Brian Flaherty, New Zealand Bio: Brian is one of three editors of the highly regarded New Zealand Poetry and literature site "Trout".  Blackmail Press regards  Trout as one of the finest electronic poetry publications online.

BMP4 nzpoetsonline

BMP4 nzpoetsonline

Baluchistan

There is no water here. The wind walks the earth like a broom made of twigs. The salt desert - white as a bloodless coup, a milky reservoir drained to its ochre walls. It is easier than confronting the whole, this notional escape, the lure of the incomplete. I find myself asking a stranger for directions, although I am not lost. He points to a bunch of twigs tied with red rag. The jigsaw of his face is shedding pieces everywhere, fragments easing loose from their ornament, petals dropping, tendrils breaking. He reacts with indifference, knowing already the worst and best of outcomes.

Begum

Things could turn again, nothing is fixed in the stars' bright geography. Great wealth moves like tides amoung bazaars. The faithful queue at the Daily Bread Institute. Fatalism, our national characteristic, prevents us from confronting these omens, this country of snakes and idol worship, where bodies are daubed, genitals adorned, ghost cloth hanging from barren trees. So it is ordained. And yet small hope kindles me, unfurls my ragged banner from the hidden life of courtyard houses. Be it your strong heart. Be it your wild eyes' passion, your face shining ecstasy like a dervish spinning. Sing me a ghazal, Begum, and my heart is yours.

Your Living Ray

I can't remember the process how we were to be relieved. Big friends, we were locked into movement, sleeping with our boots on, lest we should need to run for our lives. Forgetting to eat, falling from midair. Lightning, heat, mighty glacier tongues. The painstaking work, sketching, notetaking, mapping by theodolite and compass. Your turtle ring, your living ray. Out of nearly hundred mules and camels, maybe six survived. I don't remember now. All works copyrighted