Four Poems from Mike Zone

The frog no one loves sang

Blood oath in the backyard

 where the gates of hell are

 naked in the womb of the desert sun

shooting lizards

when we left the thrift store

in secret celestial painted lust

red fists flying at the nazi bar/casino

the black church raided

 amid the setting sun

don’t tell me I saw the spheres of the universe

 in the blood-engine of your heart

sans the crucifix

 and melted candle wax doors

Beer with the devil

Talking to the devil

when you can say you’re not that kind person anymore but you still are

just quicksilver sliver of night shivering terror for the razor touch

she doesn’t haunt me anymore

nor do tragic mists and shipwrecking shark mouthed siren muses

my blood doesn’t flow in the water

like it used to

some of us

never outgrew Edgar Allen Poe and punk rock

some Camus for good measure

(as much as we’ve tried)

“What do you know about punk rock?” she asked

THE DEVIL- her, him, them, it- ALL OF US

glistening wet tobacco smile

light eyes, moist like an ocean reflecting stars , to dive into and soar the space ways

dark hair giving to waves kissed by fire

tattoos melt swirling to the tune of fluctuating body heat

“Nothing.”

downed my beer

did my shot

so did she

shudder of desire

six in a line

the bartender set before us

when in hell…

Dante and Milton had nothing on this

Untitled again and again

we’re all in cages

at the bottom of the sea

bone dust pudding

the human zoo

 sensual

 still born oblivion

If I had a prayer

Unfurled dandelion wine poured windblown hearts

Oh, how I see her singing to lovers clinging desperation rocks

I tip my hat to lonesome pilgrim unaware on the trial to unknown transformative revelation

eyes cat down toward dead futures based on dead orchestral lives

I don’t think we’ll meet again on the road in jest

familiar strangers seeking pure and narrow blaring from the simulation though it is fun to think so, isn’t it

come to speculate with me if you wish

husks rolling around mildew-soaked minefield laden grass

when the cyclone hits

may we all be entwined in a circle

at dusk

bellies down

hand in hand

on the concrete

unable to be

lifted up

dreadful heaven

earth-man’s fatal construct

of what not be

in an ocean of illumination among the darkness of being

Mike Zone is the author of One Hell of a Muse, A Farewell to Big Ideas and Void Beneath the Skin and co-author of The Grind.  Editor in Chief at Rogue Wolf Press and a managing editor at Concrete Mist Press, a frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.