Bio: Heath Brougher is Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press and
poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018
Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of
the Net nominee as well as winner of Taj Mahal Review's 2018
Poet of the Year Award. His most recent collection is "Bleeding
Backwards" (Diaphanous Press, 2019). His work can be found in various
print and online publications. He hasn't had a good night's sleep in years. He
is hoping to get one soon, though.
Melt
Humans have been playing a
flaming piano
with enamel and obsidian
keys afire and melting
into a pile of puddles.
Black and white viscous droplets
forming
minuscule ponds of segregated
colors
strewn across the lackluster
basement floor.
It is the accumulation of human
history.
Been going on since the
long-fabled mutation.
Even when Blessed with thumbs
these vociferous monkeys
cannot seem to conquer the inherent
savagery within.
From Monolith to Mycelium
Golden abacus moving
spiraling slices of gravity;
cuneiform baby jars of
Neqadah—
the star inside the circle:
phyllotaxis—
such a fascinating
“tendency”—
a wonderful architect
of whirring pinecones.
The Truth About Humans
This is not a poem.
It’s a message.
A savage burst of Truth
containing a chaosing new
and proper pronouncement
about the human race
and the disgusting color
of its bruised sentience
when the predetermined niches
of societal nesting it has
contorted and comforted
itself within so as to conform
and slip
into the socially acceptable
insanities
that keep it cozily fat and happy—
only in these structures
are humans
capable of being
"good.”
Once those structures
are burnt to the ground
they will show their True
colors—
hues so grotesque words to
accurately describe them do not exist.
I myself fully admit to being
duped into thinking
humans were inherently good
inside.
It took 4 months of houselessness
and endless grift to see the
vile hue
Excellent-- the second poem made my mind jubilate.
ReplyDeletetHANK YOU. I had actually intended to sub that to Harbinger Asylum but I rarely have time for submissions anymore.
DeleteWhat more can we hope for a poem than to be a savage burst of Truth? Truth trumps beauty for the long haul. Poetry marries the two.
ReplyDelete