SurVision Magazine / Joshua Michael Stewart

Come On into My Kitchen (It's Gonna Be Raining Outdoors)

You used to sugar me all over your kitchen, thrum
my banjo until you knocked it out of tune,
but since my heart turned into driftwood, floating

down the river of slow death, slow death, slow death,
you've been shaking a rattlesnake hymn
out of a cigar-box guitar. Mama, you tornado

in my throat. Come hook me like a catfish.
Give me beer, hand me your can of heat. Call me
your jar of heart sauce and twist the lid until it pops.

Give me Scotch, beer is all I have left.
Thunder – even the ravens listen.
Don't you dare touch my nightstand radio.

The House Won't Speak to Me

Occasionally, it'll moan like an old woman disappointed Death hasn't beckoned her to ride away with him on a white horse, and the house whines when a gust presses against its bones, but it has no words. Ask the wallpaper whatever you want; it won't answer.

On a late-October day, I've witnessed the house slam doors, fed up with my intrusions, but we're talking body language. A draft in a room is the house giving the cold shoulder. When the heat kicks on, the house sighs in resignation.

It knows I'll never leave, and I'll remain the root of its internal turmoil until one of us collapses in on ourselves, leaving a corpse for vandals to spray paint pentagrams on our once beautiful walls.

Joshua Michael Stewart is from Ware, Massachusetts. He is the author of Break Every String (Hedgerow Books, 2016) and The Bastard Children of Dharma Bums (Human Error Publishing, 2020). His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Salamander, Plainsongs, Brilliant Corners, etc. His third poetry collection, Love Something, is due from Main Street Rag.

SurVision Magazine
About Us Archive Submissions Contributors Books Links Home Page
An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Eleven JOSHUA MICHAEL STEWART Come On into My Kitchen (It's Gonna Be Raining Outdoors) You used to sugar me all over your kitchen, thrum my banjo until you knocked it out of tune, but since my heart turned into driftwood, floating down the river of slow death, slow death, slow death, you've been shaking a rattlesnake hymn out of a cigar-box guitar. Mama, you tornado in my throat. Come hook me like a catfish. Give me beer, hand me your can of heat. Call me your jar of heart sauce and twist the lid until it pops. Give me Scotch, beer is all I have left. Thunder – even the ravens listen. Don't you dare touch my nightstand radio. The House Won't Speak to Me Occasionally, it'll moan like an old woman disappointed Death hasn't beckoned her to ride away with him on a white horse, and the house whines when a gust presses against its bones, but it has no words. Ask the wallpaper whatever you want; it won't answer. On a late-October day, I've witnessed the house slam doors, fed up with my intrusions, but we're talking body language. A draft in a room is the house giving the cold shoulder. When the heat kicks on, the house sighs in resignation. It knows I'll never leave, and I'll remain the root of its internal turmoil until one of us collapses in on ourselves, leaving a corpse for vandals to spray paint pentagrams on our once beautiful walls. Joshua Michael Stewart is from Ware, Massachusetts. He is the author of Break Every String (Hedgerow Books, 2016) and The Bastard Children of Dharma Bums (Human Error Publishing, 2020). His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Salamander, Plainsongs, Brilliant Corners, etc. His third poetry collection, Love Something, is due from Main Street Rag.
Copyright © 2022 SurVision Magazine