Neil Brosnan

nightscapes   in deepest night long after the roads have fallen into slumber I go out and paint them awake again with the headlights on my green jalopy. *** BY NEIL...

oh memory childhood illusion behind what synapse the aroma of smoldering autumn fire suburban side roads softly gauzed in smoky light children’s saturday voices rising from yards family raked weekend chored to the status...

next to my house in a towering maple’s highest crook I’ve wedged an empty soup can open side angled up with a string attached to its bottom end tautly...

bum feet street-beat wise sunk in banged up shoes previously dumpster swiped lean hobo soled holed haloed covered in foot funk sock stink grime   no blue suede shoes snappy tassel loafers…   gamy high-top sneakers here retro Corso’s weary worn down creased re-knotted raced in hiked trod...

see how softly he whimpers now as the needle that fills him with kisses, weeps a concoction of sincerity cut with compromise tarnished silver teaspoon of grief erasing every meaning   whispering in...

oh memory childhood illusion behind what synapse the aroma of smoldering autumn fire suburban side roads softly gauzed in smoky light children’s saturday voices rising from yards family raked weekend chored to the status...

insatiable appetite eats everything kidneys heartbeats dreams devours without end flies under the radar of patriotic flags revolutionary anthems licks mouths dry where lipstick once gave beauty reign leaves rictus grins on exhausted faces runs fat hands...

the manual said so simple now even a housewife can do it. Fantastic, I thought. Let her.  *** BY NEIL BROSNAN: liberation

All night cross-town cabs yellow black Manhattan traveling at the speed of metered time. Surrounded by hubbub and sound honking their way to curb exits. Driven by expatriated hacks who...

it’s difficult to know exactly how many of them are gone but the percentage is high   not the one’s who’ve lost their way the fallen down, mis-directed temporarily out...

that evening you left me on the corner moths drank every street light a swarm of locust devoured the moon. *** NEIL BROSNAN: darkness

ninety-nine names of God in a hat   choose what you need throw the rest back   take the God without image God without face distort him to service the cause you...

sleepless night toss and turn remembering when relived again amended to no avail   up-ended brought forth into that darkness promising clarity   absolute darkness entreats   silence traps…   your beating heart resurrects over and over refuses end. *** BITTER POEMS: echo BY NEIL...