blackmail press 22
Ray Succre

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Takahe, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.


I was offered to these flowers first in face,
should there be, for mercy, my dazed, poor fish
attributes, for mercy, a mother I feed.
By calf love are blue lights, and this summer
jism rises from me, my loss, can it be an honest
walk on air?

I'll shade her to heaven with this camphoric liniment,
night and warmly, the time we have the earth
in trembling zeal, wiping the love of the sun
from every face that the perish turns downward.

The woman is east, I begin to bear misfortune,
and western write over my joys with the distance.
Atop leaves, so many scraped across my feet,
and, standing honest by her pleasant seams,
beside a flame in me, she must see,
and under a fiend blue taint hidden from the
object of sunlight, be placed in wintry sheets.

Coldflower, weary, tired woman swept from time,
sweet focus I plucked as from a cloud,
struggling in night, as my breath blues fast,
sweet object I made of you,
bring me up with pitiful truth, and a lark,
and the air too deep.

The Aphids

The aphids atop the green are terrible.
You, in the center, do you know
you are the price of my eyes now?

I find it hard to stay well;
the aphids forget their nightmares
even as they occur.

They’ve crawled fiery into my wife
and nipped from the leaves and water.
She dries and shrivels the ages of a date.
The aphids have circled us in Hell,
with empty strokes of tiny legs and eyes.

I Will Have No War-Deeds

I will have no war-deeds nor works, and so must spawn my gems
while the wild man waits to remove them by greater hands
than mine.

There are some so low and loathsome to nature,
some so living and conscious, that she must be vacuous,
and unconcerned, though she surely waits to digest us
in a manner so slight as to be only cardinally caught.

Boar in the brine, man most at home, telling,
a speak for the hand and gems for the Earth
trickled forth like droplets.
I should not be present long, memories torn from the lap
become my back, a busted mast, while fish in my blood gather,
gasping last, a scream in the washing waves.