New poems from Michael Igoe

Penny Candy

Desires come as a living will,                                                                                                                     but these words seem harsh.                                                                                                                    Caught up in the Big Beat,                                                                                                                              no one wants to say much                                                                                                                                                     about an absence of desire.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Once I wore alcohol smiles,                                                                                                                    ready to embrace red meat.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             In golgotha's secret versions                                                                                                           work from splintered fingers                                                                                                                           descend on through the ages                                                                                                                                         as immaculate suits of armor.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Stained by tobacco,                                                                                                                                                                 feeding the hungers                                                                                                                                     weaved in my neck.                                                                                                                      Smoke’s kept on the high side,                                                                                                                                     in its wisps of  cellophane blue.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Waiting for Monday,                                                                                                                                                                 when they trick me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Monday, we start again.              

Curtain Call                                  

Meghan tries to tell me                                                                                                                        exactly what happened.                                                                                                                      Like in cartoon shows?                                                                                                                                        One with various jitters,                                                                                                                                the woes and afflictions,                                                                                                                                     those in neutral ascension                                                                                                                     The fight for menthol,                                                                                                                                   borrowing something                                                                                                                                          from translux glories.                                                                                                                                                    Necessary to the plan                                                                                                                                   for cities of the future.                                                                                                                   Tinkering seems important,                                                                                                                        when the stage grows quiet                                                                                                                                          On next Ladies Day                                                                                                                                         the end to suffering.            

More Often Vermilion         

She refused any leavetaking                                                                                                                                           from a room where she lives.                                                                                                                                                             Comings and goings,                                                                                                                              seem just like staying.                                                                                                                   Here’s space enough                                                                                                                                             for blindly climbing.                                                                                                                                         With  a good  alibi,                                                                                                                                            moving more agile.                                                                                                                                                 To find her victory,                                                                                                                                                with a missing item                                                                                                                                 night skies conceal.                                                                                                                                                The sky rumbled                                                                                                                                        with victory cries.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                In these cries disconsolate,                                                                                                                          that beseech contentments. *   

Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA),, Avalanches In Poetry National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.

New Poetry Showcase by Michael Igoe           

3 poems by Michael Igoe: “Bright Eyes” “Fun Lovers” “Bible Story”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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