Brenton Booth writes

Demon Master

It is a Wednesday

morning and I haven’t

written a poem for

over 2 weeks

thinking about Steve

Richmond and his

demons

poor son of a

bitch

living easy off his

family

he should have worked

45 hour weeks

and instead of sounding

like film puppets

his demons would have

had some real

bite

though he was a

great writer

I’ll give him

that

one of the best

when he was his

best

and the man responsible

for breaking this

2 week drought

so thank you Steve

and your phoney demons

that were of course

nothing more than your

iambic-pentameter

and worse things

have definitely

happened

just ask the

racetrack

bars

or

whores.

 Steve Richmond -- Lawrence Robbin

Brenton Booth writes

A Poem for Clara

The words

are not

the same

anymore

walking empty

streets

hearing

sounds

I used

to ignore

all those

things you

said to

me

for all that

time

and all you

wanted

from me

was

3 small

words

that even

now

I try

my best

not

to

say.

--M Starr

Brenton Booth writes

A Reminder       

Death is a desert
with no
sun
a frozen caterpillar
howling at
the moon
an infant with
the alphabet
stamped on
his tiny
lips
death is a bread-less
hot dog singing silent
cantatas
a ballerina strutting
along the coke
lines
an invisible dream
that won’t stop
bleeding
death is a speaker
a serpent
a saint
death is a toothpick
a saucepan
an old sofa drying on
the footpath at
9am
death
is
here
now
reminding
me
once
again
not
to
forget
its
name.

Invisibile Afghan with the Apparition on the Beach of the Face of García Lorca in the Form of a Fruit Dish with Three Figs -- Salvador Dalí