Lunatic Shuffle

By Ken Allan Dronsfield

Thin mummified 
trembling bent fingers 
resembling razor 
sharp raptor talons.

Grasp the burial shovel 
with a fervent malice.
Reasoned breezes or 
teasing chaotic tempests

dance on a marshmallow 
clouded pink fantasy.
Sipping sweet tea with 
a lemonade pouted grin;

My jello lunch reeks but a 
Thorazine high greets me;
now painting the lawn in
a mixed shaded azure,

silver pleated brushes 
of bleached blond hair.
Shuffling into the fog as 
my torch is now hushed;

my friend tried to commit 
larceny of my frenzied soul;
hear his cries for mercy 
from a freshly dug grave

behind the lofty asylum
by the tennis courts where
we loved to sit and watch the
staff relaxing and playing there.

I'm floating over the calm bay 
in a '57 Chevy Nomad wagon
waltzing into a newer decade 
in a drug crazed lunatic shuffle.




Vessel of Silent Death

Awakened by a jolt
misty queried fantasy
cold strangled soul
icy grip on the marrow.
Seething under ground
crispy labored breaths
buried alive it seems,
a vessel of silent death.
Life bequeaths a poison,
coolish Vampire decree
I was hated in my day but...
Now, everyone loves me.




Nocturnal Creeper

Newspaper on a table
obituary section open
whilst tepid tea greets 
my rose colored cup.
Today they found Harry
floating in the Creek
nocturnal creeper and
keeper at the old farm.
Twas a Monday last June
whence his Mary passed
Harry's been wandering
since her burial service.
Alone and cold, no spark
in his eyes, nor a reason 
for taking another breath.
Roaming the roads while
seeking and freaking 
upon the questioned
reasons for her death. 
On this day in a note left
upon her grave, just before
leaping into the icy depths,
twas Harry who finally 
lovingly confessed.


​

 About the author: Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet originally from Hampton New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He has been writing for many years but has only recently begun seeking publication of his work, these appearing in a number of print venues. He enjoys writing, hiking, playing guitar and time with his cats Merlin and Willa.​

 
#1: Letter Of Love
#2: Major Altar
#3: Hee-Haw Pride
#4: Ebola 
#5: St. Valentino
#6: Viatic




About the artist: Daniel de Culla (1955) is a writer, poet, and photographer. He is also a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He has participated in Festivals of Poetry, and Theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover and Genève .He has exposed in many galleries from Madrid, Burgos, London, and Amsterdam. He is moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos, Spain. His address is in Burgos, just now. He has more than 70 published books. ​

Don't Take It

By Gabriel Cleveland

I used to snap rubber bands against my wrists,
first for fun, then to feel as much pain as possible,
pulling back elastic ‘til it sometimes broke in half.
My skin was red for hours, but the pressure in my chest,
like fluid smothering my lungs, felt lighter for a while.
I thought I was an idiot, a beetle in a bird's nest,
meant to be swallowed up and spit out by my peers.
I'd learned to fly a plane, shoot a gun, and make fire in wilderness,
but I carried their words inside and felt worthless. I thought
I couldn't take it, tried to die one winter night by falling
asleep in the cold. Somehow, I made it, snapped out of suicide
when I realized I didn't have to hold those voices in;
you don't either. Don't take it; don't make someone else's words your life.




Body Aflame

Some weeks, life's all black nails and burnt splinters,
heat on your shoulders left from flames long-starved out.
Some mornings, you scratch your head and ashes
fall to mingle with dead skin in your bed sheets
and you think, "How is that possible? I've taken,
like, a million showers since the fire." But then
it occurs to you that they might be your ashes,
that your charcoal heart ignites whenever someone strikes
a match, that your body is a tinder box
ravaged by an inferno no one managed to put out.




Perfectionist

~for Brittany

Join the rest of us who dine with failure
regularly– it’s not such a bad guest
most of the time– it tells a lot of jokes
and occasionally even treats.  When you get used
to having it around, you can almost
forget those days you would draw
curtains and turn off lights when it knocked
on your door and called your name, insisting
there was an easier way to live; you can
almost remember success holding you
against the bed, whispering in your mouth
that it would be just you two forever.
We’ve all heard that song and dance before–
wipe your eyes, have a seat– we saved you a plate.




For My Hero, Still

My hero's got a black spoon under the car seat,
oh God. I remember when he rode his bike
for hours just to pick me up from school.
He lives in his car, dies slowly
through his veins. He and my dad dove in
glacier water back in Alaska, now he begs
our uncles not to call the cops. They're after him,
he says, have been since Washington. I picture
the hurricane we rode out in a Porta Potty during
a Dylan show, the hard rain Bob invoked
drenched us clean. He's in the hospital,
mangled and saved by luck, part metal,
part pain-killer. I'm ten again, and we die
over and over in Prince of Persia, but I blink and
he fades from truth, swears he's off
the drugs one-too-many times. 
Just like that, he’s gone three more years.



​
 

 About the author: Gabriel Cleveland is still incredibly baffled by his existence, even after 28 years. To mitigate this, he's thrown himself head-first into creative projects, from script writing to video game character creation to mailing poetry on postcards to total strangers. He graduated from Pine Manor College with an MFA in creative writing. He maintains a writer page on Facebook, which is full of early drafts and other exciting material: http://Facebook.com/GabrielTHEPOET.

Dreams

By Lynn White

One day soon they'll try to dig up your dreams.
You'll be dead by then,
unable to protect them
any more.

They'll let you rest in peace, but not your dreams.
They'll want them for sure,
they'll want them.
They'll want them to try and find you,
to try and discover who you were.

They'll dig them up, scrabbling amongst the dirt,
seeing what they can find.
Digging up the dirt
to see what they can find 
in there.

They'll discard this piece here, another piece there.
Dross from the dried up remnants,
They'll hang on to the moist bits.
The juicy bits are worth further analysis.

You may be in there.
In your dreams.

Someone else will scrabble to catch 
the dry pieces,
those fragments of dreams thrown away.
The little pieces blown away in the air.
Little snippets,
dreamlets.

But there are flakes of gold hidden there.
I hope they don't find them.





My Bag

I have a lifetime of projects,
that I carry round in a plastic bag.
A paper bag would be better
environmentally,
but plastic is more durable.
And it needs to be.
It has had to last a lifetime,
my bag.

A lifetime of ideas,
thoughts,
doings and sayings
carefully annotated and stored
for use sometime later.
To be finished, or started
sometime later.

I can add an idea,
capture a thought,
write it down,
so it will be there,
safe, 
in my bag.

It's getting heavy
my bag.
Who would have thought 
that dreams
could be so heavy,
even encased in paper.

It's getting full
my bag.
So is my life empty
with everything on the inside.
Perhaps now it’s time 
to start emptying it out.
Slowly though.
One at a time, 
and with care.

It's getting late.
But not too late,
I hope,
to empty my bag.



​

 About the author: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014 and has since appeared in several journals and anthologies. Poems have also recently been included in anthologies which include - Harbinger Asylum’s 'To Hold A Moment Still', Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’, Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’, Vagabond Press, ‘The Border Crossed Us’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ from Weasel Press, ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver birch Press and a number of on line and print journals.

Fidelity

By Poornima Laxmeshwar

Love-sucked
The mind a flickering game
With sub-set and bracket of hidden words
Splurging from the red roots
Of rotten lies
Fidelity is a bastard 
An altercation of the non-existent
The concealed line between the flesh
And the bond
Hematic
Illegitimate

Fidelity --
Fantasy of the invertebrate
Unconditional convention
Threnody of the brothel
Split in ticking minutes
Compelled -
Isms of the expected
The unconquered reality
And the whole of it.





You always return to me

I was 
Scratching it hard
The wound 
Didn’t seem to disappear
I knew 
It was a mere dream
Somewhere 
I could listen to the words
Dilly dilly
There was nothing 
Healing about the music
Just a trapped moment
That arrived without any premonition

So I rubbed it even more
When the blood oozed
To conquer the room of solitude
The bits of flesh peeping out
Reflected your eyes
The same still eyes
And I realized that it was your love
Staying with me forever
As a vexatious scar




What is peace?

Peace is a paradox
An oscillating myth
Wrapped in the appeal of uncertainties
Lying in between
The tick and the tock

Peace is what I see of myself
In the mirror
The faint line that distinguishes
The stranger from true being

Peace is war
Fought in the sky you breathe
And the earth you seek
The sea within you haunts
With waves that know no silence

Peace is prose
With symmetrical lines
Flowing like a lyrical river
Crystallizing — winter solstice

Peace is a conversation
A collage of myriad lies
Uninteresting psalms
A pattern of unknown rhymes




Subject: Heart

The humdrum 
Inside the crimson quagmire
Caged between the bones of constants
Architecture of the under-privileged
Where every nerve carries
The breath of life:
Perpetual

When the blood rushes
As a gushing river
You choose to play your heart
The permutations of the complexities
The choice between the indefinite

Between you and us
It’s always I who wins



​

 About the author: Poornima Laxmeshwar has authored a small poetry collection named Anything But Poetry published by Writers Workshop, Kolkata. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in magazines such as Vayavya, The Aerogram, Northeast Review, Kitaab, Brown Critique, The Stockholm review to name a few. Her haiku has appeared in several magazines. She resides in Bangalore and works as content writer for a living.

She came out from under the bed

By Jennifer MacBain-Stephens

#1
 
She came out from under the bed  
and called the night winged things.
 
Sonar beasts flapped against windows
breaking the glass.
 
We thought we had a piece of her 
but it was the other way around 




#2
 
She came out from under the bed
her torn face jacket crumpled
charred pages shed commas
there was no end to stick
wrapped flickering persona body, 
distended cornea 
face 
open signage night
forming all 
fear vowels: 
A
I
E 




#3

She came out from under the bed 
Penelope unweaving my scalp 
and psoas muscle 
 
That way she 
 
could visit me every night 
      
undoing the work 
on me just to do it again 





#4
 
 
                                                                                                She came out from under the bed
                                                                                            like Alice clawing up rabbit hole dirt
                                                                                             She would never say, you and I, we
                                                                                                   went into darkness together,
                                                                                            pertaining to conversations about the
                                                                                            Minotaur, snipers, and the naming of
                                                                                          hurricanes: the business of acting alone 





#5
 
She came out from under the bed 
the others played it star struck
some tied her wrists
wrestled an autograph
sacked her head
 
tiny chicken scratches
                engraved the wood floor 
                                 some crouched behind chairs 
                                                 kept a lookout for hope 
                                                                mouths open skyward 
                                                                                sucking the flies in





#6
 
She came out from under the bed
insects and fog
skittering across abdomen
the patpatpat 
she transferred to me 
 
hear the wasps
 
she breathed a buzzing sound
it would not stop 
will never stop
 
this trying to get out



​

 About the author: Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and now lives in the DC area. Recent chapbooks are out or forthcoming from Grey Book Press, Dancing Girl Press and Shirt Pocket Press. Her first full length collection is forthcoming from Lucky Bastard Press. Recent work can be seen or is forthcoming at Jet Fuel Review, Pith, Freezeray, So to Speak, Entropy, Right Hand Pointing, Chiron Review, and decomP. Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/.

Your Poems

By Michael McInnis

your poems radiated in the sun
with revealed truths
examined and crossed out
in the morning
your lips became
a thesaurus for my
fingers to discover all
the words of your poems,
all the words my
vocabulary would ever need




Score Bobby Orr

after the overtime
winning game
my mother sent me 
across the street
to buy her a pack
of smokes — I was nine
the crowded smell of 
Hy’s Drugstore with
its burnished wood
phone booths and Hy
always wiping the
counter because
he said we were
“messy little
bastards” felt
like stepping
back thirty years
only had
enough money for
the cigarettes
no candy
no coffee frappe
rounded up the
gang to play 
street hockey
we had candy enough
after I stole
silver dollars 
from my father’s
coin jar




Medals

We didn’t get a medal for
rescuing the Vietnamese
boat people crowded in a
leaking, shattered scow in
the South China Sea.
We took them onboard and
gave them blankets, water,
food, medical attention.
But they were yesterday’s
news, cast off and cast away.
We did get a medal for
rescuing Japanese fishermen
off Samoa after their trawler
sank. We spent day and half
looking for heads floating
in the water as if scanning
for coconuts, wet, black-haired
tips of icebergs, sharks feeding
below, sun melting above.
From a crew of sixteen we
pulled less than half out of
the ocean. For that they gave
us a medal.



​

 About the author: After spending six years in the Navy chasing white whales Michael McInnis founded The Primal Plunge, Boston’s only bookstore dedicated to ‘zines. He has published poetry and short fiction in 1947, The Commonline Journal, Cream City Review, Dead Snakes, Dissident Voice, Literary Yard, Monkey Bicycle, Rasputin Poetry and other little magazines and small presses.

On Power Wings

By Saheli Mitra

Flying on the wings of a pink flamingo,
your scarlet teardrops made way through the burnt branches
of cherry blossoms;
That died a thousand deaths
just like your atoms did.
Ripped by fission of monstrous elements, 
apocalypse of power. 

Dark rain clouds that often rippled down 
your black mane,
got scorched in the killing heat.
Turned to vapour, 
that never brought rains to singe the parched Earth,
but only dust.

Dust to blow away
generations of atoms in wombs, 
in schools, at parks, in hospitals, on streets.
Atoms with pretty nuclei 
that once formed robust pink cheeks, 
lively smiles, childish chatter,
twinkling eyes that went blind.
Your skin like shiny alabaster, 
Molten in the atomic heat
of a human furnace of hate, war, subjugation and victory.
Atom bomb that I made in my powerhouse, 
to prove
I am the creator,
I am the destroyer,
I am the power.

I rose from columns of destruction,
War won, supremacy established.
Yet, I could see a thousand 
white cranes you sent on an autumn morning, 
with your letter of love. 
My bomb couldn't melt them.
They still flap in the breeze
like the pink flamingos
on your molten flesh.




Crown Uncrowned

Bejeweled crowns, sparkling thrones with precious stones,
Standing in some unknown corner of a stately tomb.
Hanging cobwebs, forgotten dust,
lined on their pride.
Their masters hidden in some pages 
crisp and yellow, of history books, 
peeping through a somber grave.
Those who killed, they who conquered,
some who plundered, won wars,
made slaves of colonies invaded.
Bullets and swords sparkling still,
Blood on hands, trickling down 
robbed wealth of their loot.

Yet, they lost the battle of life
To those half clad men sowing in fields,
Quarrying in mines, weaving in looms
Poring on scripts, 
Their sweat, dirt, tears, love spoke of honest rights 
through flourishing kingdoms, lost civilizations,
past communist rule, down capitalist hypocrisy.
Their wishes survive still, 
their smiles still bloom across some lush meadow, 
Their dreams cry loud past a broken hut.
Not sleeping in a forgotten land, 
Rising and fighting each day down ashes of hope.
They, the rightful owners of a kingdom called Earth!




Red Hate

She first fell in love with the hue 

when her mother's red lips

kissed her good night.

A vibrant red danced in her dreams,

spreading the warmth of a newborn sun.



She fell in love every time the crimson red 

spread across the quiet sky,

A majestic fire ball promising her a new day.

Smelling red roses her father grew

in their gardens, 

Smeared with dewdrops glistening like pearls of red.



She even painted all houses red 

in drawing sheets at school,

till her teachers laughed at her choice.

She had always looked at a rainbow searching 

for the last color of the spectrum.

Her love, her red.



Till she sat still with a stream of red 

all over her flowery dress.

Her dear color flowing in such pain,

Scattered blood, oozing through every pore,

as guns boomed and bombs descended, 

In clouds of petrified smoke.



Her painted red homes turned to rubble and stone.

She had seen devils in black in fairy tales 

But never saw it come through blood stains,

severed limbs, hurt and pain.

Now the devil had come like flying birds,

Hurling bombs through air raids,

And she now hates the red, she had so loved.

Red blood that covered her small limbs,

her innocent smile, 

gave away to death.
​





Fire

And it was just the plane 
where heaven and hell 
decided to marry again.
Just then, you robbed a flame
from the sun's eternal blaze
about to strike the heart of an ice maiden.
But beyond that plane, you caught my shadowy frame,
A passive woman lying in shame
behind the celestial maze of a monochrome haze.
And you passed the flame
To melt her shame. 
Little did you know
that flame of yours
Would raise a fire of unsung desire
Stirring the embers you thought
had died with her shame.
And you got burnt in your own
fire of hell.



​

 About the author: Saheli Mitra is a journalist, poet, author and blogger from the vibrant country India. She uses poetry primarily as a tool of protest against the patriarchal Indian society as well as against war and terrorism rocking the world today. Her first romantic novel Lost Words was internationally launched in 2014. Her verses have featured in several national and international literary journals like Yellow Chair Review, Piker Press USA, Tuck Magazine, Learning and creativity, Du-Kool, Taj Mahal Review, Red Balloon Anthology and many more. She runs a blog on women issues called allabouteve.

Fuck Heroin

By Mikel K

Fuck heroin.
Fuck heroin.
Fuck heroin
it killed my friend
and drummer Greg Psomas.
 
Fuck heroin.
Fuck heroin
look at that kid
with the facial tattoo
is he happy?
 
Fuck heroin.
Fuck heroin
put a shotgun
in the mouth of
Kurt Cobain.
 
Fuck heroin.
Fuck heroin.
Fuck heroin.




You can only get lunch at lunchtime

Funny, you can go out
and write a song about
how bad money is
and then go out and sell
millions of copies
of that song.
You can get breakfast
anytime at McDonald's
but you can only get
lunch at lunchtime.





Blow

She’s doing lines in the quick checkout lane at the pharmacy and gets busted for stealing a lip stick; they find just a little bit of cocaine,in her pocket, and she is put away for years. She could have been a movie star. She could have been a beauty queen, but, instead, she’s doing time. There is no rhyme or reason to this event. She made some bad choices and wound up where she didn't have to be. Let it be a lesson to you: don’t steal lipstick while in the possession of blow.





Everyone needs love

No one needs a fist to the jaw.
No one needs bills they can’t pay.
No one needs a car that breaks down.
No one needs a kick to the knee.
No one needs ants in the kitchen.
No one needs wasps on the porch.
Everyone needs love.
Everyone needs love.
No one needs their team to lose.
No one needs to blackout on booze.
No one needs a hurricane.
No one needs a tornado.
No one needs a fire.
No one needs their lover to be a liar.
Everyone needs love.
No one needs a parking ticket.
No one needs a cop to catch you speeding.
No one needs a drive by shooting.
No one needs a home invasion.
No one needs to be carjacked.
Everyone needs love.
No one needs a heart attack.
No one needs live damage.
No one needs cancer.
No one needs diabetes.
Everyone needs love.
No one needs aids.
No one needs mental illness.
No one needs traffic.
No one needs dandruff.
Everyone needs love.


​

 About the author: Mikel K is a poet and memoirist living in Atlanta, Ga. K was voted best Atlanta Poet, the last three years in a row, by readers of Creative Loafing, Atlanta's weekly newspaper. He has a BS in English with a minor in Journalism from Georgia State University.
 
Poetry by Mikel K has appeared in: Subtle Tea, drown in my own fears, poetic diversity, Zygote In My Coffee, The Blue Lake Review, Swimming With Elephants, Ceremony,Visceral Uterus, High Coupe, Fragrance Poetry Magazine, The Piker Press, Vox Poetica, Napalm and Novocaine, Ceremony, The Georgia Review, The Reeve Report, Lowlife Magazine, The Political Dogma, World Wide Hippies.com, Open Salon, and Beagle Bugle. He was a music columnist for a number of years, covering the Atlanta music scene and worked as a freelancer for The Atlanta Journal Constitution.
 
You can buy a book by K at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/mikelkpoet
​

The Big Bad

By Robert Beveridge

You sent me saucy pictures
from the freezer aisle at Target
only to have them come through
black as the mane of your
favorite literary stallion. Later,
when you led him to water, he
approved enough to send me
a photo, so crisp the condensation
chilled my fingers. I wanted to touch
you to warm them, held my phone
tighter instead, took in the chill,
the moisture, wrapped it around me
for safekeeping until I can return
it to you, lip to lip, nervous hand
to nipple, breath as tremulous as
liquor to stronger, saltier wind.



The Plural of Pancreas

nubbed, soft
half-deflated footballs
parade down Seventh Ave.
in possession
of the corpse
of Vassily Totentanz
the nihilist.

Cabbie veers
around the procession.
“Only in New York,”
he says to his
passenger, the actress
Chasity Inanout.

“Inflate the damn things!”


​

 About the author: Robert Beveridge has been living in and around Northeast Ohio for over two decades, and writing poetry for a good deal longer than that. Work can recently be found in Third Wednesday, Guide to Kulchur, and the anthology Stories from the Polycule (Thorntree Press, 2015). He can also be found making people very uncomfortable with loud noises atxterminal.bandcamp.com.