“Poem Where I Get Suplexed by a Nun in the City Centre, Broad Daylight” & “The Boomer and the Tumour”
by Alex Mountfield
Poem Where I Get Suplexed by a Nun in the City Centre, Broad Daylight
a muscle of nuns filling out the road
i am the sweat glistening down their backs
it's tuesday morning again — how violent
men are crying outside the bus depot
cos they can feel the world coming apart
tracy told me you got a fast car so
hop the curb and destroy them instantly
duty of care has timbre of lead pipes
bedded down with all goth iniquities
you can tell a lord when he moves past you
he emits sex crime like cartoon stink cloud
upset when nothing provokes anymore
the nuns from the first line are on the move
they're climbing up the high street like ivy
the tall sister turns, catches my eye, and
points a baleful finger. she hackles, howls
"that's the bottom line — cos stone cold said so!",
hurtling towards me for the sunset flip
The Boomer and the Tumour
sipping from tall decanters of heavy water.
alvin ailey through it all. boys bite all hands,
fed or unfed. they did their own research. it
turns out Satan was just another inhabitant,
in the end. he was the father of all the alliums.
of lovely leeks. chatty chives. garish garlics.
seen the world wearing true religion. through
undergarments. vandals don't dress for winter,
spraypaint fumes are overwarming. stretched
across the garden path. thinspread over the
mountain trails. for avid hikers. boomers break
their backs braving it alone. for EMTs who drag
them back home through the snow. for anyone
who ever asked. okay, four dollars might get you what you need. yes, you'd find yeast in the folds
of your skin, so we all rise. this tide brings the
ships up to kiss the sun. God is great and gives us
all paperback releases. dyeswallowers do better
on the x-rays. americans airborne clap for the
landing. on land, we clap for the end of the movie.
yes, the rifles are wearier than we are. last night
brought a fire into target cvs. aisle seven smoked
the windows black and brown. with the right words,
plastic could be immolated and offered to gods.
arson was just a state of mind. brandy was just
something they drank. she served estrogen and
then she just fucking died. sure, fresh fish spoils
quick. anyone is roast pork, anyone wants wreaths
of rosemary slid in through the skin of their thighs.
okay, computer girl. take a deep breath and shout
love when the taps run clean!
Alex Mountfield is from DC. They are the editor of Icarus Magazine (http://www.icarusmagazine.com/), Ireland’s oldest arts publication. They write and publish HARK HERALD (https://harkheraldpress.github.io/harkheraldpress/), a poetry email blog. Their work has appeared in Icarus Magazine, Púca Magazine, Gold Soundz Zine, and is forthcoming in Violet, Indigo, Blue, Etc. as well as Exploding Appendix Dossier.
Flynn Nicholls is a California-based cartoonist. He loves getting enough sleep.
At the poet’s request, one of this month’s honoraria has been donated to Feed The People Mutual Aid, a mutual aid collective located in Washington, DC. Since August 2020, they’ve distributed over 25,000 meals, and thousands of other resources (tents, sleeping bags, toiletries, etc), to comrades in the community that need them.