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Poetry By
  Keith Nunes

Published on: 10/24/2014
my little shop of horrors

what did he want me to do?
if only I'd known
we could have stayed friends

he and I we were giggling
and withdrawing—
from what?

Uncle Norman was a paedophile
my parents wanted to know:
"did he start on you?"

she was naked on the pool table,
said I wouldn't do anything,
"you're such a lying arsehole!"

from the moment the condom came off
to the day she said it'd arrived
I sweated shards of glass

I was serious about running
but she said there was nothing
to run from

Published on: 10/20/2014
creeping moderation

moderation creeps up my arm
over my shoulder blades
swallows the cropped head
that looked like a
rocky outcrop yesterday

I hear the lilting
in the background
baroque quartet making life
restful and
fucking comfortable

tomorrow is of concern
to the long-livers;
to the commuters
who buy a ticket and
sit out the journey

I will die ugly,
demonstrably uneasy
holding my balls
rubbing my belly

there will NOT
be a gathering of lost property;
a collection of vanilla straights;
there will be
tortured twins in backseats cutting

and on the Net:
jokes about Lutherans;
recipes for spoon-fed disasters;
ignoble, characterless columns
and three shrewd Salvadorians sossing

Published on: 10/16/2014
the rain is here to stay

the rain intimidates me
forces me inside
threatens me with leaks
halves the temperature

it stays as long as it likes
floods the property,
saturates the donkeys,
teases the cat

forecast says five more days
I increase my pill dosage
climb into bed
squeeze the life out of my pillow

and ask the neighbour to move the clouds
to where they'd put
smiles on boiled and baked faces

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