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  April 2014
volume 11 number 1
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Scott Alexander
  Shawn Aveningo
  Jonathan Beale
  Jack G. Bowman
  Betsy Burke
  Matt Burns
  Shibani Chattopadhyay
  Rachel Coventry
  Tyler Dupuis
  Allison Grayhurst
  John Grochalski
  Hedy Habra
  Samantha Henderson
  Augustus Invictus
  Natalie Itzhaki
  Scott Jacobson
  Alex Johnson
  Mikel K
  Craig Kurtz
  Phillip Larrea
  N.M. Leepsa
  Anthony Magistrale
  Brendan McCormack
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Philip ONeil
  Ebi Robert
  Walter Ruhlmann
  April Salzano
  Jake Sheff
  Rishan Singh
  Julia Stein
  Allen Taylor
  Paul Tristram
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Claire Walker
  Viola Weinberg
  Claire Williams
  mailing list
Brendan McCormack
April 2014



photo by mauricio alejandro ramos

    Brendan McCormack is a poet from Dublin, Ireland. His first collection Selling Heaven has just been published by Burning Apple Press. His work has been published in Primal Urge Magazine, Street Cake Magazine, Outburst Magazine, and Bone Orchard. He can be often found sitting in his car by Joyce's Tower in Sandycove smoking while the phone rings constantly.



The Emperor

I often fucked many men behind my husbands back
She said in slow whispering confessional tones
That seemed at odds with the blood and semen
Stained sheets we were tied up inside while the sun
Sweated us like onions on a dirty pan before adding
Us to some thick red paste and peeled plum tomatoes
With their skin removed and just the pulpy corpse
Left and she asked me if I could love her more then
The others I was fucking later that night when she
Went home to her husband and I thought about it
And had to tell her I knew nothing of love just hot
Thick red sauce and meatballs and beer and fucking
At which she laughed and said she was glad she knew
Which ones were the ones you married and which
Were the ones you wrapped in dirty stained sheets
And left behind for the maid to wash or burn. O. I said.

She left and drove back to Essen funnily enough as it
Was the last place anyone especially her husband would
Eat anything of and it was only me that kept her from getting
Fatter and fatter as I was the only one with an appetite
For loneliness I couldn't satiate with all the married women
And in the golden lit afternoon where the sun carried
Itself in my room and cast spells on the smoke snaring
Its own beautiful light I filled my small revolver with bullets
And held it to my head until the shouts died down as dusk
Lit up the world with my favourite light and tom waits
Bar room drawled and we drank to the dying of the night
Until another knock upon my door and another skinny woman
Looking for a feed of loneliness to shave inches off her waist
Came in the last bedroom I would ever know the smell of bullets.

copyright 2014 Brendan McCormack