Celadon Issue 5: Offal Bliss

The new issue of Celadon is finished and is forthcoming! I'll have copies out at the end of this month, look for them in the scattered spheres and rabid echoes.

3 poems

Bermuda Triangle

you can never be too sweet. 

foreskins line the apartment room

like Used Sunlights. 

 solid screams of soiled Day, 

“this House is infected with Pig’s Blood!”

or maybe with her two year old son.

you have things you're told you’re needed to say

and ignore them.

you think about dicks covered in your shit

and sketch questions in the curious grime

and fermenting pineapple.

on granite counters and ammonia
 you almost turned to chlorine air. 

you harmonize the wind in your eye

to a meticulous anxiety. then call it:

reading. and you call people on the phone.

most are gone. leave voicemails descriptive.

the clouds, the grass, even the Strain. 

and when night comes,

you carefully pry it open, through each

amnionic wave, then soothe it 

into your river. question by question.

waiting the Vitriol who quiet the Everything. 

a long and a careful.

you listen and pretend. 

cursive fidgets along the Sidewalk 

hills and hills of the people 

we spoke down, or tunnel-licks.

and a so hideous. me, well, six drinks 

short of an atmosphere, but still

the Grindr and the Dogbrights. 

Beetlegeuse, you might say. a kind,

but delayed, afternoon; exhausting 

blurs. so much “we almost” and we 

a longness, but bit by bit

corroded into a bitter and useless verb.

then canary along a residue of faded moon,

a fit of yellow gauze. o birds, how they 

a softing and a fool. o stars. o hourless days. 

then I call your mom on the telephone.

gibbous fingernails fidget within my holes.

spay us some little chits, but I tell her

some golden minnows dreamt fine. 

and she to me gives a TV jaguar, 

intense though that may sound: it’s perfect.

so honored, I bow. I show you said bow.

later, through feathery hieroglyphs.

October Morning

we tilt hours into a vicegrip of chapter,

of things chained as centipede but immediate

as Red. I forget almost everything about us.

and watch the sun through their barking dogs.

there are things to say and books to explain

them. a belligerent canvas of Smeared Laugh

and Colorless Insomnia. sometimes I’ve copied

out dreams into insect-cold calligraphy, but

it fuzzes, like an erosion is so many bunches 

of confused bees I find on the ground everywhere. 

we’ve talked about collectives and apartments. 

cabbage violets and bedbug lentils. then again,

how early is Still. like the month has given

up and let day extend its reach though several

Autumns. mimetic the eyes, or the shrill air 

inside the eyes, to cars forever on the 101s. 

and here a green Fade lingers, clouds all spinach,

of some paradox of energy. Hydrogen rippled out

of landfills, or out of mute piles of Instagram. 

faces selfied bobbing amidst the dense breath. 

I think about my nerves like hotels, slightly 

pollinated by this and that Frenetic. to vision

a stillness across dunes. To strain us into focus.

to stay a little while, these feelings of love. 

Planet of the Apes Drawings :: loosely based on the Terry Hayes screenplay

Celadon 4: Towerhood's Cleanse

Hello!

The fourth issue of Celadon is finally completed and available for purchase online, or if you're in LA it's currently at Meltdown comics.

To get it online just email me at hartcretur@gmail

This issue took a lot of patience and insanity and general exhaustion so having to see it in its final form is just such a relief. Hope you enjoy reading it.

when we had the "blue spider nights" that we didn't want to stop

not even sea roots, or foam from that frothy syringe 

youd ribbon round your forearm weirdhungry, spoken 

dice cut of Brown Recluse-- no, the only trace of you: 

those eyeless white birds of your curling toes.

I dont even remember your face. sometimes I ghostkiss

a press of silhouette on the hourless sand by the pipelines.

near Dinoflagellates. near the Parking Lot where you gave 

me head and your apartment whose only ornament a basilica 

unicorn stood before ripe ionic sheets and the solid gloom. 

then again you dosed in cirrus, spring-pert phlegm. 

so many ways you got skinnier, long long months with no

period. you cutting out dairy, saturation, grains, the sky’s 
Blue. whilst prying away the eyelash caress. then nights

where fluorescence tethers us to cafeteria ectosprawl.

we sit detailing cigarettes in pallid halo. we sit gnawing

condensed laugh, tatter tots. cartilaginous whisper clung. 

dusts come, we lock close. but still, ellipsis-tinted vows. 

still brushing thick coldsores with leftover cocaine. 

taking celery juice and maca in slim, pink phials.

your drool, your skin’s erosion. I cum inside you so much

and we joke how white curtains will encircle our son,

our squirmy little canto. what color his dead eyes.  

you insist that my night is your morning. eyes acidic. 
you point to the Metal in the Clouds, itch your blush.

I know I know you make sense. let’s make it clear,

you flicker-raw bad like a film shot in eczema, lecture, 

tells manic, I don’t want this-- this, see these masters

eat my teeth. I pick up your torn shirt in the street. 

and then there’s your chest in the tv’s empty fever, 

soft, diarywilted. but noble in its disconsolate bone. 

a decrepit zodiac of skin. worn to prom after prom 

of bleachest mustang. our Rorschach enzymes sucking out
each broken secret, some game. you expelled from high school,

withdrawal pains. our mom drunks. me fucking any twenty.

scars crack and krill along frail arms, buds maybeed

by Clouds of Room. threshes stain window. spider bites,

you call them. I know you’ve had too many friends. 

I’m not too us either. but spider bites. I like you. 

drawings

the Abbey

got to burn bridges to cross em: my echo?

my hands crack the Darkness out the slippy

corner of your throat, toss it calm across 

these strange grounds. almost in melodic burst,

send Locusts rising for miles out Cement. 

white Mustang, pacing sunheaven Tiaras.

I forget what I’m supposed to do. kiss your

Drunken Sores away or just thaw your Breath. 

have me over. take me out to your place in Hills.

shut me up with breaded roses, kindled dew. 

and then the knee-deep of you huddled in late

topiary, astringent hours. your linger. your careful,

sprayed over the bannister. on the carpet, I count 

gnawed blotches of skin: 27, wow. 27 already?

but I don’t count them. I don't wait for dreams.

no, I walk into the bathroom. stare at Psyllium Husk

and Malbec Stains. who left our abyss in the cold

too long. so long. can you guess me soon: a puking dew,

metallic gin flailed against temple. just shallow

enough, leave brainglister through a pretty arc. 

can you see me chugging horizon, flirtspent but 

smiles pushed forth? I wouldn’t want noone there

in the lichengray shadow. how heavy distance

aches scored to eyelids, panorama floating over

dried-up vision. know me: scuds chalky with pulse. 

I’m sure this is just a phase. I fall towards

perfume, I try to rub out the stench of kindness. 

oh sweetheart, I can tell we’re going to be friends

for a very, very long time. obdurate blood,

or is it obdurate asphalt? distinctions. won’t

change much, the crunch is the only thing

you really notice. aw: you in the black drool. one 

day, when I’m phaseless, I’ll bend you an oscar.