beach combing, etc.
By
Kurt Newton
beach combing
the soothing gulp and gasp
of low tide surf
the cold, damp sand
that shifts with each step
the gray sky hovers
like a dam about to burst
the icy breeze carries
the lone cry of a gull
islands of brown seaweed
litter the shore
blue crabs clatter
like dice in a tumbler
the smell of decay,
the sting of salt air
the body lies naked,
blanched and bloated
the waves give birth
to an ocean of secrets
The Body Farm
If only truth could feast and grow
like maggots inside the fenced-in
biomes of the body farm,
there'd be more honor in this world.
Bless these volunteers who lay
unnamed in staged tableaus, birthing
untold riches in their silence,
keeping secrets they can never tell.
The question is not why God has found
a home amid the writhing and wriggling,
but why so many continue to deny
their place among this grand necrotic garden.
night faces
born into
a symptomatic cell
faces hover
disappear in waves
(alone at night
the same face floats
close enough
to memorize)
form assumes
a ghostly anonymity
opposing twins
light and shadow
(alone at night
the ceiling fades
the floor dissolves
the walls recede)
morning proves
the death of all creation
familiar faces gather
exchanging memories for pain
(alone at night
they dream of faces
some familiar
some they've yet to recognize)
Kurt Newton's poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Katabatic Circus, Spectral Realms, Sublimation, Extrasensory Overload, This Exquisite Topography, Wicked Sick, and Wicked Abandoned. His recent poetry collections include Songs of the Underland, The Body Snatchers & Other Death Rituals, and Moonlight Apocrypha.
By
Kurt Newton
beach combing
the soothing gulp and gasp
of low tide surf
the cold, damp sand
that shifts with each step
the gray sky hovers
like a dam about to burst
the icy breeze carries
the lone cry of a gull
islands of brown seaweed
litter the shore
blue crabs clatter
like dice in a tumbler
the smell of decay,
the sting of salt air
the body lies naked,
blanched and bloated
the waves give birth
to an ocean of secrets
The Body Farm
If only truth could feast and grow
like maggots inside the fenced-in
biomes of the body farm,
there'd be more honor in this world.
Bless these volunteers who lay
unnamed in staged tableaus, birthing
untold riches in their silence,
keeping secrets they can never tell.
The question is not why God has found
a home amid the writhing and wriggling,
but why so many continue to deny
their place among this grand necrotic garden.
night faces
born into
a symptomatic cell
faces hover
disappear in waves
(alone at night
the same face floats
close enough
to memorize)
form assumes
a ghostly anonymity
opposing twins
light and shadow
(alone at night
the ceiling fades
the floor dissolves
the walls recede)
morning proves
the death of all creation
familiar faces gather
exchanging memories for pain
(alone at night
they dream of faces
some familiar
some they've yet to recognize)
Kurt Newton's poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Katabatic Circus, Spectral Realms, Sublimation, Extrasensory Overload, This Exquisite Topography, Wicked Sick, and Wicked Abandoned. His recent poetry collections include Songs of the Underland, The Body Snatchers & Other Death Rituals, and Moonlight Apocrypha.
