the poetry that matters

Thomas Hoad

Thomas Hoad is a third year undergraduate student at Brock University in St. Catharines, Ontario. He is studying English Language and Literature.


Messy mastication in mini-mall maxi-marts

Eating merry metals for multiple mystery machines

Many men screaming “Mommy, mommy, mommy!”

Men moaning in Minsk about marriage,

To that permanent myriad of miscues and misgivings,

And they muffle their minds with meaningless promises

To their mad melancholy mystifying mistresses in Mexico.

“Remember  December?” the men ask,

“Marching through mortar mounds and maniac German Marx?”

Missionary missions are declared amiss with myth

Mauled mortal mansion houses and

Miscarried metal electronics, manufactured melted plastic maze

Amount to meddlesome misguided master plan distractions

And that manic stuttering “M-m-m-m-m-m-mommy!”











A Morning Walk Through Puddles

Flat pop and rain batters,

Coats in a gloss and the

The blind man shines.

Like acid, the rain melts the world away;

No way to breathe under water

But everything is beautiful.

In the dark, there you were,

Innocent expression, umbrella in hand,

As you caressed a tank that was

Long since dead.









Sweet Intent(ions)

It’s a lovely day outside

But I know the real truth.

It can be lovely, but it’s still


It’s ugly because you like it that way.

Freezing the sun, your stare comes this way.

Like Medusa, your gaze kills all,

But only when you

Will it.


You stack the quarters beside my bed

Like a payment


The stack won’t stay neat,

But that’s not your intention.


“Well, fuck it,” you said.

And fuck it I did.

Like a deer in spring,

Being sent mixed signals by a


Hell, I’d do anything for you.


A slave mentality suits you well,

I think.

“You’re lucky,” I said.

“Why?” you ask.
“Because there’s another bottle of vodka.” Is all I can think

To say.



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