little white poetry journal two

8/14/2019 little white poetry journal two

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this is a lile gheo magazineproduced by Henry Chalise

for your utmost consumptionand printed by dispress

to support the fucking cause

ISSUE TWO


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lile white poetry journal

DP0600P4B

issue number two

henry chalisepress.litdispatch.net/hc


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1st Work Backby M. Frias-May

Jesus never gave a straight answer but

There are plenty now so it is true

Readers are evaporating

Logos multiplying

Faith, hope, charity

Lap dancers with runny nosesMy neighbor says the world is

Going to do what the world is

Going to do: meaning I should

Start drinking again and I have

And this is my first work drunk

In two years and my pants are

Around my ankles and the catWants out and my wife said she

Loved me yesterday and today

She wants a divorce because I

Refuse to get a second job. The

First had everything to do with

This: the second: well see


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The Edge of the Worldby Leigh Hughes

Sally sits at the edge of the world. The edge of the world. Catchingfireflies and singing songs at the edge of the world. Talking to herdad who died five years before, at the edge of the world. Pickingscabs, catching fireflies and singing songs at the edge of the world.Talking to dad, whos dead, dead. Flicking boogers, swinging on

branches, picking scabs. Talking to dad. Looking for fireflies,catching fireflies, letting them go. At the edge of the world. Find-ing ladybugs, smashing ladybugs, looking for fireflies, catchingfireflies, flicking boogers and swinging on branches. The branch-es of oaks, and elms, and spindly fig trees, at the edge of theworld. Picking scabs and flicking boogers, digging under dampbrown leaves for slugs and grubs and snails. Picking scabs, eat-

ing boogers, and eating slugs and grubs and snails, and dampbrown leaves. Flicking slugs and grubs and snails and swingingon branches. Singing songs, looking for fireflies, and catchingfireflies, and letting them go. Digging under damp brown leaves,looking for dad who died five years before and talking to firefliesat the edge of the world. Scooping dirt and twirling worms andeating damp brown leaves. And eating damp brown leaves. Mov-

ing earth, and scooping dirt, and digging, digging, at the edge ofthe world. Singing songs and looking for fireflies, and movingearth. Moving earth from the edge of the world. Picking scabs andeating slugs and grubs and snails, talking to dad. Catching

fireflies, moving earth and digging for dad at the edge of the


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world. Twirling worms and sweeping dirt from the wood under-neath the edge of the world. Curling on dad who died five yearsbefore and sleeping with fireflies at the edge of the world.


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black medicineby John Sweet

one flower for every day

weve never met,

one bleeding orphan,

one story with no ending

listen

i get tired of these poems

with no real meaning

is it enough to tell you

i love you?

is it too much?

fuck it

lets meet halfway in some

sad little motel in some

sad little state no one really

wants to live in

lets get naked and lick

each others wounds until

our tongues are dry and


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swollen

forget our childrens names,

leave our cell phonesturned off,

and lets call it desire

lets call it hunger

quickly

before the next war begins


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the angels, dreamingby John Sweet

this fear of language

of being understood

these words shaped into images of

hatred and violence

because the pain we cause each othershould never be forgotten

the president should be held accountable

for every dead soldier

for every raped orphan

and the song will be loud and

without end and

the poets will all be ignored

we have moved past the age of christ

and into darker times

we have been taught blind worship

have been lectured on compassion by

any number of pedophile priests and

what they want isnt to save

your soul but to devour your children


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the heart is exposed, the prayer

revealed to be a cancerby John Sweetno coffins, no sunday dinners,

no words beyond asshole

and fuck off

bring your camera

take notes

how far down can a hole be

dug in this sandy soil before the

walls begin to cave in?

how many of the dead are

never found?

and this is a trick question,

of course,

like asking how youll give a woman

a name when her hands and feethave been cut off, her teeth punched out, her

face stripped of features by hungry

scavengers

and this is lunchtime on a

saturday afternoon,


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the river grey, the streets silent

this is the american century

this is entropy

there is always a limit to

how long any of us really cares


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in angerby John Sweet

Its just a needle, just the

tip of a tongue, just the sky

burned silver. A poet dead

by his own hand. The joke

of it. The absolute fucking

hilarity.


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easterby John Sweet

says politics is a fist

then shows you how to bleed

walks from room to room

from house to house in

the pouring rainbut no one is home

no one is the person i

wanted you to be

and wasnt this what your

father said?

werent those his hands

slowly down the length of your body

while you pretended to sleep?

i am tired of thinking about

all of the ways ive

failed you


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little white poetry journal two

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