August 14-20, 2017: Poetry from R. Gerry Fabian and Mark G. Pennington

​R. Gerry Fabian and Mark G. Pennington

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​R. Gerry Fabian
gerryfabian@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor from Doylestown, Pennsylvania He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com His novels, Memphis Masquerade , Getting Lucky (The Story) and published poetry book, Parallels are available at Smashwords and all other ebook stores.

The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by ​R. Gerry Fabian and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Vital Vaccine

You were
injected into me
to inoculate 
against
my evil ways.

My system proved
resistant
to any
medical tampering.

You can keep the key.
The locks
have been changed.

 



Mark G. Pennington
rockon_mark@yahoo.co.uk

Bio (auto)

Mark G. Pennington was born in 1985 and lives and writes in Kendal, UK.  He has four poems in TL;DR, two poems accepted in Poetry Pacific, one in The Oddville Press and five in Scarlet Leaf Review. Previous to this, publications are under the name J. Rose in magazines such as Dear Sir, The Journal UK, Broken Wine, Clockwise Cat and others.  Rose has also published a first book in 2012, titled Lithium Clockwork.

The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by Mark G. Pennington and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The beast and the web

I’m thinking about it again,
Obsession or a naked violence,
Chains the body;
Esurient Imagination, the pedal pushers;
Full on lust and coffee,
Crushed with Kona Hawaii.
 
Waiting in the rain,
I am the pulp to her dead bombazine,
A postcard from sin.
 
Dark angel under veil,
A lifer with the heavy scent,
A moth is drawn and
Married ones say look at me,
Look at me over and over.
 
Ran with prostitutes and soft drugs,
The damselfly can lay up to 300
Eggs at a time.
When she opens her legs
I know what love is.
 
I could be your dog
And suck in my gut;
For a girl with unspoken breath,
Or a woman who lays her ghost.
 
The darkened one, festering,
Hearts pump, undone.
Butterflies on black tar,
Eyeballs like pelting stamens,
Appetites for budding violets.
 
She doesn’t like my body
But offers me her charity,
And I allow her my forgiveness.
 
The train weeps,
She leaves before the moths,
The place full of broken tears.