Tag Archives: Speculative poetry

Song of Mammon

By Matthew J. Andrews

When he shows up at my door – 

face smeared into a devilish grin,

one hand gripping a wine bottle,

the other hand pushing his way inside – 

his spirit fills the room like incense

and I take him into my nostrils.

When it gets dark, he puts his hands

around my neck and kisses me

until I shrivel on his acidic lips.

He takes me down into the bed,

where his restless hands melt 

and reshape me like a skilled potter,

and where he advances inside me

like a tumor until I whisper his name

into the empty corners of the room.

Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Orange Blossom Review, Funicular Magazine, and EcoTheo Review. His debut chapbook, I Close My Eyes, and I Almost Remember, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com.

Silver Pillows

By John Maurer

Painters paint the paintings that they should paint 

Because they are the paintings that they do paint

The worth of the doing is found in the doing

Transcendence is shovel-gripped, cerebral labor

My bones sharpen through the cloth of my bleeding visage

If you are a vault, you must also be the key

What is sagacious gifted bullion without 

Its scriptural prodigious tailwind 

Eating words with an open mouth

The crumbs of preciously bled stones fall to my lap

This is what I sing to you and you don’t hear

This is what you want me to sing, and I am too shy to

British scholars would say we don’t share the table

Cloudy guru would say you sit at his table

Pull out your chair when you approach plated lawn trimmings

The lawn being your responsibility to water

Do not shun the thornier blades

Growing an apology is not pleasant horticulture

Her smile this is a rooting of veins

Drink it in and the ice cubes of her with it

My bones are certainly metallic with their screws

But I keep chewing on all more expanded than I

John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than fifty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)


By Shannon Cuthbert

Shadows swim blue on the statues,
Dart and flick like fork-tongued koi.
October is like this, knee-deep in hidden,
In fungal realities, in worlds burst wide
At their silvery roots, the mirror made milk
By its own ancient longings.
Tonight we blend, hum our skins as one
In the park, the wood, these liminal spaces,
Brush a border between our worlds.
Slip through a seam sewn into my back,
In a sill, a door, the half-pried hole
Of a farm where birdsong powders floors,
Shedding all that is soft, and speaks decay.

Shannon Cuthbert is a writer and artist living in Brooklyn. Her poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Bangor Literary Review, and First Literary Review-East, among others. Her work is forthcoming in Dodging the Rain, Hamilton Stone Review, Déraciné Magazine, and Ink Sweat and Tears, among others.