a poetry e-zine

Featured Poet - Moly Tov

Moly Tov is egregiously extant. They have had a few poems published both online and in print, and a varied sampling of their poetry
and paintings can be found at: TheHodgeandThePodge.wordpress.com

Poems by Moly Tov

two small spasms in the diaphragm
force a short avian laugh
from a slammed-shut face
hung over a carved-out chest
muscles relax
and hands dangle, delicate,
from coat sleeves
nearing inset knees
as the spine bows gracefully
before the giddiness
spites itself
and the palinopsic tributaries
drip years of joy
past smoke-glass-framed convulsions
that bring a single fang into view
like a glimpse of a pearl
tucked in the godhead
and the howling tears
the nerves out
in circuitous fashion
i am unraveled


the forest is full
of creatures scantly upright
the canopy choked floor
rotting gods slowly picked over
by carnivorous mushrooms
it is the edge of the wood
that brings the most danger
the heart is an easy peril to skirt
to stay away is to stay safe
Nyx’s return marks the bleed
and the grave unfurling vines
beyond the bound
to pick at the unwary and uninitiated
it is best to stay in
when Hemera is away
for it is the light that banishes
the hungry things peering out


every morning starts the same
a moment
the calm of black lidded
pain and light
and the first thoughts of the day
a song and gallons of blood
making trash of the mattress
so i heave myself to the bathroom
slip and fall and rest in the tub
where any ending i could get at
would be more considerate
but it’s not as fun
as my roommate’s slug rounds
boring a make-shift window
to let the sun through my aching skull
or the bottle of lorazepam
i’ve whittled down to non-lethal
over the last 4 years
and i resent the shit out of the inventor
of the ground-fault circuit interrupter
for limiting my electrocution options
and i’m too heavy to hang easily
but there’s a beam in the attic
that might be adequate
and the pressure of my ballooning head
has always been strangely erotic
and i could fly if i found the right building
or bridge to launch from
and there’s always the peace
of swimming too far
but that’s an activity for warmer weather
isopropyl alcohol and an ancient box cutter
run over the clutter of past failures
my entrance and exit are equally irrelevant
and i pray to find the courage
for one day
with no pain


the leavings at the bottom
of the basket beneath the shredder
that has been on
for over a fortnight
refuse to piece
all disparate words
their commonalities end
at language and source
no sense forms consistently
from the scrambled scraps
the parts too small
the wholes incomplete
some things
do not recombine
just to spite the resolute


while the acrylic dries
i’ll tuck writing in here
between work
and projects
and exercise
do i go over concrete
piecing together recent events
to ensure i don’t forget
the day in
day out
do i spend it stitching up webs
to connect dissociate circumstances
watch the spinner eat the butterflies
the rain washing off
one. long. sunburn.
another october of a july night
and gratitude
for the faint smell
of sulfur and bay
as a drifter
on waxing gibbous-lit pavement
drowning in cicadas
buggy lightning
antique incandescence
and the not-red
of a deep bleed
as i appreciate
how alone i am
when i dry out


what a cock-sure gift to the world
you think you are
the only fuckable human
a threat to be desired
you impress yourself
into the heads
of all who pass you
you are judge and jury
no one would convict you
because you are guaranteed
such a bright, white future
fuck you


Copyright 2017  Chantarelle's Notebook