Deliverance in grace
I journeyed down to the camps;
the sordid estate of revolution.
I asked some men if they were hungry
they said no, they were past that.
Concentric with starvation and solitude,
awed by their own spinal mountain range,
forgone landscapes sculpted anew until death declare it finished.
But art is never finished.
There was one man, his age I could not distinguish.
Though he himself discoursed
define not by age
but by my deliverance in grace.
Concentrate not on the tomb I face,
for there I will not be alone,
rather glance upon the wombs that encase
and know that they too are prone.
for Tristin Tzara
Sea, you boon, please, your brine(ness)
to corpse ants, slugs and mites
-let them in their keeled verse
“no pardon, you sardon”
<a s s e z d o u x>
to bring upon prosodic sun
that shines in three four, seven eight,
shout for fennel “grow you herbaceous astrocyte, grow up‘til grazer greets”
This is where we forge our crime
by the library steps ‘neath the city lights
-tucked in alcoves, preaching to the pipeline;
the ghetto’s grapevine.
Stray dogs, cadence cats and alley rats;
the dialectic core of outskirt spores
serenading eastward formations and escapes.
Upon the beat paved stone- voyeurs to the stars
thoroughfare over radio waves-
turn to harmonise with the carnal cosmos because perpetuation is the parlance of our kind.
Comfort in chronicling
Wailing throat’s fighting fresh, powering flesh;
laughter called jazz an old friend.
Singing scrawlings, flash remedies,
theories truck dumbstruck and infinitely filtering
lines through poets through and through
arriving at unsolved means.
Though voice and words;
neurons beside bullets,
shot across longitudes, lacing latitudes with new life
-a conjunction no more jarring to unify the angel and the boar.
found formed, broken, burrowed
-soil, stone or sand
hermetically squared, circled, sealed from beaks and grunts, from hand.
Fortuning through nowhere and back
-left behind, some mutated thoughts and sounds
from creatures unknown, unfound
-that they should hold particulars in their hollow sack
how billions are one and where they are bound.
Elio Lomas is the editor of Ikleftiko poetry journal. He currently studies creative writing in the United Kingdom. Elio is a musician and a fiction writer who is currently working on a collection of poetry.