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Poetry

Short Poems by Heath Brougher

The Lugubrious Game by Salvador Dalí (1904-1989). From Public Domain
RIPPED NEUROLOGY 

Humanity has succumbed
to a state of severe brain damage
The scariest part is the people revel
in the bramble of their thorny shackles
and shambles—in celebration
of a negative freedom tolling
in a resonance of an oncoming Oligarchy.


ODE TO NON-EXISTENT SPRINKLER ROOM

Tonight, the movie theatre’s essence has overdosed on the poisonous Simulacra it spits like the sprinkler room that is not located here—it's located somewhere else. There is also a mentally ill duck-billed platypus that is not currently here. There's a lot of things not currently here—but mainly the what's not here is the sprinkler room, tolerance, mercy, or empathy.


EMPTY SPACES

Nothing is more
eternally togetherly alone
than a parking lot at midnight.


VOIDED MORNING

You open
your door
to hear the doldrumesque dirges
of the Gasmask Choir.

Time to put toxins upon toxins.
Time to be outsmarted
by soulless artificial idiocy.


PEARL

Hold onto the silk
and satin you emanate.
Stay up on your rise.
Don’t let the omnipresent
negativity pierce your soft
skin with its cancerous
vibrations. Look for, and find,
the bright-bright white void
of evil. You are the virgin in the cesspool
and always will be. Stay
robed in the gossamer gown you created
and keep an open ear
for the Universe has something
it needs to tell you.


Heath Brougher is the Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press. He has published twelve books and after spending the last five years editing the work of others is ready to get back into the creative driver seat. 

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