A Super Poetry Showcase from Jeremy Limn


there are snails in my mailbox
probably because they I don't
pay attention to what's in my mailbox
they are massacring the junk mail
and there is a ventriloquist over the road
drinking tequila
I see an old lady
across the road has let her
cats kill some bluebirds
I heard them chirping to death
I am disassociated from the shoreline
as I walk back to have woodfired pizza
I see a young asian nurse pushing around
a shopping cart filled
with beer it seems she was a writer
and that after working her nightshift
at the hospital she wanted to get drunk
Sometimes caring too much
Can make you lose a part of yourself
And as the sun’s melody shapes the shadows
That reflects off the Japanese blossom, and almond trees
Across the road I am
Reminded of how sharp
And elusive my vision of the world is
I want to keep myself distanced from people
When I am away from them
The sun is more real
The water feels more
clear, and fear is no longer near.


Sombre oxycodone sand, I feel the weight of necessary 
regret, purple, and wine-like molluscs shimmering 
in the Bay of Fires, I am here, 
I think about the dolour of a sleepwalking cursed skylark, for there 
is imagery to be found on a hospital bed a tweed Herringbone
coat of oaky displeasure solid and gold, and I see time fold 
I want these thoughts to make sense, 
and to make sense of myself I must believe, 
for to love is to understand the true cost of the imagination 
to believe in love is to reprieve myself from my ulcerative colitis  
for there is a blackwood panther on this hospital bed with me 
I feel it accentuates the composure of lost gods,  
and lost minds there is nothing to regret
but regret itself, for I want to make sense of this dream all those
Jellyfish singing Mariah Carey’s song hero, 
I see that Lord Bryon Is a black swan drinking 
a pipe on a piece of red  gum 
slowly vanishing before my naked eyes? 
on these trepid waters, and to make sense of 
this marvel, this pain I am suffering my thoughts 
have no connection only a seamless melody one 
that exudes the displeasure of myself in myself, 
there is an empty chasm where the poisoned 
vapored orchids of myself corrode in the ocean paper
of the luxurious glee of me. 

St Helens

Bless your shadow
be sauteed in the robust
hymns of St Helens' king tides
where you reach
for the love of Tasmanian
life of spectral tasting of a
 Willie Smith's apple ciders 
and we walk along the shores with
fishing rods hoping for something to
catch, perhaps a gummy shark, 
and we know the art of eye-gazing
nature we take in like
with a Murakami touch
and we talk of Hemingway
and crispness of the divine
eating away at the beauty
of cathedral-like caves
phantasmagoric sands
genuinely genuflected 
with how the sun rises
in the morning, we are moved
and caught in
this stanza drifts onwards
into the sea-lights

Pearl Harbor

Their love lingers on these shores, and the rockpools are coalescing in the memory of a shattered, eternal love. It was nostalgia that brought Melody Atkins back to where the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour.  It wasn’t the brightness or the beauty of the blue rhapsodic waters that brought Melody Atkins back to where her father faded into the fire.  It was the screaming, scorching memory of her Father’s last moments. 

A naval officer with a bright future his wife gone, and the future of his child in disarray. Peter Atkins got the signal, and call via radio that the Japanese were twenty minutes away from bombing Pearl Harbour into smithereens.  

Peter didn’t know what to do all he could do was evacuate his family, evacuating the love he will never see again. He won’t be able to hold his wife in his hands anymore or see his future daughter born.  But he knew what he had to do was get them out of there. All he could do was send them away the biggest sacrifice he would ever make, and as he directed the other naval officers to take Henrietta Atkins to higher ground. 

He teared up and gave her a kiss that would turn into the shadow of the blue moon that Melody would come to see later when she visited the shoreline where Peter first fell in love with Henrietta under the moon in Honolulu.


Asleep the air is constantly a concoction
of a mirrored deluge
And a splatter of rain on the red bricks,
and the intriguing concussion of love
bubbles oozing sacrosanct a
traumatic slumber and asleep
to the whispered chaos of yesterday,
and all the wordless oceans
are the exsanguination of the
copious melodies of unfounded years
pulsating in my femur,
I am asleep, and this bubbling
bruising Tiredness is fermenting
inside of the abdomen,
a chestnut tree is on fire
and, I see what could’ve been,
I don’t want to awaken and this
cascading image is more pliable
than human relationships more
pliable than the being of love more
pliable than my own sinew and sleep,
I shall be a complexity
drifting upon the nakedness
of river blue tulips that arouse
no suspicion, for I am animated
by nonsense, I am, animated by
own lethargy my own possible
death, a sonnet not.


Blue grassy hues
and my hospital
window is less than
serene and the vapours
in the air are like a gangrenous
flower tiled in a immaculate
here I breathe before
the diction of empathy and
I euthanise my only hope
of seeing another day
and the rain slumbers
tonight in my toes and
my neck is crucified
by a hydrocortisone show at 3AM
and I'm here
waiting for another breath
another fable to
keep me up at night
rescued by nonsense
rescued by
red sparrows that crawl
into my eyelids
I wake up again idled
swallowing down some apple juice
and all the flowers are veiled
in the garden below
the hospital
the vines are also as lost
as me, I wake up again
and this rhythm
holds me down
in this hue of
a stolen fallible
dream of how I met
God through the frayed
air of myself


Unkept the path is, immutable magnolias
Do not vanish in your sight
the spring filled light forbodes
your every delight, ruinous
and dark despairing for a kiss
you crumble in form unshaped
by the curvature of forgotten streams
in the Hinterland we seek
atonement for our whims
We walk in solace by the sea-stone
Song of sandstone pillars
And titanium rainstorms
That beautify our struggle
In this Hinterland of Wales 
We will take love as it
Is thrusted upon us.

The Doorway to San Francisco
inspired by Jack Kerouac

The doorway is shrouded
in pink daffodils the walk long the journey
astray the swiftness of Kerouac and honeyed boulevards with
the last letters of Ginsberg ringing in your arms,  and wild is the whiskey
in Nashville you of petite legs and lissome hands shadowed, the path
to San Francisco is long and we are wayward I wonder
I ponder The sunset rivets me and I got no dimes left
only the sweetness of your breath
perched on my shoulders and your
marrow glossy and true an acoustic
glue, I got your saliva pressed on
my notebooks, and the ink is still wet
and I don't want it to go dry
and I want to reach the canyons
with enough crayons to forget time
and do you have an Irish coffee with you?
Will we meet somewhere beyond Boulder
or we will bivouac where
the nothingness is ovulating sweetly
like Henry Miller's Sexus, I got you
and we will wonder and ponder
yonder, where naught is my epigraph
and you are candid, and your are carousing
moonlit, and snuff, I can't be defeated
I am breaking all the rules of grammar
and I have conveyed a mirror of plastic
sirens, and none of this is supposed to
make sense since we are waiting  for Godot
I will evaluate your heart soon as I levitate
in the Colorado sun and I remember The
Grampians in Victoria how wonderful are
they, psychedelic and crisp the sweat
that lingering bliss natural rhapsodies
and long is the path to San Francisco
where the leaves of
lost art is slumbering good
and young.

from Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology from Fevers of the Mind Press

and a peacock
coloured moonlight
and the translucency
of this autumnal bone
of trees that used to
and here I’m waking up
waking up inside
with a dreary
sign of a blood stained
moth flooding my soul
and in winter I’m with 
Bob Dylan
climbing Antarctic snow
climbing a June breeze
and here I’m again
holding my tears aflame
I could be better
I could be a better man
something like steel
someone kind
a sinew of desirable
It feels like I’m drifting
on borrowed time, and I 
be better, better for you 

Bio: Jeremy Limn is a poet in his late twenties who has published three books of poetry, Raining Poems, The Auguries of Lost Lilacs, and The Roses Forget You, his work also appeared in the 2016 July Issue of Infernal Ink Magazine, and the Yearbook for the University of Tasmania 2015, and published twice with Vext Magazine, The Ernest Becker Foundation.

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 feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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