SurVision Magazine / John Thomas Allen

Lunaire's Princess

    I was ungluing her psychotropic
       sea glass brassiere
       her robe of Tarot cane

           Her orange lips parted
    and swollen moonflowers
    blew like black pollen
        with the geisha's
        song of drowned syllables,

        her
        blue
        spider's
                          moonpsalm
            stained with humming algae
            and the arrangement's march
            of yellow sight.

    With a mellifluous cackle
              of bending gum ministries,
    her denture crowns
        spun in the roulette
                of cathode rays

    spelunking for ruined fortunes, for cyclical shade
    of burning servants on cracked Roman Marble
    and ticking nights in trace paper rooms
    the transit opal of dark cherry eyes

    Thus it was that the noir dew
    spun in beady halls of peeping
    venus flytraps and the deaf
    gloss eclipsing
                 lunar lobotomies,
        and cannibal stars

    falling as asbestos on holiday,
    and the drowsy hitchers wept

        clown tears

            of twilight serum

Dilate

These balustrades are sick and dizzy
and ring still with the echoes of your falling,

its distance, symmetry and song.

Your mouth a stripped accordion
teeth strewn on marble like crushed chalk

I was away drilling doll catheters in place,
sweating nightmare goo in memory foam
the revolving chambers fired in dream soil

by leashed lobsters missing their daytime naps
and this through crack smoked hour glasses,

smeared motel keys, the rhizome fields of gag teeth
knocking in the slipping galleys of our plight

And here now we are wound bits
of motion sickness, moons in staring clocks,

Radio Flyers filled with Garbage Pail Kids rolling
over limbo borders, incinerated in their rearviews.

And now these burning deja vu treaties,
these 3:00am tin masses like a rain

dancer's dream, beads filled in a chalice
and dribbling alien spunk on Chinese lanterns

white out for Heraclitean growth in reverse
for the tawny arrangements made in ouija coffins,

this ascetic birdsong of graveyards

The Snake Handlers

I pass a room regularly where no one lives
it sparks and crackles
with some old record player
and a Nazi urn not a bit dusty

The records play the burning of jazz
somewhere in Union Square
because brownshirts don't really rest
and the snake handler's oil dims rarely

A girl's face stares from a flaking frame
pale as the moon after the Challenger blew

brushing her hair, singing for the quarters
to be plucked from the middlemen's eyes.

I saw one leg Charlie whistling Dixie,
shambling with that damned flag.

Snake eye dominoes wriggling
from where Oedipus sought to end it.

And I saw
the ones who suck grease
from the Snake Handlers' fingers
Her black eyes spin like apricot planets
her eyes move in the painting

Look close the crags turn in transit
an orchid fields' dreams about slaughter
and empty beds of bugs, violets, pistols.

Outside the window Dracula went bug eyed
Like a windmill of delirious insect eyes
Like full moons wet in a sick dog's eyes

Or a starfish hatching from a fortune cookie
crippled and filled with small hands;
deh-deh-deja vu, remember this?
There's always death behind you

Here
The room's stinking thirst for needles,
for dirt naps for poor men
almost knocks me out each time
I pass Dracula laughs,
the air all cracksmoke and moonshine

Inside, at least tonight
a sacred heart is being chewed up
and spat against the wall;
I'd heard the sacristy burn
and a floral scent made my teeth
fall out

It sounds a bit like Night of the Living Dead:
gas keys palmed by cannibals
who chew who end up with our
only house

John Thomas Allen is from New York. He has edited three anthologies of speculative and mainstream poetry. His first book, Nouveau's Midnight Sun: Transcriptions From Golgonooza and Beyond, was published in 2014, and his new book entitled Fake Shemp in 2018. His poems have appeared in Veil: a Journal of Dark Musings, Arsenic Lobster Magazine, Surreal Poetics, The Cimaron Review, etc., and he has a story in the recently released anthology titled More Bizarro Than Bizarro.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Four JOHN THOMAS ALLEN Lunaire's Princess I was ungluing her psychotropic sea glass brassiere her robe of Tarot cane Her orange lips parted and swollen moonflowers blew like black pollen with the geisha's song of drowned syllables, her blue spider's moonpsalm stained with humming algae and the arrangement's march of yellow sight. With a mellifluous cackle of bending gum ministries, her denture crowns spun in the roulette of cathode rays spelunking for ruined fortunes, for cyclical shade of burning servants on cracked Roman Marble and ticking nights in trace paper rooms the transit opal of dark cherry eyes Thus it was that the noir dew spun in beady halls of peeping venus flytraps and the deaf gloss eclipsing lunar lobotomies, and cannibal stars falling as asbestos on holiday, and the drowsy hitchers wept clown tears of twilight serum Dilate These balustrades are sick and dizzy and ring still with the echoes of your falling, its distance, symmetry and song. Your mouth a stripped accordion teeth strewn on marble like crushed chalk I was away drilling doll catheters in place, sweating nightmare goo in memory foam the revolving chambers fired in dream soil by leashed lobsters missing their daytime naps and this through crack smoked hour glasses, smeared motel keys, the rhizome fields of gag teeth knocking in the slipping galleys of our plight And here now we are wound bits of motion sickness, moons in staring clocks, Radio Flyers filled with Garbage Pail Kids rolling over limbo borders, incinerated in their rearviews. And now these burning deja vu treaties, these 3:00am tin masses like a rain dancer's dream, beads filled in a chalice and dribbling alien spunk on Chinese lanterns white out for Heraclitean growth in reverse for the tawny arrangements made in ouija coffins, this ascetic birdsong of graveyards The Snake Handlers I pass a room regularly where no one lives it sparks and crackles with some old record player and a Nazi urn not a bit dusty The records play the burning of jazz somewhere in Union Square because brownshirts don't really rest and the snake handler's oil dims rarely A girl's face stares from a flaking frame pale as the moon after the Challenger blew brushing her hair, singing for the quarters to be plucked from the middlemen's eyes. I saw one leg Charlie whistling Dixie, shambling with that damned flag. Snake eye dominoes wriggling from where Oedipus sought to end it. And I saw the ones who suck grease from the Snake Handlers' fingers Her black eyes spin like apricot planets her eyes move in the painting Look close the crags turn in transit an orchid fields' dreams about slaughter and empty beds of bugs, violets, pistols. Outside the window Dracula went bug eyed Like a windmill of delirious insect eyes Like full moons wet in a sick dog's eyes Or a starfish hatching from a fortune cookie crippled and filled with small hands; deh-deh-deja vu, remember this? There's always death behind you Here The room's stinking thirst for needles, for dirt naps for poor men almost knocks me out each time I pass Dracula laughs, the air all cracksmoke and moonshine Inside, at least tonight a sacred heart is being chewed up and spat against the wall; I'd heard the sacristy burn and a floral scent made my teeth fall out It sounds a bit like Night of the Living Dead: gas keys palmed by cannibals who chew who end up with our only house John Thomas Allen is from New York. He has edited three anthologies of speculative and mainstream poetry. His first book, Nouveau's Midnight Sun: Transcriptions From Golgonooza and Beyond, was published in 2014, and his new book entitled Fake Shemp in 2018. His poems have appeared in Veil: a Journal of Dark Musings, Arsenic Lobster Magazine, Surreal Poetics, The Cimaron Review, etc., and he has a story in the recently released anthology titled More Bizarro Than Bizarro.
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