6 Poems
by Christopher Barnes

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Capital Punishment

Belie the brain, spirited,
About to vault.
The clot in your wits is terminal.
A gaping duffel bag
On electroscope meter
Retracts your bodily acquittal.
Whose undertaking is it to swab
Blood from your nipple?
Who to evangelize Southern conventions?
Was it a gatecrasher
Installed the dispassionate camera,
Framing your demeanor, not name?




Death Warrant

Brainwaves are infection;
Not the watts that cauterize.

No gold-glittering feathers
Rupturing your forehead’s pocks.

Solemn ghoul, America insinuates its chase
In unfancy-fumes.

Red corpuscles aren’t pounded roses,
The knock-out is smoldering,
Insidious cinders of a lifetime’s crisis.






Mug shooters credibly defend themselves.
Your sinus gore is vibrancy
On a faded philtrum.
That dumbfounded facial artery
Airs grim defeat.
Passing on’s a procedure
All too sharp.  A convict’s bunk is hollow
A fine day’s good-for-nothing.
Memories jangle
In documents and nightmares.





David Attenborough

Tricocolars in petrifaction.  Amber-trapped
Long-ago zoons,
Elephants in a salt cavity,
Sandbanks’ ruddy crabs,
Faux panorama as halcyon wilds?

A rheum-sucking worm
Goring into an optic nerve.
Side-stepping phenomenal birds of paradise.
Take-aback miscellanies are Mother Earth.
Evolution, the gears of genes
-          You’re inexplicable rooting it all,
Not once shot
In your own uninhabited circumjacencies.





Madeline Bell

Keynoted by grandma’s measure
To demonstrative laments in pews, terrace junctions,
The repercussions of piano impressions
-          Sweep my getting down
With your trombone phrasing,
At rainbow’s night.

Output as a chicken drumstick bundler
Wasn’t going to be your fill
So you crosscut the USA , to us.

From my town’s La Dolce Vita
To Soho ’s Flamingo –
The tingle you generated
Still turns on our feet.




Patrick Macnee

From monumental Earls of Huntingdon
Ménaged the classic English gallant
Who’s plumb Scottish in bowler,
Ruffled black gamp.

The steed race handler
Was neckstrapped
By the masquerade of Sappho
And her mistress ‘Uncle Evelyn’.

We idolize you in Pierre Cardin,
Your by-an-ace unknowable air,
To the swing of Laurie Johnson.