Cellulose & Rust Selections - Two Poems that Shatter the Rules

Newly welcomed into The Peanut Society of Lucubrators are the enviable miens of Dr. Cellulose and The Purple Mayor of Heavy Rust.

Dr. Cellulose is uncommitted to Hippocratics and doesn't wipe his bum. Don't send him out for an extra bag of saline when it's raining. He has a tendency to dissolve but insists on living in England.

The Purple Mayor of Heavy Rust is a hardy, abrasive type who's as likely to raid your bins after midnight as he is to be on your executive recruitment panel. Elected through fair and open competition he doesn't appreciate the word “paracentesis.” A beastly decision maker.

Not being authority figures rooted by outside affiliations, these two gentilhomme-gargoyles are receptive to some rule-breaking poetry. With hands under your chair, then, please applaud these new member advocates of our fluid fiction initiative as they spearhead my two poems.

Dr. Cellulose's choice of verse poem

She gave me a neurological examination.

Look in my eyes,

Squeeze my fingers,

I water his art.

Splashing with venom

Pen or no pen.

Beneath this wintry visor

I'll laugh again!

Embolism nightmare;

All fetid, all clear.

Rag-and-bone office,

I'll die before I leave here.

Have my arm as your memento

Peculiar rats!

Squeeze my fingers, now

It's your turn.

M. A. Green, written in Wales 2012; reworked 2013

The Mayor's choice of prose poem

Wiry beards have eaten out my sleeves. Outside mechanical hands with foul engines audit more disappointment than young men can bear. Cobalt eyes; the cardboard defeat. I'm the ink on the walls. The stain! I'll scratch your heel, but I'm less than a cobble on the street.

Living in an impasse, our time, slugging old hospital water, you and I, imagine. Glazed eyes, dry ears, tailored in seaweed, our audience! Clap for a languid dog, the hobo expired, their toppled popcorn business.

Staunch building should've forgotten me. I'm a Belgrade hideaway, barrel in my windpipe, one rotten tongue; saying everything to myself and nothing to anyone. Sliding silence and the silver night groan bends. Jevremova. Hollow by morning. Emptied by children with salty futures.

Threadbare friend, my solitude is yours. Gut-kicked with sharpened toes, thrown outside draped in shadow. 

I ripped a towel to tell you → the words in my heart written on with litter. No rats to witness the mess, just I to lick up its glitter.

M. A. Green, written in Serbia 2012

These poems aren't

These poems are a dirty bathroom brush

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