Some things
make eyes dead
as a great white’s,
the soul a yawning maw
seeking the holy.
Swimming long and long.
***
Author Archives: Lee Dunn
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
The lost
He dreams of things with tattered wings, open mouths, and lolling tongues. Heaven’s impostors, fallen from grace. Thirsting but never slaking, they lie impaled in the pines, their chill voices forbidding all who may think to touch.
Art by Zdzisław Beksiński, untitled.
A bright time
Damocles,
the imprisoned cat,
is known to the spirits of forest and fen.
By night, they bring to him the saving light of a golden afternoon.
***
Art: “Cosmic Energy”, by Remedios Varo
Love’s light
Painting by Jose Basso
Evil education
Hide around corners.
Peek between fingers
at things of perverse horror.
The fascination of fear
grows roots in safe shoes.
Then, the corners are dared.
The fingers become open palms.
The face flushes in the full carnal view.
In broad day, fixations amble,
cloaked as casual wear.
***
Art: La pétrification de la papesse, by Victor Brauner
Goodnight
Mister whiskers, curled up in dream. You, in the faded recliner, the motors of your snore like a cheetah’s purr. The TV on mute in blue aquarium light. Outside the window, a borealis of feathering snow. And I, in a sated sigh, put my feet up too. We go gently into that goodnight.
The Garden
“I have a hunger” –
Those words,
spoken in a formal manner,
were as stillborn, as heavy as a stone
cradled in an apron.
And, what does one do with this thing you’ve said-
you, who were always the comic,
furthest from the dead.
Taken aback,
in slow shock I cup your hand-
not leading you to bed,
but into nightfall’s garden.
We sup on the strange swirl of universe.
Tic-Tac paddywhack
~I hung out with the gang from Otherwhere. They had very cool hoverboards and tinfoil suits. Spied on the Navy, we did. Frazzled their nerves a bit. Cat and mouse, haha. They showed me a star map, pointing with their wormy fingers. What a time! They smelled like spearmint gum.~
For free
I dream in hieroglyphics
and ink the walls of caves;
eschew the honorifics,
the accolades, the raves.
It’s all for fun, and all for free-
I’ll never make a buck.
Matter of fact, I’m in the hole,
but still I run amok.
Susan
This black eye-
it changes sides some days,
but the worst of the gaze
is when the other side greys.
Aremyfeetofftheground 