art by tatiana tulskaya
Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits mgversion2>datura and Beakful, and runs mgv2>publishing. His latest collections are The Loss (Flutter Press), Twelve Times Thirteen (Kind of a Hurricane Press), 2014, and Crossing Puddles (Robocup Press), 2015.
His blogs http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr and http://nightorchidswork.blogspot.fr
Demented days go by and the tide I
connected to M. lately invades me and my
I remember these transparent atmospheres down the translucent hemisphere,
the sea waters poured in.
Today, the only waters flowing before me
are dark brown and mixed with poisons,
modern venoms, lead, chloride, carbon dioxide.
Yes, I can still dream of these lands though nightmares are often there
too, to erase too easily, too frequently, the joy softening my unease.
Yes, in a near future mountains and pure oxygen shall prevail
unless they send me dwelling in the dark grey basin – the cistern my sister died in.
I forgot the desert. I said no to the sun. Escaped from the city of dust.
The Sahara, the Atlas, Casablanca – The White House – down south, might burst
like a wildfire into my eyes and leave me once again
used, abused, misused, rotting in the sewage where specks of sand remain
The Bowl Hat
It is black and blinks in the darkness and shouts:
“fachebook, iTomb, homeosexual”1
Why have the pwoermds had such effect on the cyber-wandering depressed soul?
Memories of this long gone past kept singing
in the feverish lines from this forwarded future
in the frivolous fringes of fraternal fright
in the left corner of felted briefs
in the frangipani fallen at the feet of father Francis.
The souvenirs and retro-projections of Albion and Maore – two islands dwelling in grounded all respect for the self, attacked the forgotten white skin and jeopardized the viral battle field –
in dreams and thoughts – false the brain full like a flask of forlorn fantasies.