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T S S Fulk
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the poet
T S S Fulk, a neurodivergent author and poet who lives with his neurodiverse family in Sweden, holds an MA in English literature from the University of Toronto, and has had his work published by numerous presses and journals. He edits Sublimation: a Magazine of Speculative Poetry and Art, and is an active musician who plays bass trombone, the mountain dulcimer, and the Swedish bumblebee dulcimer. His first collection, Metamodern Morning Angst and Other Horrors, appeared in 2024.
the poems
The Unquiet Grave
I awaken midst caresses
of the westerly wind
my sweet spectral lover
their touch light forgotten kisses
I arch my neck, face beaming up
toward gently falling rain
darkening cleansing blotch by blotch
the polished marble stone
A lone silhouette approaches
Soon Greenwood shall I leave
His name is buried deep below
under piles of rubble
the detritus and floss of time
yet by the moon he comes
bearing blossoms to wilt for me
brushing stray leaves aside
With trembling lips he stand o’r me
a lamb to the slaughter
Spiked tendrils of my mind extend
Soon Greenwood shall I leave
He is still in the peak of life
so dearly that I miss
I swell grateful for each visit
another hook attached
I know not why he comes to me
a blessing from the gods
For he shall be my salvation
his sacrifice my boon
As the vessel fully opens
now Greenwood shall I leave
Morse Code
Soundwaves came up through the walls
the dull barely perceivable
rhythm patterns from our son’s feet
tapping to K-pop videos
These were not seismographic waves
and yet they drilled into my brain
whose neurons sought to organize
into the semblance of a song
And that is all it takes
to ruin my routine
to keep sleep well at bay
Yes, that is all it takes
to enshroud the next day
in a fog of tiredness
What message was crypted therein?
Simple fragility
A Sonnet in a
Time of War
When the new gods arrived
with their train of monsters
we stood still mouths agape
with disquiet and awe
as they toppled buildings
slaughtering us like sheep
The dead outnumber the living
our homes turned to tombs of rubble
Rising above the smoke and dust
the wailing of the survivors
fails to reach the old gods’ ears
Our pleads unheard thus unanswered
The new gods dance upon the dead
We fall down and kneel in despair
For we have called them here
to make our world a great boneyard
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb