LEMON HOUND

More Bite Than Bark Since 2005
Poems
John Thompson: Professor's Last Stand

John Thompson: Professor’s Last Stand

PROFESSOR’S LAST STAND   Don’t believe I’m here: I’ve packed, gone without a trace somewhere north of north,   or I’m lying in the oily arms of the richest woman in Calgary, Alberta;   don’t you realise? I’ve been disappearing all year: at least half of me is eating tea-dunked chappatis outside Katmandu   and...
Rebecca Salazar: Colombiana

Rebecca Salazar: Colombiana

COLOMBIANA   1. (noun.) The CGI favelas superimposed upon the intricate-lit sheen of Zoe Saldana’s left tricep as she nuzzles a handgun between praying hands, barrel kissing her brow as the tasteful taupe words haloed over her head decree Vengeance Is Beautiful.   2. (verb). The act of engaging in a rare form of pica,...
Kelly Shepherd: Self Portrait in Fur

Kelly Shepherd: Self Portrait in Fur

SELF PORTRAIT IN FUR The bear says to the gathered performance artists who are attempting a sound poem that emulates the sounds of a bear I never know when it’s actually sound poetry or when it’s someone making fun of sound poetry The performance artists adjust their bear masks, wipe sweat from the backs of...

Ali Znaidi: The Doxa of the Wind

THE DOXA OF THE WIND The dust is biting the leaves. A chrysanthemum is blooming in a salty dry swamp. Sécheresse is everywhere. I’m searching for a mystery amidst the sandy gravel, forgetting about the wind & about doxa, a common belief as its name implies. My lemonade becomes mixed w/ yellow pollen. The desert...
Alicia E Stallings: The Machines Mourn the Passing of People

Alicia E Stallings: The Machines Mourn the Passing of People

Concetta Principe: from Perversions

Concetta Principe: from Perversions

THIS DON JUAN FISHBOWL to reach and stop. to want and keep going. to want to reach the limit. to want to take and justify the taking. to reach the limit and steal transgressing. this shapes all that is cypher. sealed with a kiss. so many they cannot be counted. so many thrown, juggled, dropped...
Taryn Hubbard: Two Poems

Taryn Hubbard: Two Poems

ON ROLLING THE DICE I tried to explain non-sequitur username perfect punch line a secret combination what’s the point of baited wish down at the avatar hall? tight cued lemon juice, raspberry, reboot, a diagnosis for coconut oil nature’s web forum crowd verified recommendations for correcting personal experiences, or what happened to my friend, or...
Steve McOrmond: Two Poems

Steve McOrmond: Two Poems

INTRODUCTION TO HOMELESSNESS _____“The point is that fashion is the armour to survive the reality of everyday life.” _________________________________________- Bill Cunningham Bare feet in old running shoes, a tattered cape made of shopping bags skilfully knotted together so they overlap like shingles on a roof or oily feathers. Were you a tailor or sailmaker in...
Annick MacAskill: Woman as Riot

Annick MacAskill: Woman as Riot

WOMAN AS RIOT “Then come curtain-lectures in the live-long night.” –St Jerome Our best shot was to ignore it—like a group of dignified mute let gravity herd our cries, take them into the earth. We could have stayed silent: a supple garrulous throat you like to jam things into; the pretty fatras for your soirées....
Jordan Mounteer: Urban Koans

Jordan Mounteer: Urban Koans

URBAN KOANS (I) Bricked corridors, buildings bunched elbow-to-elbow in the blue-shift of coastal rain. Street-lamps duck and blush as we pass, fluoride-gazes eschewing all but their own perimeters of pavement, vision hung like a bell in some Pavlovian stoicism. In a corner café the woman beside me uses “logistic” too often to describe the process...
Tim Cresswell: Three poems

Tim Cresswell: Three poems

A GLASS OF WATER They say this glass of London water passed through eight bodies before mine. Starting near Heathrow. A Sikh cabby. The morning shift. Then teacher between classes, a young woman, Kiwi, fit to burst. A Southall market seller, bagging mangoes and bitter gourd. A man who lives on a Brentford boat, pissing...
Sanjeev Sethi: Rigmarole

Sanjeev Sethi: Rigmarole

RIGMAROLE After the drill of social punctilios, when curtains are drawn, the blah blah of bovarism lies peeled in hearts willing to eavesdrop on themselves. The therapy of truth unveils its secrets: we know our lies better than all the light there is. After a mortise level on laminate of life, it is meaningless to...
Stephen Collis: from Redactical

Stephen Collis: from Redactical

1 Stuck again we came up with something else Tried gluing the cardboard shards of boxes To our heads and backs like The defensive plates and spikes Of dinosaurs we weren’t but were becoming Or drove out west like a movie we remember Where girls feet rest on the dash Window prism light listening to...
Allison Fairhurst: One Poem

Allison Fairhurst: One Poem

PHALANGE I used to—with a flashlight— inspect the bones in my hand a child’s fascination: what’s in? orange phalange glow but the bones in these hands of mine moved like worms in there and I was scared so I called Mum on a black bakelite telephone with a dial instead of buttons and I kept...
Catriona Wright: Two Poems

Catriona Wright: Two Poems

MUK-BANG You sign in to watch the K-Pop princess eat three steaks, a bucket of kimchi, ten carp pastries filled with custard and red bean paste. You sign in to see her hair, silky as bull semen, her skin, dewy as snail slime. She is size minus ten, but you sign in to see her...
C. Kubasta: The Prurient I

C. Kubasta: The Prurient I

THE PRURIENT I i much of the language of this section lifted from Gray’s Anatomy ii language lifted from Gray’s Anatomy iii language lifted from The Malleus Malificarum _____ C. Kubasta attended Wells College and received an MFA in poetry from The University of Notre Dame. Her work experiments with hybrid forms, excerpted text, and shifting voices. A...
Erín Moure: Кaпycтa / Kapusta

Erín Moure: Кaпycтa / Kapusta

КAПYCТA / KAPUSTA _____ Erín Moure writes in English and Galician and translates poetry from French, Galician, Spanish and Portuguese into English by, among others, Nicole Brossard, Chus Pato and Fernando Pessoa. Her work has also appeared in short films, theatre, and musical compositions. In 2014, her Insecession, a translational echo to Chus Pato’s biopoetics,...
Cassidy McFadzean: Three Poems

Cassidy McFadzean: Three Poems

ON WEARING THE LEGGINGS OF EARTHLY DELIGHTS Not are they born of the left-most panel – of fowl _____and fur emerging from a place of absence, from which __________we perceive a layer of brown earth. Nor from God blessing Eve, _____as Adam wipes the sleep from his drowsy eyes. Neither has it come, this exquisite...
Lynn Crosbie: Three Poems

Lynn Crosbie: Three Poems

Lynn Crosbie is a Toronto writer. Some of the poems from this collection, The Corpses of the Future, have appeared in Highway magazine. Her new novel Where Did You Sleep Last Night comes out this spring with House of Anansi Press. Her latest e-short story/fanfic, “Little Snowfall” is online now.
JULIE MANNELL: A POEM AGAINST PRETTY BODIES

JULIE MANNELL: A POEM AGAINST PRETTY BODIES

A POEM AGAINST PRETTY BODIES We all feel very bad about cutting our wrists when we’re at an age where a certain element of creativity is expected and maturity is required. I do it like a little girl. I do it the wrong way on purpose. Sometimes I do it so others can see it....
Ben Lerner: Didactic Elegy

Ben Lerner: Didactic Elegy

Sense that sees itself is spirit. —Novalis 1. Intention draws a bold, black line across an otherwise white field. Speculation establishes gradations of darkness where there are none, allowing the critic to posit narrative time. I posit the critic to distance myself from intention, a despicable affect. Yet intention is necessary if the field is...
Tanya Tagaq: Untitled

Tanya Tagaq: Untitled

when air becomes thin flesh could be moved like warm butter and chewed and swallowed without hurting anyone where my own insides can be pulled through my fingers where death seems like the only thing that is sure the only natural thing left where the lights go dim and reality blurs and my thoughts turn...

Jane Eaton Hamilton: Immaculata

IMMACULATA Oh mud lover, oh dirt, oh sewage, I’ve been wearing April like galoshes, Stomping your ditch in a swill of brown water, nursing your weeds like tits. Well, that’s over, it’s May tomorrow— no more quicksand for me. Is this love, this ooze and stain? Your leeches ride my elbows. Your scum exhales me....
Colin Fulton: Lesson Eighteen

Colin Fulton: Lesson Eighteen

  DON’T PARALIPSISE THROUGH MY ZEUGMA AND TELL ME IT’S PHRONESIS DON’T MOVERE ALONG MY LITOTE AND CALL IT ELENCHIC DON’T PLEONASATE AMID MY MAXIMS AND CALL IT ONEDISMUS DON’T ENALLAGE ONTO MY OCCUPATIO AND TELL ME IT’S SANNIONIC DON’T BOMPHILOGIATE AGAINST MY APOPHASIS AND CALL IT KAIROS DON’T ARETE MY ISOCOLONATE AND GO ON...
Madhur Anand: Two Poems

Madhur Anand: Two Poems

IF I CAN MAKE IT THERE It’s January and in the news, white fluff, cherry trees flowering in Brooklyn. What to make of the changed phenology? A closet of cuttings: Pale yellow pages. Lignin destabilized where lines are preserved. I’ll follow greenhouse seeds, edit second editions but need more breathing room, more literature review. And...