The Bars


In a waking night

the icebergs sink wet in piano keys

Lamps blush venetian shame axe handles wheel this dream

Rings worm in wrinkled palms
You are so somnolent you bring quarters to my eyes….

A face is falling from a sky in winter cavern, lattice clouds,
ornate blue.

Our arrival will close a circus
red gloves will undo the trapeze

If I grow cold

I will miss you

if I reach your hand

I will have unlocked

the doors singing off key
Your arrival closes the circus,
red gloves set a mouse trapeze

Green tea cups crack
and on wakening nude

in cubes of salvific cuneiform

We robe again in transits of shade

John Thomas Allen
Image from David Gascoyne’s Scrapbook
John Thomas Allen is a 32 year old poet from Albany NY; last year he published an anthology of Surrealist poetry entitled “Nouveau’s Midnight Sun: Transcriptions From Golgonooza and Beyond” which featured Marilyn Kallet, David Lehman, Mark Statman, and a host of other poets who were in my surrealist group. I have been featured in The Adirondack Review, Spectral Realms, Arsenic Lobster, and a host of other magazines, upwards to the thousands by now probably.

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2 Responses to The Bars

    1. This is visionary shit

      Comment by Cccilia on 28 September, 2018 at 1:20 pm
    2. It recalls The Cocteau Twins

      Comment by Memnon the Wanderer on 11 September, 2022 at 11:30 pm

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