That Lonely Last call by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

The dose of poison
to stifle
the living dread
is up
three fold
what it took
when I first slid
down the longneck chute.

The warm embrace
gone too quick
no longer enough
the next brief moment
of abandon
at the arms of an ephemeral ghost.

What had died
and spiraled
too far,
can be glimpsed in
that lonely last call.

David Cranmer’s poems, short stories, articles, and essays have appeared in publications such as Live Nude PoemsNeedle: A Magazine of NoirThe Five-Two: Crime Poetry WeeklyLitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. His debut chapbook, Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen, is now available. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.

B F Jones is Punk Noir’s co-editor and write Flash Fiction and Poetry. Her collection of interlinked stories, Something Happened at 2a.m. was published by Anxiety Press. She also has one flash fiction collection, Artifice, and two poetry chapbooks, The Only Sound Left and Five Years, all published by The Alien Buddha

Before Gravity’s Pull by B F Jones and David Cranmer

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

I pull back from enforced darkness as
yellow rays from the lantern skip on
cobblestones, the street is too quiet
now as I paint a reflective past of a
time and place where you walked as a
god across my terrace, into my cafe

Materialising before
Claiming the twilight and brightening the night
Sitting, sipping the drink I took to
Lips on the edge of a perspiring glass
Eyes on the horizon, on everything and
On mine.

And the night slipped away
Giving way to numbered days

When the sun shone on a smiling you
When your laughter shattered the odds
Before gravity’s pull became apparent
Before our plans were ripped away.

I was thinking of you today, times past.

Summer evening, 1947 by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

A quiet evening with you, on the veranda,
Light illuminating your golden hair.
You in that tube top and gazing down
Smoldering flame. Smoldering out,
Til all that remained were dark skies
To keep company with memories of you.

A quiet evening with you, hot air waltzing,
stale look in your dirt brown eyes.
And in your mouth, words you no longer mean.
The burning light of longing having slowly
tarnished, a flicker growing ever faint,
Since that first morning, after.