jr clarke

untitled by poorthunder

“Untitled” by Terrence PoorThunder


now this time I’m taking it very seriously     a train
whispering old sea shanties of a deceased wife’s poetry     eternal record of love
pulls away now from a station through a teeming elder brother cluster of buildings
unwilling to join aether of dust twenty yards long as the train crosses crescents of iron
picking up enough speed to blur sight     a 24 hour supermarket (strictly in a biblical sense) the cranes & grass of hospitals     back to back engine gardens     the satellites
sound of train like an orchestra in a dull rotting gut sky     conservatories of aspidistras
desperately searching for something that cannot be overlooked to the point
where it can only exist in poetry     longing for distance but yet close enough to hold it
in that moment when you thought you had it before the engine slams into gear
& finally we are gone

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Ben Newell

there would be hell out this window2 51308

“There would be hell out this window” by Aleathia Drehmer

five miles in flip-flops 

It’s no fun
waking up
in a strange bed
a strange woman,
hangover exacerbated
the utter unfamiliarity
of your surroundings.
don’t know
where you are
in relation to the bar;
her cats
dash into hiding
you approach the window,
staring at cars
on the street;
no luck,
yours isn’t there—
You vaguely recall
riding shotgun
as she whisked you
back to her lair,
this place
encasing you;
hog slaughter snores
slashing off
the walls,
saying it’s time
to cut out
for the city,
a real goddamned city
with better options
or, at the very least,
a decent
transit system.

For more information about Aleathia Drehmer

Brenton Booth

cruel summer by poorthunder

Cruel Summer” by Terrence PoorThunder


Laying in the darkness Yo Yo Ma playing
Bach and my whole body aching
I have been training hard everyday for a
trip I am taking to a muay thai camp in
Thailand in two weeks:
a poet who can’t fight is nothing but a
the portable fan blows and its still hot
but I don’t care—
heat can come in handy sometimes:
comfort gives the illusion of mastery,
discomfort reminds us of how far we
have to go
in my small apartment in Sydney
sweating and sore on a Friday night:
not caring for the way:
knowing it leads nowhere worth going

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John Grochalski

on coming darkness by poorthunder

On Coming Darkness” by Terrence PoorThunder

throw them in the water

she’s here
dressed in matching purple shorts
and a shirt with a plaid, lavender heart
stitched above the pocket

her hair is something out of a 1985 ladies home journal

her face is fat
with lips greased from the potato chips and coca-cola
she ate on the boat ride over here

she has a knee brace on her right leg
because walking is a foreign conception to her

we’re standing in front of the morgue at alcatraz
with the san francisco wind blowing up our asses

it’s a pretty eerie sight
looking into fogged glass
at a stone slab that once held someone’s final bed

it adds to the dark misery of the island

then she turns to her husband
another obese asshole in an american flag t-shirt
and says, why do they even have a morgue here?
they should’ve just thrown them in the water

he nods and puts an arm around her
and the two of them walk toward  the alcatraz gift shop

because she says she wants a t-shirt
a postcard of al capone’s mugshot

and a tub of ghirardelli chocolates
in a tin box shaped like the island

to bring back
for all the good guys and gals
stuck slaving at the job

to prove she spent the week
doing more than hobbling around.

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John Grochalski

gold by poorthunder

Gold” by Terrence PoorThunder


i watch
the young boys
turning into young men

and i am
angry and envious
of their indolence

the way that they sit there
smirking away their ennui

as young women
with young asses in tight jeans

clutching their cell phones
like life extensions

hang over tables
like squealing aliens

to fawn and beg

to take in every monosyllabic word
of these dull heroes
of their own little dull world

at least for now

For more information about John Grochalski and Terrence PoorThunder