An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Blue Assemblage with a Horse
This blue night expels its white horse
through my bedroom window.
Along the hillside the pink and yellow houses
marinating in winter moonlight,
and slowly and not slowly
all the warm places decay.
At first I didn't like myself
standing at the end of the checkered hallway
with my dented brass and sheet music.
You made me turn a funny color,
I couldn't breathe when you looked at me,
and when you looked at me
how easily my jaw broke off,
just a solitary look from you
in your blue doorway
and it was like the wind
passing through the web of a twilight spider.
The earth manages a full rotation.
There is humming and the whistling of steam.
What a strange, beautiful machine
you've asked me to set my teeth upon,
O sexless mover of the priest
that floats above my bed
with four legs kicking
and bright white hooves.
Friday Afternoon as Spiritual Autobiography
I have driven a nail
through an orchid.
I think of you,
for your false priest,
as your mother floats
Now my face has left my face.
Though I am firmly planted
in the Midwest like a corporation,
I want to sing hymns
to milk and forget I was ever lost
in the woods, guided by syringe
That was so long ago,
but I am still a little boy
sitting in my mother's bathtub
with my broken leg,
and my mother in hysterics
on the phone
trying to find someone with a car
to drive us to the hospital.
I don't ask my face where it's going,
it's somewhere strange
If you should find my eyes,
don't cover them.
The old men enter the white barn.
in fitted white tuxedos.
Everything turns pink
after you rain.
The cow blinking away a fly in the tall grass
was a starved calf last spring.
The stains are fresh
in the air,
some are gray and some are black
perpetually above the New River Valley
in southern Virginia.
I am turning back
into an egg I remember
when my baby brother
had his turn
on his messy bed in the summer.
Later that night my hair was wet
in my mother's white tub,
and I cried
because of the things I said.
In the dry winter
she gave birth to him all over again.
I kissed him on his red face
all over again I am born
gripping my cracking mottled stone.
Christopher Prewitt is a writer from Kentucky, USA, whose poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in Vinyl Poetry, Merida Review, Ghost Ocean Magazine, Four Way Review, Inscape, Iowa Review, Rattle, and other periodicals.