Brand "X" , and ACME, poems and stories. Surreal, sappy, funny, horrific, and human.
Lee Dunn
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
November neighborhood
In the switched-off kitchen I peered through drapes of grey lace, transfixed at the sight: a mirror hall of backyard infinities, benighted in a mute of blue. The straight rise of chimney smokes seeping secrets into heaven.
MoreCamouflage
Garbed in pastels and duns I went, though there were whims of crimson, and blue ebullience. And I was always just around the corner, safe in softness, empty of the passings by. On a day, I thought to write lines with hooks and sinkers. A thing to underlie, a thing to fill this tired camouflage.
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Sleep tight
The sleeper’s in want of a whirling fan to mitigate the noises of the settling night To knit a womb of warm and snowy static that gloves in syllables ~We are on guard~ ~We will see to care~
MoreYou just keep me hanging on
I live in the worldof whistle and hum…those intimatesthat clear the blank snow from pathways.That conjure up demented dance,and keep at bay the deathly trance.
MoreGod save the Queen
Dreams, I’ve had, and thoughts in broad day, now, of doors both shut and locked. Of bridges, burned or broken. Vision’s through wrong-way binoculars, cleverly cartooned. A safe distance. But listen…just… The clown is talking.
MoreCareful now
A trusting soul is long in the learningof candor’s proper place. For betrayals rankle still,confounding the hardened heart,Their memory an accretionto its jealous husk.
MoreThe church of research
May I do this with your arm, you said. Not ~Can I~, but ~May I~. And then, with your hands, you pressed down hard into the years, prying up stones that were cold and complacent. The roots of moles and strawberries. And “What?”, I thought. What are you looking for? This hurts, yes.
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