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Patrick Cann

Patrick Cann calls himself the Dr Frankenstein of poetry, for he adores piecing together parts of dessicated flesh to create life. A self-proclaimed Canadian frost hobbit, Mr Cann has been writing poetry for over twenty-five years now. He believes his art to be an act of shamanism, and thus, he feels it's an experience of ecstasy and anguish.

Red

The roses no longer taste ruby,
Minarets swept into the sea,
Flicking digits hotly,
Pulling triggers until bodies stop twitching
miserably.
I am black and silver and crimsoning,
War drums rhythmically.
The nuclei ripped asunder,
Thermal nuclear proclivity.
Stygian puts a legion at my dominion,
Animus hostility,
All I see is red.

Lighthouse Keeper

Embolism, spiral and residue,
Crepuscules, pinnacle pentacle tentacle.
When the surge breaks and births
mirk monsters,
Glinting in Poseidon’s trident,
The slow knotted crippled mandible
approaches
The long night of knives wet.

The Perfume River

Gleaming entropy through decaying eyes,
Whimpers not howls, gasping shade, not fury,
Slowly, swollen, sour sweetly, grimly we go, grimly,
Down the perfume river.