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    Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5
    Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5
    Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5
    Ebook162 pages1 hour

    Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5

    By Pure Slush

    ()

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    About this ebook

    70 writers get wrathful! Poems, essays & stories by AR Abbott, S Abend-Sims, E Ahern, M Allen, J Allison, S Aveningo-Sanders, E Barnard, P Beckman, J Bell, R Beveridge, R Blum, H Brown, E Buttimer, S Cameron-McKee, S Carr, G Castillo Oriard, M Christmas, J Chronister, R Cooperman, Mark Crimmins, T Daly, S DiFalco, J Eli, M Estabrook, W Falo, G Garfunkel, F Gaugg, N Ghosh, G Gjomakaj, K Gosse, R Gould, A Grenfell, S Guthrie, J Hocking, M Horsfall, M Hudson, M Kelly, J Khan, R. Lavalette, L Lefkowitz, C Leslie-Bole, P Lingard, P Mackarness, G Maclean, K Mahony, J Maurer, KL Merrifield, C Mesler, P Michal, M Mittman, C Moyne, P Nieuwland, E O’Dwyer, E O’Sullivan, C ‘P’ Palmer, B Pitts, M Quigley, C Rammelkamp, L Rhodes-Ryabchich, RS Rosenthal, E Ruzicka, J Santosuosso, G Sarnat, PD Shea, C Stagg, L Tyrrell, A Walowitz, M Webb, J Weisman & G Yatchisin
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPure Slush Books
    Release dateJan 30, 2019
    ISBN9781925536690
    Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5

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      Book preview

      Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5 - Pure Slush

      Wrath 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5

      Wrath: 7 Deadly Sins Vol. 5

      stories, poems and essays

      §

      A Pure Slush E-book

      new PS logo vertical small

      Copyright

      *

      First published as an eBook collection and in paperback January 2019

      Content copyright © Pure Slush Books and individual authors

      Edited by Matt Potter

      All rights reserved by the author and publisher. Except for brief excerpts used for review or scholarly purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written consent of the publisher or the author/s.

      Pure Slush Books

      32 Meredith Street

      Sefton Park SA 5083

      Australia

      Email: edpureslush@live.com.au

      Website: https://pureslush.com/

      Pure Slush Store: https://pureslush.com/store/

      Cover design copyright © Matt Potter

      Original fountain image copyright © Sarah Benton

      ISBN: 978-1-925536-69-0

      Also available in paperback / ISBN: 978-1-925536-68-3

      A note on differences in punctuation and spelling

      Pure Slush Books proudly features writers from all over the English-speaking world. Some speak and write English as their first language, while for others, it’s their second or third or even fourth language. Naturally, across all versions of English, there are differences in punctuation and spelling, and even in meaning. These differences are reflected in the work Pure Slush Books publishes, and they account for any differences in punctuation, spelling and meaning found within these pages.

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      Pure Slush Books is a member of the Bequem Publishing collective  http://www.bequempublishing.com/

      Poetry

      Greek Coffee

      by Ed Ruzicka

      *

      Have you ever wanted to strangle a friend,

      no matter how much he would thrash and push?

      Nick and I had been up past moon-set to whoop,

      and stomp from camp fire to camp fire

      at a party in New South Goat-sack Mississippi

      on the ten acre grounds of a potter who threw

      gigantic Raku pieces and also hosted annual

      bashes under the autumnal sparks of Orion’s belt.

      He invited the entire Art and Classics departments

      along with reprobates, half-bakes, and stray debutantes

      out of the city to camp, imbibe, hoot, dance

      as if there was no end to it while hills rolled

      off in every direction, darkly secret and with

      Mississippi’s grim resolve. Disturbed

      from their rounds, coyotes glared, lit irises

      reflected at the edge of the woods.

      Field mice nudged along their customary

      paths under blown weed and thistle.

      We reveled. That night some bearded satyr

      grabbed my lapels and shouted into my face

      I see you at every weird party I go to

      at which I blinked, smiled. Beyond provocation

      I shook my head and sauntered off. Found

      a twisty little grad student’s wife to get to know

      in the biblical way in the cab of Nick’s Silverado.

      Eventually some forty of us bivouacked on slopes and knolls.

      Woke to dew. My Greek friend Nick had a little blaze going.

      Was rubbing his hands to warm them as kettle water boiled.

      That is when it started. Nick had a metal cup,

      a spoon with a ceramic design in its bowl. Nick stirred

      his coffee with the spoon till it went from thin to thick,

      from thick to gluck. Nick stirred and stirred. A crow

      perched at the forest’s edge cawing as the spoon scrapped

      along cup metal. Nick hunched. The crow cawed.

      There is only so much that a hung-over man

      by a campfire in Mississippi can be asked to endure.

      The Stern Wind

      by Edward Ahern

      *

      gusts and surges

      like an unchained guard dog,

      strewing dust and pollen,

      flashing the naked underside

      of leaves,

      and tossing meadow grass

      like ruffled bear fur,

      spinning from side to side

      in drunken dance,

      a rioting brawl that cannot last,

      and ends

      with a watery flourish of thunder.

      Beach Confession

      by Jan Chronister

      *

      Forgive me Mother for I have sinned. . .

      I come now, repentant, listening:

      clinking of stone currency

      offered up for collection,

      familiar rustle of hymnal waves.

      Beer bottles once broken on deck

      are forgiven, worn smooth

      like rosary beads between your fingers.

      I find teacup handles, plate edges,

      washed up on shore,

      remnants of some ship’s

      civilization heaved and cracked

      by your wrath.

      We forget what water can do

      until brought to our knees by

      a hurricane, baptized by flood.

      Do As I Say

      by Howard Brown

      *

      Wrath, the outward manifestation of that

      anger which has been smoldering within,

      the moment when, at long last, one erupts

      and begins to seek retribution for whatever

      wrongs they’ve suffered.

      But, didn’t Jesus, in a fit of righteous

      indignation, overturn the tables of the money

      changers and drive them from the temple?

      And exactly what sort of celestial tit-for-tat

      was God meting out when he changed Lot’s

      disobedient wife into a pillar of salt?

      So, at the risk of blasphemy, tell me: doesn’t

      this fifth of the so-called 7 Deadly Sins begin

      to remind you of nothing so much as the old,

      self-serving do as I say, not as I do spiel we

      got from our parents back when we were kids?  

      The Incident

      by Matthew Horsfall

      *

      boxed anger is released

      shifting loyalties in all directions

      the weather reports from poor southern suburbs:

      tension risen on hot rumours of defection

      sliding, a living serpent

      writhing in the wrath of ugly girls

      sidewind and baying

      bloodthirsty students learning

      that violence is indeed prince of this world.

      a white-hot minute

      of four straight and five kicks crooked

      her violent heart throbbing

      with nothing left to lose once first fist hits

      strips of mascara in child’s socket eye

      screaming for help drowning

      in a sea of schadenfreude

      smart phones filming

      as ones and zeroes spread throughout the world.

      child sacrifice,

      rain in the desert.

      After Wrath Of Storm

      by Lucy Tyrrell

      *

      Here

      at dawn

      after wind,

      incessant rain—

      washout of asphalt

      roads with yellow striping.

      Trees that once towered tall, brave,

      gently swayed with singing bird nests,

      wore quivers of green, held their ground—now

      toppled with frayed limbs, fallen warriors.

      Mid-

      morning

      on Squirrel

      Hill, they gathered

      there in sacred space,

      wearing nests of black cloth.

      Storm of hatred toppled frayed

      Tree of Life—incessant shooting,

      rain of bullets. Lips quiver for brave,

      fallen yellow stars, hold their ground, singing.

      Eternal Recurrence And So On And So Forth

      by Michaeleen Kelly

      *

      Many short-change Nietzsche’s idea of eternal recurrence,

      that whatever happens will happen again and again.

      They want to make it reasonable, useful, upbeat.

      More like what Kant and Confucius were saying

      Only doing what you could want everyone else to be doing.

      Would you like it?

      Somebody crapping on your shoes?

      Running off with your girlfriend?

      Nietzsche was never that accommodating.

      Every cheek turned away from a slap

      gets to be slapped again,

      followed automatically by a duck or another cheek twist.

      Speed up the tape

      and it resembles the movements of a Rock-’em Sock-’em toy.

      What Nietzsche didn’t notice

      was the infinite number of differences

      among these inveterate sluggers

      carrying out their dismal destinies as enemies,

      each of their hardened faces

      awaiting grace through transformation.

      Perhaps a moment of redemption

      at the penultimate clarifying moment.

      Like when Nietzsche having just witnessed

      the beating of a horse,

      fell to the ground heartbroken,

      his psyche permanently damaged,

      his arms wrapped tenderly around the neck of the horse.

      Fallback

      by John Maurer

      *

      What have I fallen into?


      Another truth that isn’t true


      Another lie I prefer for the sake of my sleep schedule

      Another grave under a grave where my ancestors


      are buried standing; holding rosary beads or whiskey bottles

      like they know conviction without being imprisoned

      What is falling out of me?


      Another tooth that won’t turn gold

      Another miscarried fetus looking like two

      white pills in a white paper cup


      Blood of spectrums from my septum every time I see the future

      is so much further away for I squandered it


      wandering in the past

      Who am I falling for?


      Not someone who doesn’t call anymore


      For I have a different number on a different phone


      I walked deep enough into hell that I realized it was heaven

      So I eat my bananas at the table with my bandana angel

      Who am I relying on?


      Another magazine that says my poetry just doesn’t fit


      Like no woman has ever said to me after four days of foreplay

      Another magazine that will fuck me for free


      but won’t buy me dinner at a diner


      Smearing my line breaks like red lipstick on a cigarette filter

      Lip Service

      by Marsha Mittman

      *

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