Plop

It’s mostly the way the word just drops
from your mouth, over before you even
start, and lands somewhere, like the sloppy
plunging sound of vomit as you heave

into the toilet. If that seems like an
unnecessary image for me to
plant in your head, I wonder if you can
suggest a less repulsive way to use

the word plop. Because most people think
of poo and various other semisolids and liquids you’d never drink
or even want to touch. Really, aside

from the patter of fat falling raindrops
there’s just no polite way to use plop.

* * * * *

Holly Painter is a Creative Writing MFA graduate of the University of Canterbury in Christchurch, New Zealand. Her poetry has been published on four continents, and in dozens of literary journals and collections, including the New Zealand Listener, Sport, Landfall, JAAM, and the Cream City Review. Holly lives in both Ann Arbor, Michigan and Singapore and works as a copy-editor, a poet-for-hire (adoptapoet.wordpress.com), and a volunteer at 826michigan. Her submssions to Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

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Dr. Hurley’s Digest, Vol. III, Issue 10

The return of a favourite author, Jude Joseph Lovell, gave us an insight into his novel Blue Six, and we got more goodies from John Grey and Nicolas Bruno. Check it out:

 

Monday – Photography

Wednesday – Poetry

Friday – Fiction

Stay tuned for some newbies next week!

How the Rock Makes Us Feel

The night’s not singing
hymns to us.
That’s just fools
warbling around the piano
in that bar across the street.
And ghosts aren’t on the prowl.
Strictly wind, lover,
strictly wind.
The shake of trees…
you know the type.
Critters crackling through
the underbrush.
Sure, the trunk has roots
but you and I?
We go back as far
as our last tears.
And when was that?
Yesterday?
The evening’s mute
for all our passing through it.
It knows a time
before men, before women.
And nothing since then,
I might add.
Let’s sit here,
these rough stones.
uncomfortable as it may me.
Kiss while we can
but this is the reign
of the pitiless rock.

* * * * *

John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, he has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Dr. Hurley’s Digest, Vol. III, Issue 9

Some great photography and poetry kept us entertained this week, from Nika Ostby and Marcella Hammer. You should read and look at them, if you didn’t have a chance already!


Monday – Photography

Wednesday – Poetry

We have some fiction by a Snake-Oil veteran, Jude Joseph Lovell, as well as poetry from John Grey and photos from Nicolas Bruno next week!

The Immortals

The world ends in fire and all remaining Immortals
drift out from the wreckage, like a Saturday on a lazy river.
“Ride it, like a wave. Like you have an epic hangover,”
says Kali to a stunned coyote that drifts past
as the universe bounces us back out again.
We all cross paths, sometimes—
each shouting a message—
and listen sharp to every glorious hint of sound.
“Patience was wasted on the mortals,”
says Cerberus—I think it was him,
and Venus sang a pretty song.

Eventually,
it stops.
Some of us problem solve the next part—
find each other again,
wrecks and other junk from—

Time is just there, sometimes,
a stink you can’t get out of.
“Why did Death get so thin?”
I ask one of the sun gods whose name I can’t remember—
they all look the same to me.
We stand on the beach and watch as everyone arrives—
only it’s more a cliff overlooking nothing at all.
Stars and clouds of new matter lap at our ankles and swirl past.
He nods his heads and pretends to hear me over the sound,
which is not sound so much as—

There’s always an adjustment period.
I decide to find Venus.
She didn’t look half bad, considering,
and there’s a certain joy to be had by forgetting.

* * * * *

Marcella Hammer is a writer and an entrepreneur. She lives in San Francisco and enjoys mountain biking, running and good German beer. Follow her on Twitter @marhammer. Her other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

Dr. Hurley’s Digest, Vol. III, Issue 8

This week, new Snake-Oilers joined an old hand to give us poetry and fiction. Check out what you missed.

Monday – Fiction

Wednesday – Poetry

Friday – Poetry

More to come tomorrow!

Dungeon

Here souls raged
but now there’s nothing but concrete walls
scratched up with names and dates.
I rub my hand across these gravestones in progress.
There’s a hardness
but where’s the fierceness.
One man watched as bindings slowly
cut through his ankles.
Another slapped his head against a rock like a sack.
Some withered in the corners.
Others were bolted to the wall.
No future and yet, for all my efforts at imagining
myself in their place, the past tells me nothing.
Where is the torture? Where is the agony?
Surely the spirit seared with fury
even as the body slumped.
Couldn’t such anger, such frenzy,
survive the wracked, wrecked, skeletons?
No, this prison block is calm.
Swallows build nests. Mice dig holes.
Tourists saunter through.
At ten bucks a pop, the jailers are absolved.
So feel the cold stone, stroke the rusty metal…
forgive yourself into the bargain.

* * * * *

John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, he has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.

New Romance

Carrying your own rebellion of Lepidus, Brutus,
you have seethed and broken teeth over Claudia, so I shall be your Porcia.
I’ll not swallow fire for any man –
nor poison my lungs with foul air, nor with any lingering malignancy.

I’ll not trap myself in the purgatory of suicide for any price or want or hurt.
Instead, I will line my stomach with gold and carefully sew my lungs with precious stones
so that you may see me on your return from battle.

voyage to death; death to voyage.

Wrapping my legs around your torso like Medusa’s hair and
turning you to stone so that you may never cross a passage without me,
I compound the fluid I have collected into ichor so that we may live forever
as stone and wood and silver and gold.

nectar of a hero; heroes’ nectar.

* * * * *

Carly-Jay Metcalfe is a Brisbane-based writer of poetry, fiction, memoir and biography. More of her writing can be found atwww.bruisesyoucantouch.com. This is her first contribution to Snake-Oil Cure.

Dr. Hurley’s Digest, Vol. III, Issue 7

New Snake-Oiler Nika Ostby shared some photos this week, and a return by Ali Znaidi provided our poetic interlude.


Monday – Photography

Wednesday – Poetry

More Snake-Oilers will be here to entertain you next week!

Another Hobby

the phenomenon of biting one’s nails
necessitates sharp teeth,
& practice
[practice makes perfect],

But as teeth begin to trip into decay
you have to learn another hobby,
though ardous.

the phenomenon of sawing trees up
necessitates sharp saws,
& practice
[practice doesn’t make perfect this time],

& as earth begins to trip into decay
you have to learn another hobby,
though ardous.

* * * * *

Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. His work has appeared in The Camel Saloon, Otoliths, The Tower Journal, streetcake, The Rusty Nail, Yes,Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, Red Fez, Carcinogenic Poetry, and other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

See his other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure here.