The Cleave Poetry Webzine [ISSN: 1758-9223]

Posts Tagged ‘Steve Parker’

How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards? by Steve Parker

In submission on February 27, 2009 at 8:56 pm

How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards?

(to David Irving)

the occasion is Smoking Mirror, an exhibition–Flarf
to execrate the despicable English practice of riding to hound
–W.S. Burroughs
he’s asking in the wrong colour!
–Seance Recording (anon)

what it is to outselect the egregious shadow assemblage
of flickers the flickering voice half-memory a gestalt
of fireflies & rattle of redacted love of the Ramp
of that confluence of whispers gargled up in evoking
of the noisy spirit beyond the machinery of
blue saturates tested for at Birkenau Auschwitz
by weight of its own inertia so to assail a weakness
prying alone alone with the  conviction with such fervour thereby mining
with the fixation of a boy digging out his first living spine
that such determination sapping away a bulwark artfully
might who might just bring the walls coming down with fumbling
with the flagship at the blowing thrice O thrice of the trebuchet
trumpet trumpet and canary glossolalia there look listen with jerks  & squawks of
trumpet that thou art in thy posture & mild hooting hubris
thy resolve to be other but always in pursuit and hot sneer
of what is truly as the fall of  clouds cry now in deadly blue
& otherwise spirited from your holes of deadness flushed
for the shoving your redcoat tripes in those faces of deluded boys

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Speak ill of the Dead by Steve Parker

In submission on February 14, 2009 at 8:51 am

Speak ill of the Dead (Gaza 2009)

They are the exalted birds and their intercession is required indeed
—Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

Blitz By May 1941 43,000 civilians many of them horribly as cellars
filled with sewage escaping from burst heads heads that lay with the corn dollies
of Dresden whose skin grew vapid as tubers of fire and wind
whose horses were silhouettes capering on sidewalks of armour and ashen ghosts
whose Pompeiis cooked down like stock unstuck in Time
there in the rising in the Thames in the Elbe the horses at night
they came to feed of shadows of the Dead after night
a three year old child in Gaza City dying
with a broken back of rivers running hard into deltas
over two days in the rising through the Thames of concrete
of heat of her mouth with petals and song
filled with dust on the green banks folded aloft in the arms
of mothers of the history of mothers of the mothers of mothers
and of the baking of bread at dawn and at the going down
of the sun will we consume thee thy flesh thy bread of glory
as white phosphorus as coins they inserted in the loaves
of an Intifada like vast catfish coins for the raising
of the drowned in dust face down now be still
do not fight do not fight as the horses fought it will be over the sooner
into that glory or thrust upon shadow and exalted aloft
upon high in the upper air and upon the heights in cannonades
in loaves at dawn they seek the drowned to ask
why one child whose skins grew vapid as tubers of fire why one child
of another race worth so many of hers unable to move her arms she who will never know
knows only of snow and one catfish king says Jim to Tom of its taste
its cold soft iron is much like another much like one another and all of it

no damn good

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The Girdle Sensation by Steve Parker

In submission on January 21, 2009 at 10:15 pm
in that her presence was itself some zonesthesia past mere atmospheric cinch
he breathed tight.
shallow noticeably different yet for a week or more would not look would not feel
the girdle sensation /the swoon
or more hives or hives of her a hive or several of hives
that hemmed
upon him as poetic asphyxia he wanted to smash it the cincture
as poetic asphyxia the drowning the press which in such ways accompanies to perform a delicate an intricate task
the cincture which accompanies the drowning zonesthesia task at the very limit
past mere ability several or more hives that hemmed upon him at the very limit of ability

Gorilla Loose on Highstreet by Steve Parker

In submission on January 12, 2009 at 7:10 pm

“the body has gone underground due to widespread persecution.” Madeleine Shine

in those times of the interior in those times of the interior in those times of the interior in those times of the interior
of antimony of ambergris of kohl of Zanzibar and Shendy
dig my grave I will dig yours in wet vellum we go stark laughing
rush/ from behind trees it was reported huge grinning
clutch/ladies of amorous to them covered in fur
fevers/shivering oh fearful greek katyusha on a cigar of all nations unconscionably requited
Freud bitten himself to death Reich askance the whole winter’s edge Jung suddenly addressed with fondness his stockpot keep it for your aghast moments
this ape thing this ape thing this ape thing this ape thing
not universally acknowledged as myth my half-brother now summertime duke piss off into your walled garden not universally acknowledged as myth

Steve Parker, originally from Liverpool, now lives in Haworth near Emily Bronte’s grave in West Yorkshire, UK. His poetry has been been published in Ditch, Cause and Effect, Dogzplot, Underground Voices, Admit Two, The Chimaera and Chaos International, as well as two chapbooks published by Stylus Books in the UK: Selected Poems by Steve Parker and Tearing the Veil. His blog is: brickstackblockstack.

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