthouse

Given endless expression you matter
in aggregate, served on uniform sheets.
These rocks are comfortable. Flash me

a gangplank and I’ll find my waterbed.
This is the signal for heavy, freezing spray.
I want to say I’m lost

in this fog
but I’m lost
in this fog.


While Coach Plays
the Back Nine at Pebble Springs

Cheerleaders, blindfolded and lined,
against a stone wall in a field with no markers,
no goalposts. A lit cigarette hangs loose

from Danika’s lips. When it’s gone,
she’ll be also. My riffle, amongst many, trained
on her. Please leave no red inscription

on that black and silver uniform.
The Oakland Raiders have had
a very bad year.


Jamie Sharpe is the author of three poetry collections, Animal Husbandry Today, Cut-up Apologetic & Dazzle Ships.

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submissions :: where is the river

Up to six poems in a single .doc file with author biography and photo to kieferjdlogan@gmail.com

All rights revert to the author/s upon publication.

Klara du Plessis :: Three poems

Seeing is forgetting the name of the thing seen
The flower has been dying
silently beside me for days now.
Softly unburdening itself.
If I were to touch it ever so lightly
all the petals would be upset
and topple like the last bit of drink
in my mug all over the papers
on my desk. This slightly generic
image happens to me
on a Sunday morning, gently,
a homage to days taken off
in the past, the cotton shirt stuck
over my head in the act of pealing
it from my skin. Fetching
is a synonym for beauty.
Driving over to the pick-up point
to fetch an instant of attraction.
Becoming is also a synonym
for beauty. To burgeon,
to longingly cling to the act
of a future self. As syntax erodes
around you


East Plateau, Montreal
December 31, 2016

When last was cornucopia
a sign of decadence?
Domesticated horny,
baskets brimming, divers
reclining legumes
lisping along that rattan lip,
the most lethargic still
lifes in existence. I walk
across the Christmas cake
ganache pedestrian walkway
whittling at a po…

issue three :: January/February 2018