Two poems ~ poetry by William Jackson

inconsiderate spectre

clothes w/ bullet-holes in them on display in shop windows / teenagers berate their parents for being married for so long, all the cool kid’s parents got a divorce [a long time ago!] / no love letters for the lonely no wave no gentle kisses good-bye / Don’t pray for me pray for the G-d you’re praying to / Cigarettes lit on the fires of burning cities / vicious fumes sear the life from your blood and the color from your skin the heart screaming for an answer and an exit seeing light / left alone with the shadows all of you violently yelling at each other / Holograms of children before the smile was invented / a guy with headphones a guy sitting dully on a dimly lit porch with music in his ears and drugs in his soul waiting for all the excitement he’ll ever get from you to end / ♫don’t turn around now just don’t turn around till I’ve ……..♫ / kids w/ guns demanding a hug and a haircut / kids with guns demanding your wallet and your necklace and your hand down her pants / try to dissuade me / Old elevators don’t work gotta fall through the sky / content w/ no way out her only fear was the exit / feet running through the barrage and the flames over debris past bullets with the strike that’ll put you away / from the seed we planted in graves we planted seeds that’ll one day grow beyond what the sun can see the graveyard as a flower garden / bodies of dead gods donated to science / Hooded vultures swag through the crooked streets hand in pocket having a good time on a killing spree / i.e. shotguns pointed at their future told to just leave their applause on the table.


The Expedition

buried recordings / frequencies of life where there should be none / something hidden amongst us / a sound a droning a whisper without a source / the host seen only in the dream / undeniable strange abilities / bouts of something like the Flu worsening our perception of invisible worlds / nothing no longer a figment of the imagination / members awakening to find themselves standing in a room, something having been received and forgotten (coming upon them, their eyes briefly glowing nocturnal) / some of us have disappeared and some have gained doubles / no cure for this consciousness a presence oblivious to our fears / finding a corpse who killed this body who killed this you / a baleful light hangs beyond a cliff’s edge to answer your questions / doubt growls at you / you turn to see the scene of a slaughter / fear massages your shoulders / turning you see yourself having already walked beyond / embracing the void, your foot finally reaches forward, gravity turning this dim world right side up to place your foot firmly down where bodies would have fallen / you gaze upon your face and it speaks / merging with the hostile mystery / darkness no longer an unknown.

William Jackson was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. He’s given readings around L.A. at places like The Goethe Institut, Chung King Road in Chinatown, and Lawrence Asher Gallery. He’s been published in The Evergreen Review, Gambling the Aisle, Papercuts, Tenement Block Review (U.K.), RipRap, and Ginyu Magazine (Japan). Will enjoys warm sake drunk from a skullbowl as he strolls through cities of murderers, mystics, and mayhem.

Show William some love via PayPal at deca.logue(at)yahoo(dot)com.