Targets

It's an unmovable bullet,
Lodged in the brain,
Translating random broadcasts
Pulled from the air.
Decoding ones and zeros
Like a bloodborne lottery.
That's what screams
With the drink,
Demands to be pressed
To the pulp.
The fallout from static angels
Hinting
That maybe once,
We were fired upon
By God.

 

Hurricane

It wasn't love
It was fuel for your ego.
That lust,
Monogrammed
With red dyed hair,
Long legs,
And a sexual appetite
Like hurricanes
Storming coasts of skin.
My punk mentality
Battered,
Drugged by your thighs,
Buried beneath the seduction
Of seven friends
Until
Like all storms
You drifted out
To orchestrate disaster
On another unprepared shore,
Chaos held
In your name
And sometimes still,
On my lips.

 

Good Dream

young,

staring at stars without names
dreaming
of space
and undiscovered reaches
of the universe

piloting some sleek silver marvel
toward the unknown,
existing on tang
and squeeze tube meals

imagining alien landscapes
from sci-fi serials
and pulp comics…

Older,
Staring at bottles with unpronounceable names
Praying
For sleep
And the undiscovered reaches
Of my wife

Pouring pills
Onto a stainless steel counter
In the night
Watching as they settle
Into prescribed constellations,
Sucking down their light
With a glass of water

Hoping that some bright star
Is still there
For navigation
Through familiar landscapes
And necessary hours

As my glimpse of the good dream
Is gone.

 

All The Corpses Of The World

She wakes
Slides from beneath the stained sheet
Of last nights love
Stretches her back to blades of sun
Slicing through the window shade
And begins dressing for work

I’m familiar
With her pattern
So I know what’s coming
It’s telegraphed
In every movement,
Her merciful idea of
The killing blow

A quick metamorphosis is taking place
Beneath a cocoon of clothing and make up
She’s gradually changing her appearance
Reprogramming her persona
And crossing her fingers for new lovers

She gives the mirror
A curious glance
Runs a hand through her hair
And says

“I think I’ll dye it red again”

I smile
And pull the sheet up over my head
As all the corpses of the world have done.

 

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     Mike Soper is the creator and co-editor of the poetry website and press, Warm Angel Whiskey.

His poetry has appeared online or in print at Babel Magazine, remark., The James River Poetry Review, and Mystery Island Magazine. More appearances are looming on the horizon.

His current W.A.W. projects include the monthly online anthology, Typewriter Voodoo, the quarterly online anthology, Hard Luck, the quarterly spotlight, Always Gambling With The Muse and the release of chapbooks from Bradley Mason Hamlin and Debbie Kirk.

Due to the needs of W.A.W., he began dabbling in artwork again and was fortunate enough to be hit up by Debbie Kirk to design the cover for her Feel Free Press chapbook, I Hit Like A Girl. A few more cover jobs are lined up for ’04.

His first chapbook, Medications For Resurrections, is forthcoming from Mystery Island Publications.

Born in Detroit in ’71, he currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN, with his wife, daughter and many rescued animals.