Monday, August 26, 2013

Surrealdada Poems By Jeffrey Zable

These self-described "surrealdada poems" came in over the transom today. The kind of stuff I like. I wonder if I will ever find copies of The Great American Poetry Bake-Off. 

YOUR POEMS

for Robert Peters



Your poems are the eyes

that make worms smile.



Bones bursting

through invisible branches.



Children playing with wire thin rope

that will one day choke them

into middle-aged fears

of death and orgasm.



Flies swarming

onto a blood-stained leg

that is really a clock

disguised as an avalanche.




WAITING IN THE WINGS



The saber-toothed dogs are barking in hell

and I'm alone outside the door.

Could this be an old movie

I forgot to erase?

Could it be my life

as I thought it would be

if I didn't say thank you

to those who brought gifts?

I feel like eating a penguin on seaweed

and washing it down

with a bottle of marbles.

From there it could be anything

from a waltz to a tango--

even a watussi!

At least the natives seem friendly today.

They say they'll pay for any fresh meat

in shells and women.

What could be better

I think to myself

as I give them my fingers and my toes.

I'm ready to be lucky

after all this time

waiting in the wings.



MARK STRAND      


Reading his poetry              

makes me want to commit desperate acts,

check into a mental institution,

or be the 1, 647th person to jump

from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Could there be hope

in a pool of inflammation,

in a room where someone with eyes like saucers

is watching you bleed onto an oriental carpet.

If only you could rise beyond what you feel

where there's no tomorrow,

where the raging clouds

can't out spell out your name

and the mourners can't arrive

because of the hill

that separates an ocean.

No one predicted it would be so dark

and simultaneously so absurd,

that the girl in the blue dress

would bury her doll

in a pile of ashes.

Everything is closed

and the faces are expressionless.

An umbrella opens

and a man runs in circles,

while another points his fingers to his eyes.

You just lie there looking up at the sky

as if were a lake into which you would dive

if you were wearing a swimsuit.

Instead you lie there for all eternity

thinking about your mother

and sometimes your father,

wishing you were never born.


Jeffrey Zable has published poetry and prose in many magazines and anthologies including New York Quarterly, Caliban, Wormwood Review, and Mudfish. He's published five chapbooks including Zable's Fables with an introduction by the late great Beat poet Harold Nose. Present or upcoming work in Mas Tequila, Epigraph, Subliminal Interiors,Toad Suck Review, Owen Wister Review, Clackamas Literary Magazine, Yellow FoxQuarterly, and others.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Poem For a Lovely August Day By British Poet Marc Carver

A poem by Marc Carver here on a lovely afternoon at Zombie Logic Review.

KATHLEEN

I sat in the back of the cab
looking for money.
A man came up to the cab
He asked for directions
that he didn't want.
He took a look at me
with my beard
and long hair.
He decided I was rough
even for this part of town.
So he walked off
in the wrong direction
and the Asian taxi driver
didn't know how close
he was to being robbed
or killed.


Marc Carver, a British poet, was recently an internationally featured
poet at the Austin International Poetry Festival. He has published 
four books of poetry and has had some seventy or so poems published
and posted at various sites. All of his books are available on 
Amazon.com. He is now writing a book of fiction and hopes to publish
it very shortly. He performs mainly in London and will continue to 
write poetry as long as people enjoy his work. 

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Dadaist Poetry By Bradley Lastname of The Press of the Third Mind

Bradley Lastname has been described as "Bozo the Clown on nitrous oxide channeling the likes of Tristan Tzara, Luis Bunuel and Steven Wright." As publisher at The Press of the Third Mind in Chicago, Lastname published my first book, Concave Buddha and Other Public Disservice Announcements in 1991. Twnty-two years later we have the privilege of being able to publish some of his work here at Zombie Logic Review. 


A WEEK OF SNEEZES

Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger:

Sneeze on Tuesday, kiss a stranger.

Sneeze on Wednesday, you're on t.v.:

Sneeze for Duchamp, you're Rrose Selavy.

Sneeze on Friday, lose some snot:

Sneeze for Edison, you're Fred Ott.


REJECTED NICHOLAS RAY MOVIE TITLES

Bruce Mandolin

Wayne Banjo

Gilbert Balalaika

Sterling Lyre

Van Koto

Lance Sitar

Enzo Zither

Tim Charango

Seymour Lute


SOMEONE OF HER ILK

She grew weary of being someone of her ilk,

so she cashed in her freakquent flyer miles,

and spent the summer in Sardinia,

where she could be someone of her ilko,

in a caftan made of silko,

listening to Wilco,

crying over spilled milko,

watching Sargeant Bilko

on a black and white old Philco.


IT IS WRITTEN

The price of wisdom is above rubies.

The price of extracting Jack Ruby's wisdom tooth is above diamonds.

Kenny Rogers wants to know:

Jack Ruby, are you contemplating going out somewhere?

Because your wisdom tooth is the only part of you that's ever leaving the

        Dallas County Jail.


HOW TO EXPLAIN THE SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION
BETWEEN LINDA LOVELACE AND FRANK O'HARA TO A
DEAD CORDLESS VIBRATOR BATTERY

Linda Lovelace is lovelorn.

Linda Lovelace loves Lorna.

Linda Lovelace loves Lorna Doone.

Linda Lovelace loves Lorna Doone's buggy.

Linda Lovelace loves it when Lorna's doone buggy runs.

Linda Lovelace doesn't love it when Lorna's doone buggy runs
over Frank O'Hara.


INSTRUCTIONS TO THE WAITER CONCERNING
HOW TO SERVE THE BLUE PLATE SPECIAL IN THE
UNLIKELY EVENT OF A POWER OUTTAGE

If the lights have gone out at the dinner table,

use an imaginary clock to describe to your diners

the location of the food on their plates.

For example, the chicken cordon bleu is at twelve o'clock,

the mashed potatoes are at 9 o'clock,

the broccoli is at six o'clock,

and the hash brownie is at 4:20.


BRADLEY LASTNAME  moved to Chicago in 1978 and began creating a body of work that raised dada, existentialism and the absurd to a new level.
His work...2- and 3- dimensional collages, paintings, sculpture, poetry and prose...has been published, shown in museums and galleries, and presented in one-man shows, throughout the U.S.

Chris Manse, of the Muse Apprentice Guild, says:

"Absurdity is a difficult thing to do well, and Bradley Lastname is an exception to that rule.  To exclaim from the roof of a burning building that all is well even though the cats and dogs raining down from the skies are attempting to put out the flames.

Mr. Lastname has run No Tickee / No Washee Enterprises, an emporium of guerrealist painting, collage and fiction since 1977.