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Peter Specker

Peter Specker publishes under the name Twixt. He is 61 years old and lives in Ithaca New York; he has been variously published in literary magazines in print and online. Contact Peter Specker thru this website.

Betterment's Self-Defeat

I can make what I write look like such shit
in hindsight by improvement, foddering

Stylized See (short version alternate)

The wave bares a cold brrth of bubble breadth
where it yeasts across its traveling length
and leaves Zambonied slicks behind
to follow its scents of direction.

Thin-particle snow for a few hours
then moratory moments of sun-fat.

Particle/Wave Goodbye

Every once in a (I haven't counted)
a small group of snow lets go its anti-
gravity device (a branch) with a gust
oh it diasporates.


What comes from freedom escapes
the lips of the intimates
and plane as the day flies off
with sound mouthed.

Pickerel Pickle

By a long form in a farm pond from the
bepuzzled algae marabou come, the
pond and its alsos are encucumbered.

Ante Epitaph

I have an idea regarding my death
and the life that leads up to that doorstep
to which I have based all of my plans
of what I mean to accomplish. To the death!

Reality Doesn't Mind Paradox

If reality is what is it's not
there long, it's always replaced by what's next,
it can be seen as simple though complex,
but nevertheless never-the-less,
and always nevermore.

Read Shift

The time since I wrote this and you read it
has lengthened unnoticed in this context
for too long. Thank you for ending it.

I've Scene The Fall

The chandeliery peens of the trees hit
it off with leaves, but then their falling outs
steal the seen; discards, leaf-bleeds, clot wet walks.

Low Tied

Probably another day of wasted
worth in worthless work but, just maybe, not,
and I won't dwell on could-be or not,
I'll dwell on my I-land in the bluesy.

I am not here to stay — nobody is —
we are here for a time and then move on
from wherever we came to wherever
we come.


Empty space trying to improve your lot
by nawing at you with a noing look —

Inmate in yard-togs playing tag so hard,
or stopping, dropping, going on the nod;

Gas bleb in glass — yenning to the bursting
point for the bursting point — popped rice — even
as a child they had your cereal numb

Receding Heir-Line

All her sexuality has to go
somewhere — the stage of being a playwrite's
playmate's over — so she shifts her car
into riot gear, lets the rinky-dink
roller-rink shrink in the rear view mirror.

Metaphoric Acid

Picking up the gauntlets litterbugs left
after their wild knights of wreckless driving
put their horses in their paddocks and slept
behind padlocks belonging to their maids;
as I was saying, the reck of a sharp
mind, a noggin for a nightcap, a tot
of a totter or a tad for the poled
not the rowed — the role of the dies.


Topheavy-with-toplofties companies,
they don't care if the campers are happy,
unless their companies produce campers
for campers, then campers must be happy.
It's the same with the basketball hoopla
that surrounds the tall and good-with-the-ball
handed — those who boned up or can wing it,
who have a lot to do with the to-do
over what they do by how they do it,
doing it so those who buy will buy it.

Nature Walk

The forest with its Fritos floor describes
me in noise to everything with ears.

The contemplation of birds circles me
over the barren lakes and littered lawns
for the bounties of edible scavenge.

Moving shadow
wind can't touch you
but flies the flag
you follow.

What We Have Done To Our World

Ignore-me-nots sliver in the sharp wind
for a bit then blunt. Once they were the picked
but no one touches them now. How could they?

Reel-me's and peel-me's flounder on the sand
for a while then waste. Once they were ordered
but no one prepares them now. How would they?


Copyright © 2009. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Duplication of this poetry and/or art without permission of the author/artist is forbidden under copyright law. Please ask permission if you wish to use for non-commercial purposes
Last updated: January 26, 2009