Poetry From The Mag Man Himself Peter Magliocco

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's been active for years both as editor and small press scribe in the indie presses. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium from The Medulla Review Publishing.


The Ascension of the Midgets

by Peter Magliocco


The sea breeze turns the vagrant around
planting ire-fed fishes at his feet.
What is nature but immeasurable
currents of hot and cold pressure
areas on the map of naked breasts?
I hear the disaffected mewling
of innocents trying to escape ideas
of science defining the universe
while jockeys ride purple dinosaurs
into the teeth of natural disasters.
The savior awaiting us is good & bad,
anointing small children at bus stations,
never caring about the holy water
of tears raining on buried dreams
for heathen adults hiding with them


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Someone Like Jean Seberg

by Peter Magliocco


Do they hover now as gadflies on brows
of men sequestered in little worlds
of the insect church kingdom
with coat of arms proudly displayed
by a multitude of miniature thoughts
you believed empower all thinking
instead of becoming more obtuse
doing the daily crossword puzzle
as your life swerved into oblivion
vowels elude dark X-rated abysses
the fetus within struggled to escape
those last days when nothing mattered
as your baby twin slowly devolved
to bend your mind's cinematic panoply
featuring a thousand masked faces
striving to blind the circling orbs
invading your car trunk's coffin
no one could ever see your star fading
out from a dark director's last caress


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Mystic Cam Flesh Brides in Close-up

by Peter Magliocco


I splice your models in cumbersome ways
forcing the freeze frame in hardly quietus,
a burst of ambrosia implodes her mouth
leaving lust's residue of enameled glints.
The mob danced barefoot ransacking
the off-Broadway stage for malcontents
acting out a malefic sexual violence,
waiting for a photo-shopped crucifixion
while distant chimes from churchyards
tolled for the world's endless refugees.
Only the most beautiful must die again,
feeling the knife slice pudenda & ass,
even if it's only gory cinematic effects
in the cutting room of noir editors
with nose rings & tattooed buttocks
trying to enhance desecrated lady victims
whose body parts equal chewed cam-bytes
your bare feet prance over the blood-hued
last rites for the criminally insane


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The Fetish of Desire

by Peter Magliocco


You were practically on the street then,
wondering how to make ends meet
in '90s Vegas,
where nothing seemed right
because life was upside-down;
casino chips rattled in your piebald brain
for loose ends never finding beginnings
or a way out

of the everyday Strip mecca-madness
we drunkenly pledged allegiance to.
Then years later, when things improved
the old hotels kept being imploded,
releasing gray ghosts from wandering
as losers through empty casinos
where love & money were equally lost

to a muffled sound of vintage Elvis records
someone pinched the showgirl's body --
reeking of champagne & cigar smoke,
yet more exotic than your blowsy wife
in her sad cups mewling --

& for a moment paradise was reborn
in the general scheme of things,
hearts were enriched by dirty lusts
somehow truer than false prophets
trying to sell you time-share nirvanas.


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Cheap Sun Glasses

by Peter Magliocco


How could your black lace panties become a flag
for the desires of homeless men watching you
saunter down the Strip on a scalding day
tormenting their bloodshot eyes with booty
bulging from you cut-off 501 blue jeans
(the pair with matching grunge butt-tears --)
& crimson bra visible under a see-thru blouse
bearing faint discolored liquor & food stains
with your striking long legs protruding
like twin white pillars of oversexed might
as your platform-wedged heels clicked
a sonorous seriousness on the sidewalk
while the world debated Clinton or Trump
nobody gave a damn on a star-crossed day
when starving men tried to throw themselves
at your miraculous vision like a last meal?