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  Aug 2019 Gabriel burnS
Donall Dempsey
"HIYA BUD!"

Saw you coming out of
the Co-Op today.

Buying milk.

And there you were
in the Post Office.

Buying a first class stamp.

We  both
just smiled.

You pulled up
at the petrol pump.

Filled her up.

And there you were
taking the bus.

One way.

We both
just waved.

I was surprised because
the Co-Op was in London.

The Post Office
in Gozo.

The bus going to
Dublin.

The petrol pump
in Guildford.

Now you're dead
you appear

everywhere at once
at anytime

walking into my mind
with a smile and a wave.

Everyone seems
to wear your face.

We do the same old joke
we always did before.

"Brother we
can't go on

no meeting
like this!"

Seems like everywhere we go
there we are.

We laugh.
And hug.
Gabriel burnS Aug 2019
An emergentsea
Real
eyes
See thisease
Come
ply beneath
The softestsign
We carri
on
Un-fin(e)d allyou’re
In
sight
Carefully delivered
  Aug 2019 Gabriel burnS
Chris Saitta
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
The troubadour flourished in France during the Medieval Ages (circa 1100-1350), primarily traveling from court to court.  

The “serena” (evening song for a lover waiting to consummate his love), “alba” (dawn song of a lover), and “pastorela” (song of love from a knight to a shepherdess) are all song forms.  

The “Cantigas de Santa Maria,” the well-known “Canticles of Holy Mary,” are 420 poems sung by troubadours, each mentioning the ****** Mary.  

“Citherns” are essentially the precursor to modern-day guitars.
Gabriel burnS Jul 2019
You’re a blunt trauma from a sharp weapon
You’re the highest of the low-hanging fruit
You’re a dark day to a vampire waiting for the sun
You’re this year’s May that I might as well not...
You’re such a hidden button during ironing “I can’t even…”
You’re the diagonal towards the end of an up-down-down-forward-back-back combo
You’re the most unexpected choke one gets by their own saliva
You’re a Ferrari keeping quiet about a handling defect until it’s too late
And me… I’m just as perfect as you are…
Only not as articulately pronounced…

*

Ти си натъртване от остър предмет
Ти си най-високия от ниските плодове
Ти си мрачен ден за вампир, който чака слънцето
Ти си тазгодишния Май, в който май не бих…
Ти си така скрито копче по време на гладене, че даже не мога…
Ти си диагонал към края на комбинация от горе-долу-долу-напред-назад-назад
Ти си най-неочакваното задавяне причинено от собствената слюнка
Ти си Ферари с премълчан дефект при завиването докато не стане твърде късно
А аз… съм точно толкова съвършен, колкото и Ти
Но по-неотчетливо изказан...
This time I'm making a step across the line in the sand!
  Jul 2019 Gabriel burnS
Jon York
I curl my
           frame around  her,  
                all  arms and
           legs  and  I  can  feel
                   her heart
               fluttering  as  a
                  little bird's,
              frightened and
                      brave.

                     I kiss her
          and she  tastes  like  
                     oranges,
             fresh strawberries
                  and courage.

                      I smile at
               the   sun   in   her
                     baby  blue
                           eyes,
             lick  salt  from  her
                  tanned skin,
         for  the shore our bed,
              lapping waves our
                     spectators,
            soaking  us  until  she
                   curves her
              back  in  roaring
                         bliss!

                         I carry
                   her  over  the
                          moon
                   into the sun.
                                                            ­                       Jon York   2019
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