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Poetry from Cheshire:


Zonyx Report:  Cheshire Cover, Winter 1963.   Isadore Knox Photo
Winter 1963
Twenty-Five Cents


bird had 
on mad back
neck broke
beak battered
bent breast unfeathered
whether stiff
or laugh-like
life lies
dies in wire
wing wilts
while claws clutch
such clawing air

      -- Barbara  Gibson
[Back Cover]


like a hog devouring peach pits
moves the gold hand on my watch
death sprouts in columns from the floors
and topples from the walls
the bucket fills and leaks some more
we make the grins of ghouls
our feet wear out, we walk on bones
and imitate what never was
the race of dying fools. 

-- Mike Zetteler

Zonyx Report:  Cheshire Cover,  Winter 1962.  Karen Kukla Woodcut

Zonyx Report:  Cheshire Cover, Spring 1962

Man IV
by Mary Lou Higgins
Illustration for
Gas for Less, Cheshire,
Winter 1962Zonyx Report NewSpinner:  Go to Cheshire Fiction


by Mike Zetteler 

The melting night
a rippling sound
sewers' black gratings
suck covers
from the ground

Bark of trees black
against gray sky
Japanese brush painting
with ink not yet dry

Zonyx the Dancing Scorpio:  Cheshire Poetry Page

The Girl with No
Hair on Her Chest 

I know her words,
they looked so knowingly
With tongue in ear
whisper, whisper. 

I know her sophistication,
not quite verbal,
never yet oral
With lips around a pacifier
nibble, nibble. 

I know her cosmetics,
pink Ponds lotion,
but no Vaseline
With fingers up a wet nose
dribble, dribble. 

I know her sincerity,
it winked with a smile
And footsteps
stumbling over the doorstep
come in, come in 



We shall want
little more
-- once we have learned --
than this transience,
and will delight
to stop the
for, say, an hour or so. No more.
(Cool collage of crazy colors,
of dubious value to touch). 

Like gyroscopes will we be,
making pretty patterns
in the air
as we go constant, non-resistant
to comment on the non-existent
watching us
through the tube of crazy mirrors;
and we looking through our telescopes
backward to Valhalla, hall of mirrors
will be too near-sighted
from straining at the microscope
to smell the death --
wishful thinking
of our late-swinging battles
of wind-in-the mills. 

And when the smoke clears
we will go out again
into coming-up sun
and early morning silence
of loose drum-skins,
light our cigarettes, 
and gag with joy. 


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