Tag Archives: Poetry

Poetry

Arcas & Callisto in Polu Texni Magazine

Polu Texni is a fantastic magazine that I was fortunate to be featured in a couple of times. This piece was inspired by the greek legend of Arcas & Callisto as well as the constellations that bare their names. Or should I say…bear?

they always told me,
You should have seen her back when she-
(before she had you)
the beautiful hairless nymphs
of Boucher and Titan
had nothing on her
cut marble eyes
Mariah Carey jeans
endless flowing midnight hair

Your mother was a looker kid,
you know that?

...

[Read the full poem for FREE over at Polu Texni Magazine: http://www.polutexni.com/?p=10850]
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Poetry, Previously Published

Remore in Typehouse Issue #20

My new dark fantasy poem Remore is out in the latest issue of Typehouse.

I went back some years ago
and saw them from a distance,
what had become of my people
howling atop the castle gate,
the moat run brown-red
with silt and man…

Read the rest of the poem and issue for FREE or purchase a physical copy here.

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Poetry

Two New Poems

The Psycho-Maid’s Dream

Slaughter, laughter, and virtual reality collide in this piece up over at Liquid Imagination. For this piece I was inspired by Dark Souls, Silent Hill, and the short story “I Have No Mouth and I must Scream” by Harlan Ellison.

Sanctuary

Post-apocalyptic survivors thrive in a mountain sanctuary in this poem up over in the new issue of Strange Horizons. SH is a great magazine and I’m very excited to be featured there for the first time.

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Poetry, Previously Published

The Ghost of Sigma Chi

My latest poem is up in issue 82 of The Pedestal Magazine. It’s a supernatural horror poem, with its roots in my college years. I was never a member of a fraternity, but I was friends with many who were and spent quite a bit of time in Greek houses. I even worked in a sorority house kitchen my sophomore year.

Every university has its share of urban legends and ghost stories, they’re frightening, but also comforting in their familiarity. By the time you graduate you’ve heard them all in every variation. I tried to capture the truth and horror of those kinds of stories with this poem.

The Ghost of Sigma Chi 
by Mack W. Mani
[The Pedestal Magazine – Issue 82]

 

Thanks for taking a look and be sure to check out the rest of the issue while you’re there!

 

Photo by  Oleksandr Pidvalnyi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Poetry

T O P I A R Y

Statues line the promenade,
sun bleached and wind worn
tucked between the palms
one or two lay crumbling,
beheaded, missing limbs,
impromptu Venus

On summer nights like these,
the ocean spray blows in
to cover the city like mist
gently drowning our ambition
in seasaltbreeze

Cyan & amethyst
LED streetlights,
empty quads and alleys
where someone is playing
a Haydn Quartet
mixed by way of Moroder,
windows spilling neon
and complacent violin
-the neighborhood a mash
of old brick and new glass
looking for all the world like
something out of
la quartier mécanique

And right here’s my favorite
24hr. detox and Japanese takeout place
the soda fountains all serve
GHB and TAB Clear
(think Crystal Pepsi w/caffeine),
Arizona Ice Tea,
and water that tastes like zinc

From the corner booth
you can just make out
across the street,
through the gently
shifting fronds
a dozen TV-VCR combos
stacked in an immaculate
storefront window all playing
the Twin Peaks pilot on endless loop

While beyond,
the sea stacks sway
and glisten in
the dead summer haze
and together we melt
into A E S T H E T I C

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Poetry

The Grave Robber’s Confession by Mack W. Mani

I’ve seen Will ‘o Wisps
and St. Elmo’s Fire,
mostly them in the Southlands
graveyards near bayous or swamps.

I once saw an entombed woman 
come back to life 
three days after her death,
I had just slipped the ring 
off her finger pale and bony,
when she gasped and rose with a cry.

One summer I lived 
in the catacombs beneath Paris
and for nigh on a month
never once saw the light of the sun,
only pale torchlight 
cast across fields of bones,
wooden chests rotted to their hinges.

I have walked the hall of ashes
and seen the rotting face 
of John the Baptist.

Once in Afghanistan, 
I even spied a ghoul
prowling the trenches near dawn 
picking the corpses 
of both sides equally.

These are my qualifications,
such as they are;
few know as much about death
and the places of the dead 
as grave robber, 
so believe me when I tell you,
there is nothing beyond the grave,
but me.

No voices 
or tunnel of light
just darkness, dust, 
and these two dirty hands,
trying to make a living.

Art:

[Wooden Grave by Marker Majel G. Claflin c. 1937]
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