August 12-13, 2013: J.K. Durick and Dane Cobain

J.K. Durick and Dane Cobain

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J.K. Durick

Bio (auto)

J.K. Durick lives in South Burlington, VT and is a writing instructor at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Common Ground Review, and Northern New England Review.

The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by J.K. Durick and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


They came in the back somewhere, a window perhaps,
worked quickly, quietly, and thoroughly, so by the time
I woke up, they were gone and so much went with them.

They took the TV and computer, of course, jewelry and
spare change, my books and banners, pictures off the walls,
my favorite chair, the carpeting and paint, the family room
in its entirety and the kitchen appliances, those, along with
the windows and doors, the mortgage, insurance and tax bills,
my identity, who I am and who I thought I could be.

They pried open my head and walked off with my memories,
all my plans, my good ideas and the ever present bad ones,
that chronological list of the presidents I was saving to impress
my friends, the few lines of Frost and Dickinson I use to console
me at times like this, and my seventeen previous passwords.

They came in and got it all, so when I woke and saw this
new truth, I walked outside – even the grass and maple tree
were gone – I walked outside and felt a whole lot better.

Dane Cobain

Bio (auto)

Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found in front of a screen tweeting as @DaneCobain or developing his website:

The following work is Copyright © 2013, and owned by Dane Cobain and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Ask not what the dead and dying
atheists have to offer in terms of
non-specific poetry –
they line pockets with cold soil and drown
kittens in draw-string bags,
written curses in old Cyrillic language,
burning at the stake of repentance.
I am Reaver, torn to shreds in denim.
I am the old tongue.
This is the new word order,
this is lobotomies in my cold, stone tomb
where every night I pray for new dreams
smelling like Cherryade and poison
seeking forgiveness in the morning,
reeking of stale piss and aftershave.
I am driven to the window in astonishment.


Does anyone really believe
DJ Target jumping mixtures but
My Baby’s barely charging,
Life and Tech in Tamworth!

I’ve been having non-fiction feelings for the fictional,
A sad announcement disliked by all
Who sometimes shiver with grammar’s sweet obedience
Or take dark photographs of London’s golden eye,
Light jokes on the southern side of
Wigan clearly didn’t get the memo,
Emerald Green is feeling fashionable at forty
But there’s something out about that nurse
And my rabbit turned three with a flourish.

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