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week of January 21 - 27, 2008



Graham Fulton and Christian Avery Bryant

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Graham Fulton
www.grahamfulton-poetry.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Graham Fulton and I live in Paisley in Scotland. I've been writing poetry for over 20 years and have been published in many major magazines, anthologies, online journals and newspapers, in both the UK and USA, including Illya's Honey, California Quarterly, Ambit, Orbis, Chapman, Blood Lotus, Concho River Review, Amarillo Bay, Neon Highway, Poetry Nottingham, Other Poetry, Nthposition, Iron, The North, Edinburgh Review, Envoi, Word Riot, Poetry Cemetery, Snakeskin, Fire, Scottish Poetry Library Best 20 poems of 2006, Scottish Literature in the 20th Century.

My previously published collections include Humouring the Iron Bar Man Polygon, 1990, This Rebel Inc, 1993, Knights of the Lower Floors Polygon, 1994, Blissed-out for Five (contributor) Neruda Press, 1997, Ritual Soup and other liquids Mariscat Press, 2002.

I have 2 chapbooks, Upside Down Heart and Black Motel, awaiting publication from Glasgow Publisher Dreadful Night Press in 2008 and 2009.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Graham Fulton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


The Warrior Race on Bath Street
 
 
first a girl on
            a boy’s back
                         out
                   of their heads
     laughing     glass
smashing       five or six
piling in
with fists      boots    charging
up the hill       not seeing
            the shoppers
                   hiding
against the walls of
banks     lawyers    bistros
the zenith
of civilisation
                        letting them
                   steam past      booting
                            roaring      throwing
              each other to
the road        stamping
one face
as it melts in the centre
                            the vortex
                    people
                 silent      behind
their two-way mirror      watching
a primal fury
take shape       letting
them get on with it



 
The Man Who Fell Down
 
 
at the back of the store at the far
           end of the aisle
at 8.13 in the morning
            with no-one but me
the lights        muzak
     to see
between
the breakfast cereals on one side
fairy liquids tie handle bags
                    on the other
something told me
                      he stretched
 
for a box
               on the top shelf
tilted     shook     crumpled
       to the clean floor
without a sound
without a
muzak       soothing      the flakes
              I could have left
I ran
told an assistant
a security man in a blue jumper
who ran     I didn’t
 
want to be alone as he slipped
into unconsciousness      dark
              a complete recovery
with his loved ones at his side
         for all I know
I had to go
and pay for my milk
hold my head        talk softly
the ambulance is coming
 

 
The Tarot Cards that Ginsberg Touched
 
 
In Baader-Meinhof black
          and armed with
a shaggy black beard
 
                   Allen Ginsberg
invaded Europe
 
          sometime in the Seventies
as all the hairy kids
          sat on the floor
 
gaping in awe at
                    his shaggy black poems
 
and swaying about with
          their hairy mushroom eyes
and Timothy Leary ears
 
                    and you asked him
back to your house
 
          and gave him cold beer
to make his head spin
          and hot pizza to fill
 
his streamofconsciousness tummy
                    and the chance
 
to not have to be
          a howl-performing monkey
for just a little while
 
                    before the next gig
in West Berlin
                              
          or Berwick-upon-Tweed
as he played karma poker
          with your bumper pack
 
of Aleister Crowley tarot cards
                    and left his hairy DNA
 
all over the magician
          and the sorceress
and the fool
 
                    and death and cheese
in his transcendental beard
 
 
 

The Death of Fergus on the Kitchen Floor
During the Very Hot Summer of 1976
 
 
Then my dad is lying on his back
still on the linoleum with his eyes
open     milky     not seeing
or seeing clearly     the kitchen he’s left
the door into the back garden
the light they say you see      the corridor     light
I’m inches
close to his face     his lips another
colour than normal      I can see
the lips     colour      his eyes      his breath
coming out quickly like he’s just run a race
his sleeveless pullover      no glasses on
he always wears glasses
he took them off as if he knew
the television in the background
our neighbour trying to give him mouth to
mouth but not pinching the nose     I tell him
to pinch the nose     calm     the middle
of all     the eye
eyes     the ambulance arrives
and the men do some things on their knees
and shake their heads      look at me
as if to say do you
think you should be here?     of course    the end
of the love that made me     linoleum where he
stops    my dad     heart     nose    the only kitchen I
hope to go     whatever I’m trying to find
needing to give a beat of strength     unable
to send a good breath into
the biggest day of my father’s     my     life
mum said
he came to her a few nights later
and a voice     not his     said he
wasn’t able to speak but was doing okay
 
 

 
Could Be a Ford Cortina But It’s Hard to Tell
 
 
there’s a skeleton in the ravine picked clean
                         for years
of wing mirrors      headlamps
cushions      dashboard
number plates        nodding dog
                           and tyres
which someone took
                            the time
       trouble to steal
           ride all the way
to the local beauty spot       set light to
       shove over the top to watch it
roaring       bashing
battering
down
 
 
to the bottom
        to rust      rest
                    amongst
moss      ferns
      incandescent jungle
which takes the strain
        settles in place       the remains
of another
pushed in long before      a work
of humanity      nature
harmony
         the car
                   no longer a car a church
of spiritual metal
left


Christian Avery Bryant
caverybryant@sff.net

Bio (auto)

Christian Avery Bryant is a California writer. His short fiction and poetry has appeared in many magazines including The Horror Express, Horror Carousel, Peep Show, Poems Niederngasse and Poet Express. He currently lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter. Website: http://www.sff.net/people/caverybryant

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Christian Avery Bryant and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Nathan Sounds Like

A rattle of keys
snap of an attaché
sliding of drawers
clicking of pens
sniffles
(this week he's sick)
chair adjusted
shifting frames
(pictures of a wife
he barely talks to)
clicking of buttons
checking phone messages

Every morning
this is what
Nathan sounds like
to Mary
her cubicle beside his
following with
attentiveness
his steps nearing her
her heart pounding as
he comes into sight
pain as she smiles
unable to speak
smiling back
wondering if
he knows what
Mary sounds like
every morning
walking by

 


A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town
Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
| I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese
| Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick
| Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick