Picaroon - Issue #9 - July 2017
Hello rogues and rapscallions, readers and writers. We hope you're enjoying your summer (or winter if you're in the southern hemisphere). Issue #9 brings poems with odd animal and offbeat fairytale influences, poems that feel like summer, poems to remind you of America, poems to remind you of the rest of the world, poems befitting Pride season, and anything else you're not expecting (or maybe you are by now). Issue #9 features work by Louisa Campbell, Matt Nicholson, Carol Eades, Paul Vaughan, Karen Little, Tobi Alfier, Robert Okaji, Wayne Russell, Kenneth Pobo, James H Duncan, Cheryl Pearson, Marija Smits, Rosie Garland, Leslie Thomas, Katerina Neocleous, Louise Warren, Mark Totterdell, Susan Taylor, Ali Jones, Amber Decker, Daniel Edward Moore, JC Reilly, Angi Holden, Jacob Butlett, Howie Good, Jonathan Butcher, Jean Atkin, Bridget Clawson, Gareth Culshaw, and Darren C. Demaree.
Hello rogues and rapscallions, readers and writers. We hope you're enjoying your summer (or winter if you're in the southern hemisphere). Issue #9 brings poems with odd animal and offbeat fairytale influences, poems that feel like summer, poems to remind you of America, poems to remind you of the rest of the world, poems befitting Pride season, and anything else you're not expecting (or maybe you are by now).
Issue #9 features work by Louisa Campbell, Matt Nicholson, Carol Eades, Paul Vaughan, Karen Little, Tobi Alfier, Robert Okaji, Wayne Russell, Kenneth Pobo, James H Duncan, Cheryl Pearson, Marija Smits, Rosie Garland, Leslie Thomas, Katerina Neocleous, Louise Warren, Mark Totterdell, Susan Taylor, Ali Jones, Amber Decker, Daniel Edward Moore, JC Reilly, Angi Holden, Jacob Butlett, Howie Good, Jonathan Butcher, Jean Atkin, Bridget Clawson, Gareth Culshaw, and Darren C. Demaree.
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A Day in the Life<br />
Wayne Russell<br />
Life is a dance with death on a daily basis<br />
life is a struggle to stay sane enough to keep<br />
our heads above a rabid sea of filth.<br />
Life is bills and payments to be made, ones<br />
that I cannot pay, due to lack of work, lack<br />
of work leaves you bleeding pulverized in<br />
a Tampa bay shanti town; drunk off money<br />
that you either stole from a clueless passersby<br />
or panhandled from a kind hearted person,<br />
kind enough to know that you would take the<br />
money they gifted you and run straight to the<br />
package store to buy a cheap six pack of beer,<br />
and some smokes if you really panhandled<br />
superbly that day.<br />
Kids running past me on the way home from<br />
school blinded by youth and naivety, poke faces<br />
at the homeless and downtrodden basket people.<br />
They see me as a spat on the ground, through gapped<br />
yellow brown teeth; I do an odd take on an old Irish<br />
jig that I learned in a pub in Scotland back in my 20’s.<br />
The kids are no longer poking fun; they run away like<br />
a frightened pack of youthful coyote pups, they vanish<br />
over the horizon line, down past the Baptist church,<br />
down past the shops and bars and English pub, the<br />
deli; with the best pressed Cuban sandwiches on<br />
earth, they run past the hooker named Lola wearing a<br />
pair of electric blue nylons with runs and moth holes<br />
eaten clear through.<br />
Lola laughs and throws her track lined arms up towards<br />
the cloudless skies; God shakes his head and turns away<br />
in from his creations run amuck, in disgust.
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