The Flutters of Fire

Three Poems
by William Hughes


the shaking street,
flesh at night,
pleasant this
smoke of dead dreams, glittered with copper
invention of the dawn, wafting
to sink in the world’s
mirror and snows
and hot springs
evening blast
where floss cores spray
a down nap of milk-wed velvet

where on nightshade hills
floating houses flicker out,
inscribed in swallowed thickets as the
near and distant orchestras
subdue our screaming
melodious and
rhythmic as they are
a force in events

my life is ten blue liquids
spilled over ten clear rings
and hardened
until the dirt’s hammer breathes
them into other workshops
on iron oxide, microscopic
where longships storm
beneath a mystic jumbled crystal,
cadmium, on forts that were crushed
when they knelt to kiss the seas, and on
doldrums where our flags
run down deep in suffocating groves and out of
sparkling cold-water senses

dark silt violence of the city, and countrysides
growing up through it, and the sun-eyed cows,
and the vacuums around planets growing up
through the underground fields and
shades of emotion
dressed in wet diamond tears


The foghorn fiddler           moan of some hymn           from the gutter
Mumbling static of seventeen million people
trying to think
Asylum patients peek out the curtains           one hundred fifty thousand
Miles away

Long walk for the very faithful
Killing for a living
Street talk and night markets          strung across countries
Under high water marks           of vomiting rain

Something is out there breathing
Steam down the halls
of trumpeting white flags

The red bulbs on the nets           cast from cranes
Light up           high on every side

Seventeen inches of sleep come down on the walkways


A sailboat flutters out the back of my heart
Glass wires fan into phosphorous when the wind wraps my brain
Death sounds great bugle blasts through the flags of spring
As the fall rainy season approaches
Wounded lovers appear at the mouth of the forest cave
The dream cannot sustain itself once it grows arms and legs
Dancing amber in the maniac trees – from a spendthrift core
A living column of cloud
Cobblestone water roils in braids toward the mouth corners of my storm drain
Down pageant-lined streets my chest sloshes
Blood slaps against my chamber doors
We like the same songs, but that’s not enough
As the fall rainy season approaches
Wounded lovers appear at the mouth of the forest cave
With tiny flame-bright voices they flee carrying the violin and compass

William Hughes was born in Akron, Ohio in 1987. He grew up in the fairy tale fields of the Rust Belt. He spent six years in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and currently lives inside a veil in Oakland, California


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I am a dreamer, as well as a doer, who lives in the North Georgia mountains. I started my publishing journey August of 2013, have had moderate success, but my utmost passion is my "daytime" job, which is working with adults who are constantly striving to better their lives as they obtain the GED credential.

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