A long, long time ago
I can still remember how television shows used to make me smile
And, I knew I would have my chance to make my own characters live and dance, and…
Maybe, they’d be heroes for awhile
But, series come and series go that truly did deliver
Rebecca Beauchamp is a fan of Rilke, cats in cowboy outfits, and top-40 radio hits. Influences include Dickinson, Baudelaire, and Bidart, but mostly her Australian shepherd, Hurley. She’s an undergraduate studying Creative Writing at the University of Virginia but neophyte, she is not: she won a statewide poetry contest in the second grade for (what she believes to be) her magnum opus, ‘The Cat’ (a memorable line being ‘The cat, the cat, quiet as can go/ I know he knows something that you don’t know.’) and ever since then she’s been writing nonstop.
Pollen decays, it’s what it’s meant to do
we thought the mortar within Solomon’s Gate inseparable
Destructive tendencies followed a plague of seppuku’s
technologically ancient residues caked upon the lake of heaven’s crescent moon
Perhaps we’re epileptic fools – as blunt edged as a vivisection tool
auctioning off the pale horse of death for Cinderella mules
coroners raise foggy glasses of bourbon to our sprawling debts
accosted flesh, the darker depths of the neck help in determining the cause of death…
“Hard to see why you’d
want to chose a
long distance relationship
you sit next to
Poet Emily Treakle-Chase examines long-distance relationships, modern liberalism, and geek chic.
Curls of smoke chased the darkness away. Its hair-like strand slid down across the night. The ghostly white against the black was like watching the whispers of last night’s conversation. As quickly as the words were breathed, the smoke disappeared.
Snuffing the cigarette out against a decaying, wooden bench, I watched its red light turn to gray. A few embers landed on the ground, still burning deeply. Its light would not go out, but with a second look, the embers were nothing but ash across the grass.
Wish I could’ve went to Stonehenge
to find what the ancient corpses dug up
I hear they’re trying to resurrect the wooly mammoth
I say leave Shallow Halliburton alone
let her rest for G.O.D’s sake… (gold, oil, drugs)
La Bonet drago la flaga signifies Domino eyepatch
Arson mode, tires flat, Orson Welles novel-owned wiretap
Agra’s wearing high hats, agnostic proles file down iron shafts
bottle-nosed Reinhardt hatch mixed in molotov wine & schnapps
Karzamakov hellraiser, hamuntashens? “Yes, Major!”
Sitting — toe deep — in the white-beach pseudo-snow, the tides tying time into knots of irrelevancies . . . Is it January or June? And where the hell is my phone?
Light clinging to my teeth, the pulleys in my cheeks
playing tug of war relentlessly, wondering if the noise of my smile
is singing through inadequate walls, I sail away
on the aqueous backs of day dreams easily, often now;
Sun’s unfiltered poisonous rays.
Crusts of Algae scum.
Slow amoebic waves.
Bubbling magma of words.
Pushing and scraping underneath.
Movements across hemispheres.
rub rub rub
You open up at me
Quotation marks drool and
There are so many breasts.
The Land of Oz is where Real men R
And Price Upon Request.