CONCRETE MEAT PRESS

 

 

 

 

Home

News

Broadsides          

Chapbooks

Leicester Rock City Press

Solid Flesh For Food Press

Contact

Buy

Links

Adrian Manning

CMP Recommends 

Concrete Meat Sheet

James D.Quinton

Reviews

CONCRETE MEAT SHEET ISSUE 14

Photo: "clouds" © Adrian Manning 2013

 

Welcome to Concrete Meat Sheet Issue 14. In this issue we are very excited to include some very well known poets alongside some emerging new names.

The poems...

 

Maybe I know ...

 

She wanders whimsically

through my mind
wearing just her jeans Ė

often enough to make me wistfully wonder

if I'll ever manage to imagine her
stepping out of them ...


 

It seems enough

that she comes to me braless,

bringing to life the thought I continue to conjure

that she doesnít really need to ever wear one,

although Iíll admit that itís fun to see her black bra straps

show themselves from time to time

when sheís pouring beer on tap

at the loud and louder lounge

where she bartends between her university classes Ö

 

Maybe I know

that she would not want to know any of this

and maybe I know

that she would be completely comfortable

being my muse wearing just her jeans Ö

 

D A Pratt (Canada)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 Minutes in Heaven

All I really wanted was to be seen

Look in the mirror with some kind of awe

Stared down and known for the type of love shown on this page

Words stroked and tainted in a bedroom full of critiques

The subtlety of a future not yet fulfilled day in and day out

To be thought of in brilliance from the back of a van

Naked and raw, I saw it through the rear-view

Liquid passion exploded in my mouth

 

Caitlin R. Lambert (USA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fragmented MLK Holiday Poems

 

1 

sitting here under a tree
in Golden Gate Park
near a small waterfall

visions of Li Po inside
my head

 

dark raven flies overhead
Edgar Allen Poe does a waltz
with shadows of the dead

 

11

 

inauguration day
cold Washington D.C. day

time frozen like a popsicle

micheline words fall

like spring leaves

ripe tasty as a mango

abruptly change course

scurry like a rat's claws
across the bleeding flesh

of an open wound

 

111

 

whitman's wild children
race through my bones

like a thoroughbred horse
heading for the finish line

pause like a hummingbird

a language within a language

where pages flap like bird wings
swirl like helicopter blades

descend on priests gathered

at the temple of molestation
where an unforgiving God

recites the Koran in Yiddish

 

A D Winans (USA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

kell

when i heard you passed
i shattered a teacup
full of cheap beer
in your honor

i can't remember
the last time
we talked

but i'd tear out
my own tongue
for five more minutes
of your song.

John Dorsey (USA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to do list

I shall take this day.
I shall take the next.
I shall take every moment
I can steal


a lungful of air
in a world
half joy,
half despair.


I shall run.
I shall walk.
I shall shout
at the sky.


I shall dance
with the madness
of a fool
touched by god.


I shall wear out
my welcome.
I shall abuse
every privilege


before I fall
in the cold river
where all moments flow
into none.

Joseph Farley (USA)

 

 

one and a thousand


dry grass turns amber

late afternoon

and motions for moonlightís

memory to fall like a curtain


 

a man walks along, sweating, 

there are songs in the grass,

echoes of a dream from

a time before song, the

grass struggles toward

a single cloud, this cloud

is as white as the snow

newly fallen


 

one thousand

men march here, one

thousand men tremble

with many songs that

come to them from 

every direction


 

the dry grass burns, the

hills burn, one man

waits as a thousand

pass, there will be

moonlight in the

evening, a lantern

fixed in time

 

Neeli Cherkovski (USA)

 

 

 

black tree


come to the tall black tree

wet red leaves

in the dark woods, face

the archaic lion in your heart

and the statues in a 

grove surrounded by

brush, come sleep

in the pond where light

guards the deep, a rippled

sheen of sunlight, one

branch, floating

 

Neeli Cherkovski (USA)

 

 

 

 

 

I Remember


I remember, I do

your long brown hair

now tangled with moist earth 

and cruel worms

and the weight of seven years underground.

I remember, I do

the hole you kicked through

your bedroom door

after yet another row with your

strange mother.

I remember, I do

lying on your bed

the slow smoulder of

each kiss upon kiss

two of us lost in the immense mysteries

you an unsweet sixteen but

I was with you.

I remember watching the cat

hop in and out through that hole:

landing/bedroom, bedroom/landing.

It was simple and joyous

and we held each other tight

as if nothing else mattered

but the world and its problems were

just beyond that door.

I remember these things

I do

I promise you I do.

 

Michael Curran (UK)

 

 

 

 

Inside the Mirror

Twin trouble-makers, Coming and Going, are jostling for the most comfortable position inside the mirror.
Coming feels that the position is rightly his, since he is the homebody of the two; but Going, being the adventurous one, is tired from his many travels and is certain it is he who deserves to be the more comfortable.
Inside the mirror they shove one another back and forth, back and forth.
Going is more aggressive and is winning the battle.
Bit by bit, limb by limb, Coming is slowly being pushed out of the frame Ö
But just when Coming is almost completely out of view, with only an arm and a portion of leg left showing, they both stop to wonder what will happen if Coming disappears completely Ė will Coming, in fact, turn into Going?
 

Glenn Cooper (Australia)

 

Face

Itís hard to comprehend
As the windows whizz by
In red blue black yellow blurs
And you catch an eye
Or two eyes
Or a beak
Or a knuckle
Or a fringe
Or a mouth
Or a melting face
That each belongs to someone.
Someone who had yesterday.
Someone having today.
Someone who, god-willing,
Is racing to tomorrow.
Itís difficult to take that in
As the rain taps you for attention
And the doorways glitter across the street
And the trillion red blue black yellow blurs
Whistle past your ear
And race off through the puddles
By the pavement
While your stomach moans for hot food redemption.
 

Jared Carnie (UK)

 

 

 

 

 

Of the Light on the Outskirts of the Eye

Light shards
on the outskirts of the eye,
however blinking.

Search for the clue!
Search for confessions
because the shards will
soon expire!
 

Ali Znaidi (Tunisia)

 

 

 

 

 

The Woman With A Million Names And Yet None That Fit

 

The poet bitches said I was

a flirt, a player, a thief in the

night, trying to steal their hearts

 

Maybe they were correct, but

none of them really knew me,

Iíd never eaten their food or

pussies or brushed my teeth

smelling them, while they

took nasty shits & piss squirts

 

When my madness engulfed

me in demonic quicksand, I

ate death, but she spit me out,

just as they did, into the sink

 

I have crawled & begged, but not

again, I have changed & donít

recognize myself at times anymore

 

Now itís flying pink flamingos,

screaming snowmen melting,

chunks of lapis lazuli, pockets

full of sand dollars, dragonflies

still alive in amber, empty

unwrapped fortune cookies.

 

Catfish McDaris (USA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Problem Drinkers?

Edgar Allen Poe

Jack London

Dashiell Hammett

Ernest Hemingway

Jim Thompson

Jack Kerouac

Charles Bukowski

Stephen King

and you

me

and

the guy tapping

on the keys

inside the basement

of an unknown address.

 

Bradley Mason Hamlin (USA)

 

 

 

whiskey drenched prayer

the metronomic

sound of a dripping

faucet at 3 am

while the glow of the moon

leaks through the cracks

in the blinds

and the cat shuffles around

in his litter box

the room spins

reeking of booze

and cheap beer

as i lie in bed

waiting

for the alarm

to go off at 6 am

for work

promising god

that if he makes this go away

iíll never drink again

unfortunately

heís like my ex wife

and knows better

than to believe

a whiskey

drenched

prayer

 

Michael D. Goscinski (USA)

 

 

 

 

      Issue 14 special on-line broadside

 

 

 

 

 

any war

the humor of duct tape
holding your house together
the false hope of summer
just takes one good storm to
make your mouth fill
with bitter blood
just takes the election of
one more wealthy asshole to
realize the failure of democracy
the poor hold no power and
the weak have no dignity and
why would you ever care about
overthrowing any government
but your own?
why would expect compassion
from people willing to
sacrifice you and your children
for ratings and profit?
how long until you start
planning ways to
get rid of the real enemy?
 

 

John Sweet (USA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Talking To Myself

Nearly 40 years

talking to myself

I stopped worrying

about being crazy

a long time ago


 

Besides, there's

nothing crazier

than slipping on

steel toed boots

before sunrise


 

These days my

conversations are

anything but crazy

but more so an

exercise in sanity


 

Or maybe


Futility

 

Wayne Mason (USA)