|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
|Issue Thirty-six, Winter 2014
ARSENLOB IS KINGLOB: Horridscopes
Or, fortunes for the year 2015
Disclaimer: These horridscopes were created by sending each contributor’s contribution/s into a cut-up machine and then edited into a horoscope/fortune by one who dreams duende.
Your voice is a fork, a prayer of her. The fork before you knows your lacks, your last time prayer of appreciation. When you have an empty belly, out leaps anger, truths, stabs— a mother’s heart.
Here, and tomorrow, you’ve turned sparrow. You’ll become anything gentle but require: legs, still battered like observed secrets. Be practiced in opening strangled metal. A want itself and the same. You are the emergency boyscout.
You will command cans and cake glasses to make music. You wear big aisle little boots! You’ll better “Celia” till cake time. Meet with aisles of Wisconsin painters, those who say whiskey jugs buzz. You’ll better your house with musical soup. All soup is for good. See these whiskey hands? Imagine the picture, dear.
You are mischief clicking. You are a space chirp. Stop tilting curtains for a green worried day. You’re recklessly delicate in the spider webs. Oh-so-orange! You will find rest inside moonlight and shovels with their guilt. You, of hours, spoke bed blade from name and made feathers in winter. You wish for wet sheets while lying in the dark fires. Something clicking….
Karen J Weyant
You have a dirty, single ladybug’s luck and a mantra of flicked summer. A single hair will land against your beer and your shoelaces will know. Rest against the stain that was your bedroom, your reflection of soft skin. You’ll find balance soon enough between a moth and a tomato. You’ll find your insect hips.
You to will lose a new dog. You howl when damp. If bad year’s had a will they could pair it with the dog. Don’t gets to you. If lose, lose will. These you memorize. It only gets bad if you risk missing how careless it is. You’re only his favorite snow when he gets dislocated. You are always yourself.
Want is this. Want is a route through simply because a map can see. See on to see town. All routes through because back to.
Sara Biggs Chaney
You’ll find treasure, your tail and a can of eye. You’ll spin a breast all for a drawbridge. You, pliable piano girl, you wise and painting hard. Don’t look. Make muscles of something halfway double-faced, eye heart and scarlet free; keep your gone gone. In the gag vase, you’ll find saltwater.
Lainey S. Cronk
In an only soiled happening, each mile is vaguely gray and possessed. Everything with decorative silver is spreading to breathe. You lie there, between the curves and the hours but never the feet. Expect all eyes under the river mud. Expect the ordinary windshield to be massive and shining.
King Lob by Kelsey Dean
About the Artist
You’ve been away too long [knurling] pale vegetables. Evil lives when scoundrels plate the beautiful cardboard of the animal. The dead battery clutches lives when [echoic]. She is beautiful. She might die inside a floor, inside a cake with no hair or hanging about and surrounded with skin. The smashed in die over the last vulture moon, a pale animal [domesticated]. Leave behind your orbital absence – welcome back your roof-bruised earth mattress.
On a dark urge, you ate the river and fell. You’ve been rolling to keep dark. This one scars, humming beneath like ochre through the rock raise and blackberry thud. Dry-out out in the woods of rock and leaves. Finger the cross. Deer quiver but shoes arch. You are tracks and eyes around a river like cliffs, like a mother of boards.
Damon Ferrell Marbut
Your angry ocean has gone all curves with a beautiful bed. How were you before the tattoo parchment? An accordion voice without a boy? Since you were curious about the curves, lightning! A freckle past flesh, bone and then you’re asleep. When you talk womb, you talk lovely flames and yourself inside. Make no more apologies.
Want your own horridscope? Send your best duende poetry to the Arsenic Lobster.
Editor & Publisher, Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal