spiders – Cajun Mutt Press

(in lieu of) World Peace

I’d lob more than a missive toward a country
of tyrants. Hell, I write expletives with indelible
pen on delivery vans that cut me off in traffic,
squash a spider that drops onto dusty desk.
Can’t call the cops or International Criminal
Court so let us call it Zen Revenge.
Rip the noxious weed from the soil, shoo
defecating pigeons from eaves, wipe shitty
shoes on neighbours’ welcome mat if
they fail to pick up after prized pooch.
World is going to the dogs, scammers,
warmongers and barking billionaires so
there can be no peace without retribution
and retribution starts at home. Try it.
It feels so good, so Greek myth,
so Old Testament (Samuel 1 15:3)
so Holy Land. Become proficient;
find yourself recommending it,
you Bad Influencer. Satisfying
opportunities abound for those
who are out of cheeks to turn,
are tired of feeling limp, who
live in silent outrage and just
need to savour getting even.
Controlled breathing is best,
plan ahead, stealth advised.

Allan Lake is a migrant poet from Allover, Canada who now lives in Allover, Australia. Coincidence. He has published poems in 20 different countries. His latest chapbook of poems, entitled ‘My Photos of Sicily’, was published by Ginninderra Press. It contains no photos, only poems.

the meat house

is where serial killers
eat lunch, sip soft drinks
scratch notes

when I hit her on the head, it was good
if you believe you’ve lived your life the right way
then you have nothing to fear

& moonlight as electricians
plumbers, clowns, suburban
dads in faded Cancun t-shirts

who make jokes
& answer phones
with a… “yelllllow”

which is also
the color of the meat house
& the dress the little girl is wearing

hand, foot & mouth
trapped in the arch of a tube maze.
The sign says ‘No Shoes.’

I eat, my gut
a garbage disposal
of playfully placed bones

1980s love poem

& the way
the acid kicks
in some
where unexpected

fates conspire, while we
in love & returning video tapes—
Total Video, on the other side
of the Dietz St. parking lot

now a spatial anomaly
of satanic panic & milk carton faces;
didn’t some college girl
get murdered here you say

another late
fee
on our
nasty

the 19th hole

we swing
through the 19th hole
to score some coke

off a guy
whose sunglasses
are stacked like a cash drawer
on his hat brim

underscoring
the fact we’re at a country club
& not Needle Park.

A few rails of the tasting menu
& he’s teeing off
talking approach shots

says a threesome
is a tradition
unlike any other

so I drive
a hand over my crown
skirt the rough

& he, anticipating
the tightly
mown grass
of a fairway

flees
as if a spider
crawled out of a hole.

We take the sunglasses
he left on the bar
& hock them at a pawn shop
for some better blow.

Damon Hubbs is interested in leisurely games of tennis & perfectly moist coffee cake. His poems have been published in numerous journals with recent works featured in Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Streetcake, Roi Fainéant Press, Don’t Submit!, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Book of Matches, Exist Otherwise & Horror Sleaze Trash. He lives in New England.

Tag: spiders

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/26/24

(in lieu of) World Peace

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 12/19/22