March 2017

Back to Issue 1


By Stuart Barnes

They are the true punks, darkness-

shoved onto this blue,

intractable plaque. Distances


rouse, High Priestess- 

like. Eucalyptus forks grow. 

Kree and beak-furrow. 


I press stiff little fingers to                         

brows. More angelic upstarts arc

through steaminess, catch


my jigger-eye,

summoning dark

spirits. Hooks                        


seldom hidden revolve. Mouthfuls

of seed. A beastie-boy’s shadows.                        

The homosexuals somewhere else. 


Voices on the air. 

Claws dissolve hair, 

clothing, heels. 


Liberty-spiked, white                        

cousins merely half-unpeel

queer stringencies.                                     


Misfits, he and I

dragged the Atlantic—sea’s

ivory, sea’s gilt. An undivided cry—


the damned wall

tilts, I                         

against I, time’s arrow


tapers and flies,

the rivals, we drive 

abrasive wheels, black flag’s red 


knuckle dusting the mourning. 




note: a terminal from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Ariel’