four poems

by Tim Frank

On the Green

The politician built a fort

out of candle wax and clay

on the 18th putting green.

He lit a fire,

took a dip,

and sunbathed

in the sandpit.

At night, he looked up

and counted all the stars.

He was a changing man,

his home,

the depths of outer space.

Looting Downtown

I took a stroll downtown.

Kids rolled flat screen TVs

in trolleys

through high class streets

with butane fires,

caved in glass,

and gasping poison mist.

Back home

I opened all the doors

felt the ozone lick my skin.

That night I reached nirvana

with my fingers

down my throat.

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Good!

I hate the races

Names like Disco Meadow Belch

And Painful Rotten Babies.

All they do is run

On abstract swirls of dirt,

As punters soak their

Betting slips

With tears of dirty rain,

They shoot horses, don’t they?

Like warlords in the sun.

Another Trip to Suicide Bridge

Uber driver

drops me off

gropes my trembling thigh—

then rates me.

He’s the go-to guy

for shallow graves

foul as rotten cheese.

He’s a demon

from the fallen night

in a lemon-scented Tesla.

Photo of Tim Frank

BIO: Tim Frank’s work has been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Metaworker and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. His debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24), and his second chapbook of poetry is, Delusions To Live By (Alien Buddha Press, ’25). Tim’s can be found on X @TimFrankquill.