Tuesday 30 June 2015


Pearl Pirie

romantic painster, louder, I can’t even hear you bleed

jumping school drop-
out, spine rhymes with itself
muscles too taut to spit cusses


tourniquet, turn a quaint what? tune a kit, tuna kid, done
orchids, (lie alkaline), dumb as orchards (Palestine)

doom NASCAR, gloomier child, Rumi eyeshot
(there is a field) roomie’s eyesore, hot om, ye sorrel

homesick oral, (there must be a prayer for this) om
throne a sorrow (meet you there), thorned a Zorro.

-can you wake up this word?
- look up or wake up? 
I usually wake up a word by tickling its left serifs

the hottest part of me is the tangent of our combined heat
— the point of your shoulder against my temple

the temple, that part of my head, my idiolect’s headwaters
that icebox robot of bone that runs on its tin feet towards 

the odg, a god, a dog, or sense of odd, and winds me back to our
shared ticks.  if it’s an idiolect we share, is it a dialect? a bialect? 

a bi-election this separation into the unnaturalness of having—wait,
eight limbs? does that mean we are
an octopus finally? ou une autobus? we idle and sidle and sit.

the coldest part of me is the C of your ear as it rests on my scalp.
soft sounds of hair is ocean is ohh. 

where are you warmest? can I riffle deep under your shirt?
is it here? may I ask? will you answer me that?
or will I have to find out for myself?
we are countries apart in the politesse of public.

the land under the land has no lines that match anything
we devise.  Palestine or lines of  pants or panty lines.
tan lines, police lines. threat and thread and red and unread
and always one more means
to an and and an and.

there are real things to do, if
we are insistent on peace. if we
act instead of throw money, patience
and petittions at. there are people
to feed, talk to, carry heavies for.

if are well-healed before well-heeled
we must each horn and powder 
one’s own arrow of anemone
(out beyond ideas of wrongdoing)
break bread and eat, share.
sense is ours for the remaking.

present, accounted for, is everyone
with family who die more reliably
than rain that lifts itself in petticoats
diagonals of dandelions in dialogue
the whole width of The Possible
(when the soul lies down in that grass)
turn a cat loose on the birds
and two kills a week, half for sport
half left in indifference. the grief
of heart family of loss of gloss of
eyes turned etiquette away, quiet
the midnight mental paintings.
tête-à-tête quite suppressed.

insert bird, birds and sloppy generals
(out beyond the ideas rightdoing)
no, don’t invoke Hitchcock again.
unfinger your eyes and see. not
hand-me-down movie clichés
to replace observations. are you
at the end of your trope yet? yet?

to beehive to behave to behove,
(there is a field) stone unturned,
left unpaved, a corn row owns 
and forms itself  from what it has
sown in sequence in sun sequins. 

what was allowed, farm-sown?
let us dye. aloo palak arm-thrown.
one world of surface, depths of
convoluted believing anything.
(the world is too full to talk about.)


silk curls tumble over suit man. 
the light polishes his bald spot.
I want a pen to write hearts on it 
(as if that will fix everything).


strum feathers by the fountains, so foreign for the brahman
the sparrow myna, shady. what’s fated for ermine or tending to debris.
you’re the hallways and the tables that I stream to, folding light
that I bliss for, swell and well, goodnight, oil-barrel myna, tangled nude.

strumming hairs of my guitar on a nippy slippery weekday
a schlock with ardour. I see dense bones lift for my chains.
conscious and adhered as those sheened eyes of sparrow myna
she's berating me with the ladle from a dove
of the lonely strawman, her plucked down.

sparrow myna, squawking radio, barrelled myna, can't you see
you’re the hallways and the tables, are the rooms and walls and light
the space I miss, hood your eyes, sparrow myna, that’s my news.
sparrow myna, I love you.


Pearl Pirie's lastest collection is the pet radish, shrunken (BookThug, 2015). She is a host of Literary Landscape on ckcufm.com and president of KaDo, a group for eastern varieties of writing including haiku and tanka.www.pearlpirie.com

Thursday 25 June 2015


Brittni Carey (Windsor, ON)


Plunder, Early Canadian Glass (1961)

the present        grows out of all that went before

it is increasing                in the future, as in the past

it is difficult to picture                without many forms

Cameron Anstee lives and writes in Ottawa ON where he runs Apt. 9 Press.