Mad Bongo Maze

—bing bong bing bong—

Little Offering — 2018-04-20

Little Offering

Robinson, the reverend daughter—flesh
of her turned ash ankles pegged into
the middle aged tonsures of a pattern

balding lot—scrubs her two owned ox
calves in the skin temperature socket
of a blue plastic blow-up pool. Its waist

bilges with the juice of freshly tanked
sheep's blood. Clusters of rust, like bog 
wet cranberry fruit, scale four unripe

flanks—they spur into tangled chortles 
of mane as ornamental bulbs. Still young
curds hemorrhage small under the gut

bloat of a dead Pegasus. The hobbled
urban sun is a stuck kite, its strewn
straw hospice an 800 sq. ft. dirt church.
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Our Dissolving Omnibus (Pages to Pulp)- N. Ian McCarthy — 2018-02-23

Our Dissolving Omnibus (Pages to Pulp)- N. Ian McCarthy

Previously published half writing on Sudden Denouement, belonging to the stratum ‘thingamawhatsit.’

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Had they, at that time, yet mined the rock salt from
the rich, wide ducts of your fugitive tears? In that far
afternoon, you sat curled around the rim of your ringed
fast food cup, dragging its lame hockey puck with its

tepid three inches of black ocean across the mournful,
textured tabletop—assembled with man-age mortar to
linger, disconsolate and amputated, five hundred years
past the white, mute February of the last human bone.

Where, then, to deposit the porous clay figures of our
talks? We spoke keen rondels, shaped to pry apart the
floor planks of passion and the pathology of degenerative
arthritic knee joints. In the vacant, beige tote that

is a dawn without thumbs, hunger gnaws, and similes,
out which French doors exit all the stories? And when
the unwinded flute of your face cannoned out the big
picture window, over the dishwater lake, sinking deep

into…

View original post 214 more words

Used to Be a Pizza Place — 2018-02-09

Used to Be a Pizza Place

Bend down 
your tired 
sunflower in
this small
space

behind the
bleached
ribs of an
unconsecrated 
whale—

at another
intersection
named for a
deciduous 
tree, 

near 
the second-
hand sock 
of an Asian 
nail salon.

Fold
your nylon 
sleeping bag's
triangle flap

a sigh's 
width
under the 
ritual blade
of your 
jaws.

A wet 
morning 
eye
will
cense
your mouth's 
benediction,

even as
the idling 
musk from last
night's pole-
cats 

reminds 
the pink 
canopy
of your
gums.
Fallow, the Fields — 2018-02-03

Fallow, the Fields

In the lay night hours
that buffer the 
                                  first glare
from all the 
                              stuttering

Plexiglas, 
                         I entreat the
thin scab of sleep, in 
sympathy, to crochet a 
scarf for 
                       the soul of a
bruised liver—here, puffed
out like a 

                        bean. In my brisk
slurping of the confections, 
cake frosted entremets to
the venom of a 
                                   stillborn, 
ubiquitous
                           debate, I have
eaten too much. I ate too
much. Last
                           night. But I also,
for luck, spread a wrinkled
skin of cellophane over 
your 
                dead
                            grandmother's

flat Willow dish for 
                                           leftovers.
When the auld dome glows
like a hot wire
                                  and I have raked

my mouth with 
                                  soap and
scissor blades, could you 
set out the 
                          sporks
                                          and 

two ounces each of bile in 

the good chilled apéritif 
                                   glasses?
Introducing N. Ian McCarthy — 2018-01-06

Introducing N. Ian McCarthy

My first fragment up at Sudden Denouement, published last month. I’m grateful to be included.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

A Drift of Dead Comics
by N. Ian McCarthy

       You lay, balanced flat across the colonnade of my fingers. A lower-left corner wags with the intervallic oscillation of a floor fan—the limb of a cotton bed sheet, straddling a clotheswire in the wind. You are almost a breathing thing: the impulse of a contracting diaphragm. You are the sucking gill of an angled fish, one who cannot oxygenate without water. My wax lips strain around the vowels of an invented dialect, during the seventh minute of my resistance to pick at the flat-folded staples that run up the split of your faulted spine. Do I engender a quake that will defoliate your season of autumn? Can I scatter your sheets like loose cedar shavings, as mulch for the bed of my own Silk Road?

            I am the yellow-eyed cat, lean and starved, who ladles the spoon of his tongue…

View original post 468 more words

Plummeting Poem — 2018-01-01

Plummeting Poem

I might scuff 
out onto the 
promontory later,
scoop up a few
sandy apples of
stones and deposit 
them like longing 
billiard balls into 
the salt caves of
my hip pockets.

Eternity is a
second cousin
to gray, rushing
water—at least,
a thing near.

I imagine the
note of a split,
wet fruit spilling
its seeds upon 
the knuckle of a
slick river rock.

To resonate
in three low
vibrations—I
coalesce into
the cloud of 
an improbably
distant future.

I align,
for a few
moments,
with the 
hymn of
gravity.
Sitting and Somebody’s Holiday — 2017-12-30

Sitting and Somebody’s Holiday

Lately, I am the pearl of a mouth-blown soap
bubble—a thinning pane of glass—brittle from
the freezer. So, I sit under a Christmas moon and

bide. My inert car is a space capsule; from a place
within, hydraulics collude to distend the ripe tomato
of my bladder. A tomcat, slow, like a smooth electric

current, sidles up to spray a spit-clean Porsche's
silver bumper, and after, drips the plump smudge
of its body into the ditch by a strip of chain link

fence—it melts into the night noise of popcorn
fireworks and churchyard caws from all the roped
dogs, leashed—as am I—to thick, uncomfortable

tree trunks. Up an obscured drive, the nomadic
snail of an ice cream truck plays speaker ditties—
modern music box remixes in concentric circles,

near the corner convenience store's pale dead
lights where, three weeks earlier, a vexed driver
spilled a bullet into the indelible pillow of a man's

chest. And I can't help but think of Beauty now,
absent any aesthetic, in terms of something like a
boiling puddle of pig iron slithering into a dirt mold.

It's the wrecking ball cough in my lungs as I flame
through another cigarette. It's the heft of a bone
splinter I hew from the shins of better, dead men.
Fit Snugly the Wood Together, as Was Done in and around Paris, Circa 1700 CE — 2017-10-13

Fit Snugly the Wood Together, as Was Done in and around Paris, Circa 1700 CE

Marquetry was born during a 
dearth of chessboards, chest 
hatches, and ornamental tabletops.

That's entirely untrue—more 
likely, parquetry fertilized the
chess-board vogue, as they abide

by squared precepts. Modern 
interpretations of the game
would imply a male monarch who

limps sciatic, eluding all potential
suitors out of impotent fear. He, a 
wayward dudicle in regaled polka

dot fur collars, ejects his prearranged
queen outward to force all significant
maneuvers alone, unaided—she

wrestles existential and unrealized
desires:  earning her PhD in bio-
chemistry, for instance. The rooks,

once firm, their flanking parapets
have long collapsed—grown green
over with the hyper-sensitive moss

of cultural gravitation. Cardinals, per-
functorily dutiful, approach only obliquely,
bedecked in ordained blue jeans, and

purposefully diminish whichever 
unarticulated innuendos might be
inferred by the appearance of their

blush phallic caps, full crimson and 
stiffly starched. All the pawns got
lost in a digital booze mist of virtually

realized pixels, and today march
directly from their slaughtering fields
into haphazard columns toward white

beanbag cubicles, dark rubber gogg-
les dangling below their sockets. So,
questioning the aptness of current

gender roles, all previously plumed,
pleat-pantalooned knights have,
in protest, declared themselves

voluptuous court ladies and ceased
further horseback and/or sword-
brandishing acts in favor of  burlesque

theater, rouge red, and sequins, 
relinquishing their brushed felt
bases for courageous stiletto heels.

The French-branded art of fitting bits
of animal carcass like tortoiseshell into
slots of beech wood remains omni-relevant.
Don’t Slump down Despondent and Cross-Legged onto Our Kitchen’s Speckled Linoleum — 2017-10-04

Don’t Slump down Despondent and Cross-Legged onto Our Kitchen’s Speckled Linoleum

		Consider this swelling loaf,
		browning on our oven's steel
		grate:  it expands under yeast
		power, all its continents
		skating apart, bidding brief
		adieus tectonically, like
		night trains scudding absently
		toward opposing suburbs.

	I can unfold—by the solipsistic streaks
	rappelling from your lashes—your inward crease.

		Not intoxicated by
		baking, but by the tent pins
		that stake down a widening
		morass of neural umbrae
		into the loose, damp loam of
		your conscious; your tin fingers
		yawn limply—thin, unshut jaws
		like two vagrant pitcher plants.

	You depart my platform, a dusky engine
	dissipating into muffled remoteness.

 

A minor experiment in syllabic structure, this poem has been kicking around my keyboard just a bit too long for comfort. It’s a made-up form consisting of eight seven-syllable lines, followed by two eleven-syllable lines, repeating. Visionary, right? It helps if you have a penchant for locomotives and/or a flair for the act of kneading dough.

 

Hashes over Lath — 2017-09-19

Hashes over Lath

There are no circles on the Wall,
no trapezoids, icosa- or dodecahedra
either on the Wall, because the
Wall has achieved Nirvana. Owing

no apology, and professing no dialectic
or dogma, the Wall lacks all significant
tattoos. Nail holes plugged by globs of
drywall mud are the sheared tops of

desert rock plateaus, viewed closely,
sideways, and at a ninety or two-
seventy degree turn from rightwise
up. I have marked time on it, the Wall.

Somebody’s mother or grandmother
has marked the heights of the tops of
children’s skulls on the Wall—in hash
scars deep and bold, and in light

scratches from dull, disinterested
hands. Michael grew one point five
inches in nineteen ninety-five. The
Wall is the perimeter of a gift box inside

which I perspire away from viscid looks.
It’s bound with a wide, flat ribbon bow
and will remain obscured until arrives
the red-marked date on an uncatalogued

calendar. No measure of time exists but
Wall time, and is naturally incompre-
hensible to all and any non-walls.
I rest the dimple between my cheek

and jawbone against it, sanding the
fibers of my stubble into its skin with
shuttered eyes. The Wall is my numb
horror and my unrequiting lover—it

precedes and proceeds all felt things
that rattle like stray sewing pins trailing
with my bloat and wheeze. I am undone
against the Wall’s stiff, inconstant pavise.

I have only ball-tipped pens, no pencil
to etch a leaning line at the top of my own
head.  I chip with a jaundiced right thumb-
nail, but my height remains unchanged.