Poetry by Stephen Mead



Find a suburb or a ghetto.
Will the flies of fists file in?
Smile. Cry. Show your best mood
of petulance, hurt or abundant radiant
pride. Will blows be bestowed nevertheless,
blows & a brutal removal of fingers because
of where they went? Get the point? No
subtlety there, no subtlety or remorse.
So try country living, island nights,

jasmine & sassafras. Who’s
torching the fields, stuffing
gas rags around doors? More
means less. More means ignore
the persecutors popping up
same as always, same, sane
& scrupulous as the Puritans
burning suspect Salem flesh.
Oh alright then, let it go.
Stick it in the index marked
Delusions & say the kid was
mixed up, had no sound
reasons &, anyway, got
on his high horse, had
to do something about that.
Move ’em out. Ship ’em on
to Desolation St. to Maudlin
to Broken Dream Boulevard,
the tracks other side.
It’s the nature of that kind,
don’t cha know, to get
off off off

The Search

A normal life? No hard edged gaze,
paraffin pose, the back street sta-

catto of shadow touch attempting to
keep the last straw. Down the river?

Almost: this pathological time period
of pavement-scraped faces, bigotry
begetting violence, some hallway of
slamming doors and, for each, enough
fingers. Meaning?

In with reach then, passports, feel­ing
by thinking and vise versa, a La Dolce Vita
country for torches carried in
kitchen match measures. Beneath a

smear campaign, yours flickering, red
tip, to join mine, a fire of small,
private ceremony: glasses risen,
clinked with standing ovation
undertones the moment, only some dream
really, love steps up.

So why——~
triggers cocked——can’t we-— let
me up——be——big lug——I’d—— swastikas——
let you in——crosses burning——and try——
can’t you—— not to let——believe——you

Like Real People

Under cover we touch.
Is this something political?
Why feel like a refugee,
fear being taken?

Hostility vibrates from certain
roads. I sense ghosts frozen there,
waiting to be real. Day time’s an
eclipse. Society’s not safe.

What century is this happening in?
Happening, happening?
Stash your candle, love.
This hiding breathes light.

Lean close.

barbed-in-pink-2A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. His latest P.O.D. amazon release is an art-text hybrid, “According to the Order of Nature (We too are Cosmos Made)”, a work which takes to task the words which have been used against LGBT folks from time immemorial.  In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place:  Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead

Find Stephen’s Amazon Author Page here.


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