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Five Poems By Peter Schwartz




my hands,

filled with wicked silhouettes

are no better empty

for still they

are not eloquent

flashing like prehistoric

fish through traffic

their backbones comprise

spine for my entire catalog

of simple gestures

meant to show ugly love being

pulled slowly into sainthood

as if some pretend russia

I can't describe would be

worth such sirens

my hands, my hands

whose wrinkled escapes

can only be worn by speaking

of rabid immigration

and gentle politics

they soften off the puppet clock

forgetting their tiny warrants

for black nausea and poetry

how strangely my hands

have survived...

(Poem was  first published by Lily)




the truth moves like a barracuda

cross-eyed, nettled, terminable


thus we resurrect fragments

of the fertile, hoping

in fetid bounds, opal-wide, wrapped

in caliber, towards the nightly canals

clay shrouds alike

with yes, some


inside the bystander's counterfeit

double, we guess upon the crystalline

in a clock-like display of


thus the cancer of how, again


for this beheld cargo star

of some faintly oceanic, dire and

convulsive rehearsal,

this flicker of belonging, beneath the


has no bouquet, none



death moving in those drones

of barracuda, a sliver of


in the caricature

emergencies we summon

to evade more blatant gambits

for the chair.

(no chair)

deboned, flabbergasted, deadlocked,


(Poem was first published by Mad Hatters' Review)





it's belladonna ladyship with penny royal tea

it's a false widow

exchanging porcelain overseas

it's the brittle little cakes that break

as we take sugar from snowflakes

when neanderthal


it's birdseed and beer gardens

the amber fellowship

of reeds

it's coaxing father T.

to number the parts of his heart

while she whispers siamese

outside the park

it's inelegant,

it's prosthesis, a sarcophagus

a touching of cups

it's mother N. whooping it up

at the steps of


(Poem was first published by Sein und Werden)



tin eureka


O supreme dervish

defy your patrons and harvest

your canvas, your vanguards

your innermost plankton

through soldierly baptisms

and icons and crossfire

and caskets

defy these virgins of the eventual

whose every widow owns a window

seeing all flora with and without

its hard parade of souls

that often passes over

like a coma in the


soft circa be the light

by which your prey portal

reaches its most vulnerable

courtship - that powerful twin

ephemera of postcard hopes

and silent valentines

defy your epic satellites

your quarterly poisons

and ransom -

that juggernaut on stilts

blocking out the next eclipse

and accept your tin eureka

(Poem was first published by Sein und Werden)


what wasn't (ode to an atheist)

I am the nostrum

and the suffering...

crossed out too many times,

a few symbols left drying

on the clothesline

till the next storm

next to a patient list of losses

by a bottle of vodka

I am a living epitaph in dis-

agreement with the fixed

psychology of my own shadow

a creature with a tapeworm

too terrible to trust

marching with invoices

down to the cafe for yet

another drink off the wheelbarrow

of common sense

(Poem was first published by Poetry Super Highway)



PETER SCHWARTZ is the editor of 'eye' and the associate art editor of Mad Hatters' Review. His artwork can be seen all over the Internet but specifically at: Peter has almost 200 poems published in such journals as Porcupine, Vox, and Sein und Werden. Currently he is working on paintings for an exhibit at the Amsterdam Whitney Gallery in Chelsea NYC.

His motivation(s) for the work here on Shine shall remain his secret for now...