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Ray Succre (email)


About the Poet:

Ray Succre is 31 and currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son.  He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. 





The long spatters of her,

years across the luncheon,

the gravy speech,

other streaks of paint,


just imagine,

a margin of handsome

shade was feet away,

melodies of unpestered,

accidental anarchy,


chalk-etched pow!,

in place of striking hub-kept


approval, her body

unfastened, incidental, yet


her body crescents

against the first wheel;

new works


the reference.


Preening the scab with

a pretty comb,

just imagine,

spatter, purpose, and streak.





Let looking back describe my thought

when the world before me looks on.


With pennies in hand to prosper the ghost-keep,

some mortis to affix my place among them,

may I later witness my children approach

with quarters each.


Hand in hand, so having felt

where all the passage starts,

I bid my sweet wife no horrid renewal,

and spring against her palm an account

larger than my own.


When the boatman is sufficed his clinks,

we will pass, leaked into the down hereafter,

expiring as piss and applause.

We will aggravate our punishments in an ugly,

loving vale, and for our grand or sinister deeds,

whatever is recorded, become the snake, itself,

a head at each end.



Rich Preserves


To what privacies, the unmade glass bed,

in like love ruddy accosted, pin-up and pump-scratching,


they doze me out as bead-sweat from damp, deaf jam

in rounded Summer heat through the jar.


I sweat through the glass itself, to the air,

cumulating, erecting, shark-circling the gestures

of wood-housed, dusty screws.


Fingers dipped into jam, fingers to tongue,

raspberry a rocky suspension of stains,

caster sugar, wax and moist sud;


Fumbling puckering sucking gnarled slits in a wild hand.



Kissing Margaret Atwood


Eels, redworms, and Margaret

are the same.


Their shadows cast mute and wriggling,

and so they live in alcoves, silt, and sod.

They get rid of the air to vocalize worry,

gasps of a sort,

and then they shudder and twist at the lights

as if these were their hearts all along.


When in lust, they expand like baguette

in a bath; when they wake, it is slow

as melting frost.


They all eat bits, they all dream of things

that hide, and the very notion of time

leaves them be, until.