New words for yes eyes

Poems: Simon Schlesinger // Art: Jesse Locke

Jesse Locke - Lone Ranger

[a hero experiments with meatscience]

The Lone Ranger's collection of luncheon meats
grew soggy as he watered its bucket-cum-home
despite the butcher's orders to minimize dampness.

Undaunted by a growth of film, his penchant
for saturated salami was punctuated
by the wet meat's still-salty flavour.

Slick as it tumbled down his throat,
seven circular slices of salami grew enmeshed
in the Lone Ranger's digestive enzymes. The bucket,

still brimming with balogna and prosciutto,
dribbled ooze after three-days neglect. Tonto,
despite direct orders, refused to sponge up the goop.

Soon, as mould flourished, the Lone Ranger grew
amused at the spores' progress. He started to chart
the shapes and hues the meat took to,

insisting to his sidekick he'd discover a new colour.
Convinced the meatspores could carry respiratory illness,
Tonto reclused, refusing all the Lone Ranger's communications

from smoke signals to textos. Only when his account
slimmed to nil did Tonto shrink his stance
and wander back. Lonely Ranger, reclused and depraved

grew giddy seeing his sidekick's poncho slip past
the hill and flap as Tonto approached the Ranger's
shack. But with dismay, the Lone Ranger watched

as his otherwise-dependable sidekick picked up
the meatbucket and lugged that miniature swamp
out to the dumpster near the neighbours' cactus patch.

[Big Bob's radio address on the prospect of previously-owned tricycles]

Look, we got a baker's dozen of these three
wheeled babies left -- that's thirteen for you
accountants out there. They're practically riding
themselves offa the lot, these trikes are so smooth,
fit for a clown of any build. Mimes and other performers
will appreciate the uptick in attention
that a fine three-wheeler can provide any performance
and the Magician's Guild has confirmed that several
of these exact trikes have helped lubricate
the suspension of disbelief in the early works
of several now-notable practitioners of the magical arts,
Merlin Klondike Zipper and sir Joseph Weltube
among them. We have pictures as proof, down here
on the lot. Why don't you whiz on down here now,
clamp your hands on one of these beasts
before Cirque du Soleil arrives to scoop 'em all up
and i'll cut you a deal so deep it'll leave
your pockets sagging down past your cuffs as you ride off.


Apendage whisp w/ pie

Poems: Simon Schlesinger // Art: Marki Sveen

Marki - Pies

[advice to a novice in the field]

having fallen face first
into sixteen kinds of pies,
my most enthusiastic reccomendation
is to ensure that your cartilage
bends in confluence with the crust
rather than exercising its attempt
at free vectoral will, a practice
which will bend and sometimes even
crack that fragile form, most
unpleasant of a fate for any nasal
favouror inexperienced in facial pie dives.
of significantly less concern is the flavour.

[Rutabaga Concept Condo]

Imagine yourself inside of a rutabaga
its rooty inward-appendages gangling
about and whisping against your eyebrows.

Rather unpleasant bedding it’d make
but saleable, no? we’re talking total
submersion, which figures show they’re
all eating up. Yes, close your eyes
just to feel. I’ll breathe across your
face if you think that might help simulate
the feeling that Stan downstairs coined,
“appendage whisp” -- that’s the big sensoral
token, as we’ve been saying. But

when all is said and sold, how many folks
are going to fork over their savings, call
up their bankers, saying, “Barry, look,
we’ve got to have clearance on this one
or we’ll never get to live inside a rutabaga.”


Polyesterhythmic pizza

Poems: Simon Schlesinger // Art: Kiarra Albina

Kiarra Albina - Squash

[Shambles of a Scorecard]

Stored in sports shorts, Lawrence’s
important scorecard folds fourway
into awkward geometries; muscles cramp
in compliance with the polyesterhythmic
stumbles and lunges embodied in his
squash service, especially while he
serves from behind. He keeps efficient

score, for each match his hopes ascend
that he’ll best that wretched Carl,
his oft-tested nemesis at whose hands
Lawrence always stands vanquished. “Six
t’your eight” he calls across to Carl
who shrugs spinning his racquet’s grip

between his fingertips. Lawrence slices
a serve that lobs against the side and stutters
into Carl's forward frollick; his beastly
forehand trickles a boast which bounds
beneath Lawrence’s toes amidst his stunning
forward thrust, Lawrence slides across the ball’s

face and falls sideways; his right knee
still pumping plants through his strings.
Lawrence winces, a tear aduct as he tugs
his crumpled scorecard up from his flimsy
pocket folds while staring Carl in the teeth
and tears sets one through three to shreds.

[a slice of gregory's lot]

motivational mumbo-jumbo spills from gregorys’s lips
alongside crumbs of crust and a sliver of melted
mozzarella. his truths curl around the calculus of
car-sales pitches; the slogans of sparkplugs, words
with meanings as malleable as the elasticity of his
chewing cheeks’ skin. what wonders a new life as
a self-identified convertible-owner can bring --
the wind, sweet as pineapple, is irresistable,
coos softer than even this dough, gregory
maintains, his slick words weaving an oily
patch on the paper napkin as he slides
off his seat, racing to sell gooey hot dreams.


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