1 Wherein, Demons
What’s not said
IS always ‘spoken’
within, submerged,
close to the bone.
Here, fueled by
10-million-degree spite,
words stab,
blood flows, and
demons are allowed
to breathe.
Topside, my tell gives
with a glassy stare
or look away—beware
what contempt breeds.
2 Dead Burying the Dead
Ouroboros
What’s the fuss?
You swallowing me
Kick me down the hill
Drag you through the streets
Forgive us not our trespasses
John Wayne, yesterday’s Duke,
was average on the draw
Like you, like me
Did we lend a helping hand?
Walk with Kings? Or forked memes,
with self-aggrandizing schemes
Ariana Grande has grown up
Since licking donuts for free
Likes her (4M), like me (—)
What goes around comes around
Mom used to say—it’s just twisting
and daggering faster these days
Me swallowing you
What’s the fuss?
Ouroboros
3 Lost in Space
They sit,
rotting.
Vacant eyes,
not yet dead,
far from alive.
Miserable, lost
creatures
glued in spot,
like flies stuck
to a sticky trap,
but without
the buzzing,
there’s not
the slightest
glimpse of life
remaining.
4 Alone (after Kyle J. Knapp)
Inconsolable,
Tired.
Every night
Muddled speech
Visions
And other graceless vexations.
Myself, trying to sleep
One day
I will.
David Cranmer is the editor of the BEAT to a PULP webzine and whose own body of work has appeared in such diverse publications as The Five-Two: Crime Poetry Weekly, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, LitReactor, Macmillan’sCriminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found physically in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter, and he can be found virtually on Twitter @BEATtoaPULP.
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