An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
The omelet wore Velcro pajamas
after it won an award for selling a broken toy
in Great Dismal Swamp.
Venus bilked swordfish at the colosseum
until her epic slime
lionized some antiquated penguin.
Well, as Dr. Brinkley told one of his goat glands,
"Wipe that face off your smile."
Don't Look, Never Look
Again, the xanthic curvature
retirees seek through
A vagabond housed at
for a pint, thus giddily remembered
some planned opus –
accordion version of 1938's Encyclopaedia Britannica –
riches unto corporate had
flared up madder like hills. Instead,
hobbles toward the answer
idling in a mink
At the Grave of John Swingendorf
In a predestined flower
bed, I kneel to pick up a dirt clod that turns
out to be a concretion of coins, none larger than a quarter,
my luck changed. I pull the cluster apart, the coins pristine
with their little numismatic stands at base, the latest from 1967.
Some of the coins turn out to be magazines, from 1958, '56, '54 . . .
One of the magazines turns out to be an alligator gar, eight and a half feet long
and taxidermied, ready for wall-mounting. Swingendorf
was an ichthyologist, I deduce. Not to mention a film buff,
judging by 35 mm footage in the clump. He also was slim, with Brylcreemed
hair, a suit (narrow tie as bisector), and horn-rim glasses,
per dead reckoning. John,
you were John
and/or a telegram of platinum.
Mark Blaeuer lives near Hot Springs, Arkansas. His poems have appeared in Bluepepper, El Portal, Nimrod, SurVision, and Windsor Review. A collection, Fragments of a Nocturne, is available from Kelsay Books.