Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
The Power of Performance (Patti Smith) Your pale lips are dry yet your hoarse voice is pulsing a staccato yell as the lights and the drumbeat form a pounding rhythm for sweating energy and the wide eyes that restrain dark Continue reading The Power of Performance (Patti Smith) and 2 other new poems by Henry Bladon
Weißbirke Ich wurde in Deutschland geboren. Mönchengladbach was where I was born, so why wouldn’t I have an affinity to the place? I rode my bike round to Lilienthal Strasse because there was a girl who lived there who I Continue reading Weißbirke & two other new poems by Henry Bladon
The Scab of My Consciousness Picking the scab of my consciousness releases radioactive plasma and causes neo-surrealist visions of pugilist figures and tribal images to scatter among the urban lexicon As I listen carefully to the alcoholic nun, malevolent science Continue reading The Scab of My Consciousness & Two other new poems by Henry Bladon