Ranger magazine

Tim Frank

Zebra Crossing

There’s a zebra crossing

where you’ll need a fake ID

and a crucifix to cross.

You’ll find boxers and libertines there,

tackling pedestrians

in a haze of leather boots.

Some say only The Beatles

made it to the other side

unscathed

helped by mythic beasts

and cigarettes

the size of

small men.

This is not true,

because rock music is

dead

and so are books and smokes

and all that is left is a generation

of politicians swimming laps

in hot tubs

picking scabs on their knees

flossing with iPhones

and dreaming of death by denim.

Once, a child

sped through the crossing

in a limousine

taking out a few

earthbound astronauts,

and after the elevator

of blood was swept into three

flutes of champagne,

a Harlem Globetrotter

slam-dunked his dream diary.

Some say the crossing

is cursed by the soul

of big business and mega bucks,

shooting holes

in fires built on Main Street,

as birds torture themselves

with recycled plastic.

The healthiest option

is to swallow your pride

and abseil

across the street,

inhale rain clouds and

frustrate the sun

with movie star kisses.

The zebra crossing

is mysterious—

it’s not on Google earth or any

bus route,

it’s like the Bermuda Triangle

where cocaine and Xanax

line the street,

and that’s the real reason people go

and why no one will ever leave.

One More Drink

Doomed tarot apparitions

mutant scriptures

smoking city hypertexts

One more drink.

Solar flare hysteria

mauled ocean trauma

bleached skies.

One more drink before dawn.

Tech-life demolition

staggered bloody fallouts

stillborn aberrations.

One more drink before dawn and then I’ll follow my friends.

Asylum anarchies

canine delirium

fatal nightmare moons.

One more drink before dawn and then I’ll follow my friends into oblivion.

Festival at the End of the World

There’s a festival

floating

on the edge of a Wednesday,

and it’s always Wednesday—

disturbed, final.

It’s a sign of a fingerprint failure,

a plastic sweatshop disaster zone,

but a strange

celebration too—

we’re all going down together.

Fill up your dying cups and here we go.

A thousand clowns dressed in acid rain

swamp the festival, along with

slaves playing dice

under dishcloth skies

as Rottweilers amputate

bone-dry limbs.

No gods live there,

no arcades or rides either,

just gunmen

sucking the dregs

of a propane tank

with geishas in fallout shelters.

Nobody leaves the festival alive

so buy a ticket

the story’s nearing the end.

There’s no hope

for the young—

bombs are stashed in school lockers

and will explode

before the doors close.

Find your passport,

it’s painted brown, then

leave town

to a horror film theme tune

and follow the fun.

Only parasites survive at the festival,

crawling on tombstones in the sun.

Stay a while and forget the

swimming pools of hope

and the lush blue grass,

because the earth is tongue-tied

and the festival walls

need a slow goodbye.

Book Burning

Readers flip their phones

then bomb the library.

More power to the leaders of the great

unread,

they’re web wise and bound by jackets

outlined in chalk.

An author

riffles through swamps

and eats my back pages

through gritted teeth.

Punish the text

burn the message

and light every monstrous theme,

all we can hope for is a lecture

from a slew

of screaming trees.

There’s a brand of Cali weed

parked outside the Death Star—

bookmarked,

date unknown.

Dry ice prints words on white vans

and says more about girls

than Proust

ever could.

So, call my name

in braille

and tap your novel

with white canes—

I’m floating in ink

with my swimsuit on

and I can’t see further than the fiction

on the bluff of my throat.

The shrill cry of torn paper

makes the pain worthwhile,

let’s all gather around the table

and sing covert songs

about deathly drones

for poignant pieces.

These Are Not the Droids You’re Looking For