FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1989

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

M.L. McConnell (3)
Roy McDonald (2)
Gina M. Beaton (2)
Rebecca Kniseer (3)
Rick Armstrong (2)
Vince Tinguely (2)
H.G. Prosser (5)
Jim Hoyle
Robert Bosch
Lisa Michelle Fiander (2)
Joe Blades (3)

[PDF]

Rebecca Kniseer

 

 

Text Signs for the speeding reader:

  this not a hole-punching tournament
infact, find a sweater that will cause you the most torment
and wear its itching outs inside, flipping, also the colaur
and a home-grit one would be a lot better

nor read by credit here nor
like the rapinglances in the elevator
peel any meaning fromy melony
decorated and hummed by you and
if on a winter’s night a traveller instructs
you as you are tellingraphing in faster thought
constructs – as in drag-mode, brick-laying in bright
scorching sun
and sloppy cementing foreman prasinconsistantly one
of your drewling walls
hold your ramming trowel!
slow his raving travels
see
and scoopupanoctave that fast? he did
screech and save a little flask of it,
it is here, for you.

 

Confluence

  A strung-out, almost spent man was making his way up the shore-hill
in drunken steps, seemingly, his feet floating in the downpour.
Above him, already the communicating wind wrenched wails from trees
and cables, and private chimes were man-handled, breathless.
He reached a solitary phone post strengthened by a horizontal
crutch and cable and thought there to
hang himself
a while by his arms
looking upwards at greycing clouds
flailing branches and kickingarbagecans,
below, blacgliltering tinder
and the wind always everywhere
slapping puddles and whipping trunks
was the throng of dipersed and angered
wordin’ cleaning:
(the wind fed ME tonight)

 

Recorded Sickness

I want to pilfer
perfectionist professionalism from
these powered, powerful pros.
Primmed and pampered, bursting
with proper conduct and comme-il-faultlessness
here comes one presently:

– A package of peppermints please!

he pays his dollar with blow dried
and gelled politness
and behind him all I can do is
order an erratic pack of smokes

Swamped in homework and steeped in coffee
these words are a certain choice over definite marks
is it possible to deny that nicotine is my muse when all my
heroes write of deaspinning and murky rhymes are hurled
out, ass-end first, from which, after, I can paste to
gather another verse. Spark, cinder and guilt – all part’n parcel
of this god-yearn for some lost adjective – blow-job objective:
dejected ol’ me, soured breath, and stained consciousness
again –
I’m burned out
squished into
light cornyness
crushed self in this
my self-appointed
gratuitous
ash-tray.

There can belittle doubt
that the flick of a knife
inflicts less pain’n strife
than the trite twists of the pen:
write an ugly man that he is so
and watch his features sag
to an even more decrepit grimace –
strive to tell him
he’s not at all improved
and you might kill him yet.

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul