C S Hughes
C S Hughes grew up on the edges of sea glass cities and dust red towns. He has been published online and on paper. His work tends to the lurid, and sometimes to the ludicrous, but seeks beauty in all its ecstasy and artifice.
Hambly thought; it was a colosseum, not bruised by old blood and the accretions of millennia, but of freshly cleaned bone, refined by an aeonic process of repetition, to a pure and shadowless white, not the pristine white of Christmas, nor the phantom-white of a suddenly billowing gas flame, but the white of masks and ash and funerals, now smeared by the shapes cast under a lowering sun of men brought to a halt, and in the throes of catching from the blue air, the ghosts of their breaths.
I will invade you with this poem
I thought I’d take your death make of it something almost pretty A few blunt lines, a few I hope, with grace An ineloquent invasion
Great Pacific Garbage Vortex
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe – Lewis Carroll We cajole beneath the mooring lines Anchor slow, thoughts a fishook weight
Sea In A Box
In the window box Mrs Blum grows shells As if the sea were near and easily contained She keeps them clean and shone With a dab of olive oil on velvet cloth
When I Was A Dog
Hungering For the reassurance of your face Jaw thrust forward, a monstering Marionetted palsy Of strings and pinions Inexpertly manipulated
What Is A Poem?
What is a poem? May as well ask, What is a bird? If your answer is, A creature that wants to fly, you are in the right place. Some consider the purpose of poetry is merely to create of mundane thoughts something poetic, a sort of polemic or didacticism or biograph dressed up in Sunday clothes. The creation of something poetic is, rather, a consequence, not a purpose. If you wish to give a sermon or a speech, do. However eloquent, this is not quite a poem.
Imagine if roads remembered Every vibration Cut by passing cars A journey music In palimpsest confusion Tyre treads worn thin
A Souvenir From Molokai
Warm as ozone In the cathode ray Of my foregone ebullience I wonder if Nietzsche collected stamps A little boy with a big moustache