Author: Terry Abrahams

Terry Abrahams isn't a ghost writer. He lives in poetry and edits Toronto. Find his work at


           flash extols a warning

           an act of mercy


I cannot forgive the dog
for abandoning us

when sound
took his mind
to a quieter place


vanilla ice cream the consistency of cum
dripping down on my tamagotchi, hung
on the same chain the last one
killed itself with.

I eat summer like an animal, I think
as I take another rock between my
fingers, hurl it at the pond, hoping
to see a fish float belly-up,

life gashed short by my
need to fill up           up      up
the gaps between my fingers.
this is the new

millennium, they say,
and the world will end
in less than thirty days.
how will I know?

it all looks

the same

like the handwriting on
the note he passed to
me yesterday, filled
with condolences written
in scented ink.

it said. I think there
was a mention about
neon posioning, a mistake
made in the factory.

those rainbow coloured pebbles
never suited that dumb fish


Mushroom cloud my feelings into pixelated seams
these words sew the pages together, like stiches
closing a wound. I’ve never had stiches but
I can use a metaphor because the Internet told me
I could do anything.

Just like my mom and the gold sticker
still attached to the underside of my
underwear drawer.

There’s a mushroom on my front lawn
that the rabbits refuse to eat. I kick
it over and spread the spores.
I’ve accepted defeat.

Since the horseflowers came,
and you left,
I’ve made friends with the worms.

Did you know that two halves
make not one but two wholes?
Hermaphrodites with no spines.
I think, God is amazing,
and then regret it.

What if he heard me and started
checking up on other aspects
of my life?

I don’t want him to see me
crawl on my belly to you,
a snake I am, a worm.
the mushroom on my lawn
has a family now, smaller
button heads crowning from
the tall grass.