Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he occasionally edits the lit-‘zine ART:MAG. He has recent work in online & print publications like ARIEL CHART, THE PANGOLIN REVIEW, WORD dish, SCARLET LEAF MAGAZINE, ODDBALL MAGAZINE, HARBINGER ASYLUM, MIDNIGHT LANE BOUTIQUE, and elsewhere. His new poetry book is Go to the Pain Lovers from Duck Lake Books, 2020. His latest speculative sci-fi/ horror novel is Dire Chimera, a Nook ebook published by Limited Editions Press in 2019.
What chance to see you in profane hours stealing the epiphany of your music as salient ivories resound to your touch, the skin’s mired edifice not going beyond my erudite desire to enhance the essence of what remains (from the first note to the last:) your austere cantata overwhelms time to bring your audience of quislings a perfect sight in velvet hue, synaesthesia of unthrottled eye & ear to merge within the fossil earth’s rebirth, since the last touch your rose-piano plucks is a Greek-fed tongue few can touch. But bring me your electronic epistles to scare martyrs in anti-wonderlands, I’ll remake stone in your image to read over the trebled mass Beethoven’s deaf ears will hear again.
inside the outside
god is just the devil in drag waiting to be translated into rhyme with double meanings eluding us it’s enough to see fossils in the mouth of shadows blocking the way to purgatory where exotic skeletons leap as plaintive coyotes howl something in you reaches a respiration of pure being akin to a downhill rush of your car going off a cliff to resound thru echoing night we mortal beings hurtling down roads leading to greener pastures or gardens where weed grows in the shadow of long-stemmed roses we plant the remnants, the husks, the hibiscus of blossoming truth reduced to a dog-crawl we excuse our children from seeing waves of the sweet blinding rainbow color bites from the last living god pulling at your sultry skin to see the membrane’s shining Monet-moment skewed in eternity the dark things in life are overlooked sometimes camouflaged by failings no one but the dying god perceives the truly human
The Lunar Year
The seasons we knew leapfrog from us, the days unwind in memory’s failure to sharpen the pointed being beneath your reliquary of serrated scar tissue breast cancer left with nature’s hungering hands. Young marrieds, we stumbled against unkind fate & flesh, feared a spirit trap brewing new cells far from the shadow we could not free ourselves from. We were so one with the lunar dark side sweet passion bonded to an omnipresent bone, hardening our hearts into a deep space, where love is a caged foetus mutating into the orbit of the past’s consecration.