A Set for Elegy by Joe Luna

Hold This


Alive because I couldn’t not be parted ineliminably dream

across the carpark as a crayon to a dinosaur sinks into the lake,

the farthest grateful set careens an opalescent quarter

century rot beneath a tattered squirm belonging to the mid-

1990s cereal brigade cut ditchwater into bulbs the hide of which,

in the parsimonious backlit canopy, some drugs appear motionless

making sense turn into money. If the door was locked it was meant

to signify abstraction, like Suge Knight who never hung Vanilla

Ice out of the window but took his royalties. Your breast dips so

freely in the tramadol construction kit bypass that the lights go

south and heroes mill around the beast to propagate the lies of

innocents, who are a trap, and whose illicit endoscopy proves

fatal: we all know what kids are like, we count them down

to the beach hut gazing at the brand that made them hardcore.

I am the guy that invented e-mail. I miss the way that you

became the opposite of death in every second since you died.

Hold this desperate tender modus operandi like the flesh

between us that did too seem to speak an optative declension,

from the balcony where futures go to bid their sanctuary alone,

each one in ribbons gave the punctuation something to think

things into the immediate universal hominid for Christmas,

high behind the warehouse where they invented ibuprofen.



Take Care


Each new skit beyond incredible dot matrix cellular refraction

is the light of my life redeemed in cunning certitude, to posit

safety as the plan ground winsomely such chains as never were any

the edge-feather on this blur gratified by chromatic aberration

puts your head at a certain angle but still very challenging to look

at, was it painted cool ultramarine overcoming ilk and fortitude

to crush a unity to oblique recollection you adore what

thin green hoax it deftly printed, the outline of your face refusing

it. I didn’t blink. The last time I took a whole dick in my mouth

it was kinda chubby : : love will be defined but sex cannot be

made to relegate its wax to diamond in a cheap shot at the wrong

life steak knife passion. Severally the hands came out the end of

it and started clapping, glued at the wrist I yelled until I couldn’t

see the opaque index anchored by my mother’s look, was

heightened in my dull lit childhood injustice; if I were a woman as

I am a man my bedfellow you would have been the arbiter of

sensitivity, since that blue zone was coursing with electric light

played out as plasma in my early teens. There is virtually no

escape from care resisted for the ordinal increasing shadow of

the exercise of your infatuation with demeanour. The feeling

that I have for you is held in earnest by the colour bios native

hindsight delegate on trust as I come back, but spare me as I go.



Oh No


Two dreams of suffering competition normally makes waving

privy to the latest on backchannel kerosene hooray. Can I die

with all of my fingers intact, nuke them, hang Clegg, admit that

in my heart I always watched TV like an alabaster metonym,

have politics stitched onto my horse. I remember we were all doing

coke off your mantelpiece and crying. Times were hard. “It’s on

both sides,” he said. My life excerpted from each other. It’s not like

Thatcher any more than Major. When you look at the sea it sees

you back. Can I die without paraphrase do you option /\/ that or

Not, the pit my fingers talk to in immaculate congressional type

face over and over and over again before this lame expensive horse

goes down. Eat up and do not sit mission style or do but do not

tell me. Even a creep is right a few times out of a million. My

fingers dip once more into the pit. You would know by the seething

contract which of them by borrowed outrun makes an ocean

flame war a cataract, because each death the other side counts as

common virtue; there go the hot sheiks and the famine. I tented

you before the single most expensive bad catastrophe made love

a case of choosing one of them. No deal is OK in a foregone id

eolectic metropolis. The sky wince. The silly string. The oven hot.

The fucking banks. When I dream it comes out like a spastic burn.

Do you want to drink something cheaply before we meet the others?




Get Off


Every day it makes you want to make less sense, perfectly and

never visible to the air for whom an undying idiosyncrasy is all

that stops from that top hand skin up the bleeding Hellmouth,

the predatory feeling in the sky this afternoon utterly distinct from

the predatory feeling in the sky yesterday, and the simple

echolocation of remorse pancakes into a choral verisimilitude,

the same as that one used before you were alive to make your iris

scan the treetops and the mountains and the marionettes,

the figures of fun that miss being bullied and miss the bullies too,

who could be represented feeling binary and plastic were

under the sky could be in fantasy repealed before the damage

became finite and ineluctable and false, use patience on the liars,

mouth fortune at the weak and scary, save the actual for believers

in the punk dive signal clickbait survival chart that squeals

at the dozen or so bodies incapable of breath, their hearts

the size of pickled walnuts summed up into acculturated

human roughage. This shock counts the backflow into studied awe.

The face I read this with has this in it too, the object of its

greatest predilection, he put the strips of flesh inside the sink, it’s

all I dream about is zombies, another time it was the gang who didn’t

know any better, given weapons to prevent the doom they knew

about, so they could keep their minds in hell, and not despair.



Joe Luna lives in Brighton, UK, where he co-organizes the Hi Zero reading series and teaches literature at the University of Sussex. His recent collections of poetry include Data for Ethics (Hi Zero, 2015), Colleen Lopez Battery Fiasco (Hi Zero, 2015), The Future (Iodine, 2014), Ten Zones (Hi Zero, 2014) and Astroturf and Other Poems (2013). A recording of two of the above poems can be found here, and more publications and recordings can be found here



Image credit: Buffy the Vampire Season 1 © Warner Bros 1997

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