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8/31/2017 0 Comments

If You're Thinking About Shoveling the Collagen off Your Bones, Don't By Justin Karcher

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If You're Thinking About Shoveling the Collagen off Your Bones, Don't

Another night, another midnight walk.
Tonight the snow in Buffalo feels like collagen,
Big and beautiful flakes holding my body together.‬

It's bulk garbage day on Richmond Ave.
And there are a bunch of dirty mattresses on the side of the street.
I smoke a cigarette and watch one mattress

Become slowly covered up by the snow.
It makes me think of intimacy,
How sometimes it grows cold.

I'm half-tempted to drag it into the middle of the street
And brush it off, show the world that it's still a good mattress,
That you can still make love on it.

Suddenly I hear crying and a language I don't understand.
Across the street, in front of a church,
There's this old man talking on the phone.

I stare at him in silence until I feel rude.
I start kicking the mattress and don't know why.
Maybe it's the distance between all of us.

Later on, in front of Milkie's, I run into Mike Sentman
Who hosts the open mic there.
He introduces me as a great poet to his brother

And asks if I want to read.
It feels nice to be complimented, but I decline,
Tell him I'm thinking, that I'll read next week.

I light up another cigarette and walk home.
The snow still feels like collagen,
But the wind's blowing harder now.

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Bio: Justin Karcher is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell from Ghost City Press, http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp003, the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs from CWP Collective Press, https://www.cwp-press.com/#/when-severed-ears-sing-you-songs/ and the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West from Ghost City Press, https://gumroad.com/l/karcher2017, as part of their 2017 summer micro-chapbook series. His recent work has appeared in Foundlings, Cease,Cows, Thought Catalog, varsity goth, Occulum and more. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ghost City Review. His one act play When Blizzard Babies Turn to Stone premiered in February at Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, NY. He tweets @Justin_Karcher.

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8/31/2017 0 Comments

The Art of Leaving by A.D. Hurley

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The Art of Leaving

   Suddenly, words seemed inadequate.  All the rehearsed speeches, agonizing over every utterance, where the inflection was placed, how the tone could be perceived, countless hours in front of the mirror practicing facial expressions-it was all for nothing. Now, the words spun around in my head like tumbleweed across a barren desert landscape.  I tried to lock on something solid from my scripted monologue, but nothing seemed concrete enough to stop the words from spinning recklessly and bumping into one another in a jumbled mess.  Pieces of it would float by, “It’s not you, it’s me,” or “I think we should see other people.”  But each time the words drifted by, I’d fail to grasp them and throw them out there.  The words seemed so pale.  So
used.  


   I was acutely conscious of the precious moments ticking by.  Moments wasted on incoherent thought and inaction.  I opened my mouth and closed it again; the words I planned to speak choked off by your angry expression and reddened face.  I’d seen the look so many times before it was hard to imagine your face looking any other way.  


   The anger had made a permanent scar; it had left its mark- not only on you, but on me.  There was a secret place inside me that loved it.  Not in the moment, but after.  Your face would redden, and fists would fly, and I would retreat into a shell until the storm had passed.  And it always would.  My retreat would be short lived and every second after would be blissful.  Tender kisses would caress fresh bruises and grand gestures would sweep me off my feet once again.  I’d convince myself that the moments between were worth every blow.  For, in those moments I felt like a queen.  You’d lay the world at my feet on a platter of immeasurable intimacy and steal my breath away like the day I first met you, over and over again.  


   But things became different.  The blows were harder, more severe.  When it was over I would wait for the kisses that never came.  I found myself staring in the mirror more frequently at a black and blue, unrecognizable face.  Even then, I relished the beatings.  The anticipation of love still lingered, even though it never came.   With every strike of your fist I expected your passion to reemerge in some way new.  


   It was the nurse who convinced me to end it.  There was something about her- a sweet soul with liquid painkillers and a light touch. “You deserve better, honey,” the nurse said.  Then she shot my line with morphine and stroked me gently.  The world tilted and swayed and the fringes of my vision were fuzzy white.  The nurse kissed my broken place.  The doctor called it an orbital lobe.  She kissed it harder, harder, until the weight of her lips hurt beneath my morphine haze. “Why would you want to be treated that way?” She whispered fiercely.  Then her healing fingers snaked beneath the blankets, under my gown, and between my lips, the drugs coursing through my veins, and the nurse loving me, then hurting me, then loving
you as she rode your cock right there in the hospital room with consciousness playing a game of tug of war over my mind.  


   That’s when I saw.  When I planned.  When I knew.  I left the hospital and my bruises healed.  I looked in the mirror and saw a whole face. Unblemished, unbruised.  I missed the bruises.  I missed the nurse with the healing hands.  I missed your reddened face and your fists of fury.  But they were busy with the nurse.  I could hear your moans coming from the other room and would watch with a torture only I could enjoy and loathe at the same time.  


   The nurse was right.  I deserved better.  So, I practiced my speech.  I practiced all the right words.  Inflection and tone were rehearsed in the mirror.  


   “I can’t
be with you anymore.”  Once I said the words, there was no turning back.   I would never again see your beet-red face of anger or a battered face looking back at me in the mirror.  I wouldn’t have to batten down the hatches and prepare for your perfect storm of anger. Your kisses and apologies would never come. This would be your last grand gesture.


   When I handed you my house keys, and you saw my packed bags, no words were needed.  I wanted to say them still.  I
needed to say them.  But your face mottled and your fists flew and the words I practiced wouldn’t come.  Minutes ticked by as I felt your fists pummel my cheek, head, ear, and neck. The words fell in my head like shattered fragments of glass and I felt myself hit the floor.  Your feet pounded my ribs, back, and stomach, bones crunched and tissue bruised and blood pooled inside my belly.  I heard the shriek of the nurse, “You’re killing her!”  And your persistent, farewell blows.  Finally, you stopped.  As darkness closed in, I smiled.  I smiled at your discolored and worried face, and exhaled my last breath to the nurse’s painful kisses.  
​

​
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Bio: A.D. Hurley lives in the scenic mountains of North Georgia, with her large brood of children, a fantastically domesticated husband, and two dogs.  She is a poet, writer, associate editor for Ariel Chart Literary Journal, and artistic photographer. Her poetry, prose, and photography can be found in a number of literary journals and anthologies published across the globe. ​

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8/30/2017 0 Comments

Poetry by Kristin Garth

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​
Pensacola/Houston

What makes me wet kills three small states away.
The same atmospheric release of waste
that escalates against my roof and plays
a rhythm damp inside that I can taste
can turn a living room into a tomb.
Desire and death in drizzled droplets from
the same gray sky.  Trickle tickle that blooms
my lust entombs and traps in Texas. Drums
against my sundress in a shower, peeled
off, naked nipples amidst some trees
while people pray for boats of men who yield 
their path to food and light.  The unheard pleas 
of those in chairs on counters that still drown.
While I am wet with pleasure, won't be denied,
some float inside their houses that have died. 





The Weed

You spot me from a distance, tender's eyes. 
A thistly, thirsty thing, petals perfect just 
so sadly small, stem too thin to rely 
on for support.  You save because you must.

To nurture, collect petaled pretties your 
purview.  My gardener transplants, at best,
a project to his box amidst "les fleurs"
you watch then whisper to in French and bless.

Experiment you hope to elevate 
and educate.  Exotic window mates,
the bitter beauties I bask between, berate
the common sprout your eyes appreciate. 

A weed once watered, hoped to make a bloom,
you pluck, without guilt, when you need the room.


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Bio: Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola, Florida.  In addition to Anti-Heroin Chic, her sonnets and other writing have been featured in Quail Bell Magazine, Occulum, Mookychick, Infernal Ink, Digging Through the Fat, SCAB, Society for Classical Poets, Moonchild Magazine and more. She’s currently working on a poetry chapbook project entitled Pink Plastic House:  Three Stories of Sonnets.  

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8/30/2017 0 Comments

Poetry by Peter Marra

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​she detests the side of caution (the tattooed vulva complex)
 
they are growing things in the
garden behind her house.
so beautiful.
 
they hide angry faces constantly judging me.
i first noticed them in July. the 
black night heat stuck to me and
wrapped itself around me. obscene
yet thrilling. so beautiful. She’s so beautiful. Black
crippled fingers of
the evening forced their way
down my throat.
She had her dreams stolen.
 
One more confession, tales of neurotic love affairs:
 
               we exchanged dialogues. no one was sure of the identity of the narrator.
               we had our dreams stolen. that’s why we fell in love. hard crash. rising, spitting out ashes.
 
               sometimes we can’t explain our own wants and/or cravings.
               she felt ashamed and couldn’t speak of past actions.
               her fingers trembled every time her favorite
               thought resurfaced.
               her mouth was
 
               dry and the shadow behind her
               laughed when it appeared in front of
               her. “aim slowly and
               touch me. Wiggle your ass and they’ll tongue it,” she
 
               said. “the
               bullets missed by a hair
               but they still missed and i’m

                here to watch the
                assailants die slowly.
 
                laughter is my favorite
                thing. interior
                monologues of the
                unbalanced. damaged goods.
                guilty parents.”
 
                Magick words or faces were
                imprinted deep inside her. they
                transmitted messages of
                unknown origin
                and hateful consequences.
                our pain was perfect.
 
                it’s strange to hold something
                like that. rapid
                shots. darts of pain. sexy specific.
                she pushed his
                head through the windshield.
                in this forest, no one knows. my sexual fantasy
                is her mouth, her soul and her shoes.
                we exchanged knowing looks but
                his eyes were blank.
                under my
                eyelids, cracked mirrors
                appeared. glass
                reflects in double negative. a
                blur of
                speed
                puncturing the brain.
 
                She fondled Time as she dangled it in front of her eyes.
 
                “get the purpose of her touch,” she said.


 
 
 
Raised Skirts: She Adored the Famine Caused by her Return
 
she took an oath:
                                                                        “tomorrow night we’ll kiss during
                                                                          the ceremony derived from the ancient religions,
                                                                          so old that no one
                                                                          knows their origin.”
 
pierce the flesh of the heroin soaked sky
did you know she died from a broken heart?
 
she needed Bipolar Disorder
everyone watched the movies of me
and her erotic eyes
 
blank vomit
please open the cell door.
I want to leave
No one believes her the acid is burning through my head
Another inauguration of a pleasure dome
 
she spoke again:
“please bless me later
the sand dune harbors pools of gore
upside down chalices black in nature
plodding puddling clotted
                                                                                    read the news on the teleprompter
we’re staring at the Holy Land”
she stopped talking
 
sequestered by the benevolent shade of
the monastery
she licked the leather figurines that we will worship tomorrow
next life unknown until now
after the mirror was shredded
she compared a mosaic of
                                                                                      her own face to mine she kissed the visage
                                                                                      7 times (magickal)
 
she saved one shard to contact god
she painted her fury with accents of gore
 
self-immolation was the only way out
to be free of possessions and people
                                                                                        a slight reward for so much pain (she earned it, she thought)
 
random acts of kindness recorded digitally:
scarab beetles fuck in raw moonlight then
carry the sun away
before they enter the vaginas of origin
faces of rage smiles of death
 
atropism dilated pupils kiss the belladonna
Vegas showgirls slowly fading
no messages. this time. our home is pain.
the silent enlargement of previously defined organs was the delirium and delusion that she felt growing under her leather skirt
 
                                                                                             a rustle of vengeance between her legs
                                                                                             she adored watching pornographic images or taking photos of the others until her
                                                                                             fever pitch resulted in self-fucking or the creation of unknown artistic works
                                                                                             a fractured violin suspended from the ceiling
                                                                                             resonated from her panting and moaning
 
when she woke up she sensed something under her fingernails:
some raw flesh and the love she had gouged out of his chest
keep quiet she told herself. just
another disappointment.
no one must know about the miscellaneous twining plants and tendrils
the rotating odors that emanated from revolving orifices. the things she felt guilty about. the loss of self.
 
I don’t have friends but that’s ok
She executed the rites of Ablution-
symptoms: a difficulty. have no conscience.
the ceremonial act was performed – she
washed all parts of her body. locked
herself in a sacred container. while inside. she.
ran her fingers,
                                                                                                  freshly cleansed, through pubic
                                                                                                  hair freshly trimmed.
 
the wings of the lightning bugs were illuminated
the thick air caressed her face
-relentless meditation – she let
forth a golden shower from her urethra
then kissed the rings of lunar sores
 
her urine – a cold light of golden ecstasy-
was used to create new palettes of color
she sat between a wrecked auto and a slaughtered television set
licking her fingers, she lied to the magician as he engaged in
                                                                          self-surgery – trepanning is a difficult task-
 
she made razor thin slices of his face
paper thin deli-meat
suddenly he was no longer alive
suddenly she felt alive as she never had before
 
please open the doors to the slaughterhouse. I
want to see them inside. No one understands me.
Victims whine too much.
 
pangs awoke
the crown of thorns was snug
dancing warmth of blood droplets
a single scream of 3 minutes’ duration bounced off distant trees
finally becoming embedded in brick walls
 
a cat-o-nine-tails that she carried lacerated a quantity of skin
this caused many orgasms. 90% were her own.
afterwards each flagellant attempted suicide. all failed.
 
bacteria were donated to a local church. the penitents removed their loin cloths and
kissed the footprints
                                                                                     of the nameless women
 
he removed his mask
(it tasted almost
human) and deposited it in the
nearest open grave.
 
fluid burning. smells like semen.
vaginal machines running overtime
were heard in the distance.
another death in the toy factory. urethral manic
mutterings. a study in depravity. orifice
panic. open the door and here are the people!
 
Chuck Berry finally died. his harvest was smuggled in. sequestered under her flaming leather mini-skirt and deposited in
front of the eyeless gods
                                                                                     panting for the taste of fresh grapes raped by piss
how good is the sex?
when you have nothing else to say we’ll tear up the newspapers
and brand ourselves with the headlines
 
i know i’ll die alone as the burning orchestra eats itself and
the patrons of the arts retch at the stink of their own cum
                                                                  she viewed more explicit crimes or took
                                                                  photos of the others until her fever pitch resulted in self-fucking or the creation of unknown artistic works
                                                                  a limbless torso suspended from the ceiling
                                                                  resonated from her panting and moaning
                                                                  there was a rustle of vengeance between her legs
 
we’ll visit the graves of the fascists and shit on their monuments and
slit the throats of their descendants
we’ll perform necromancy on their crucified victims
just another worthy cause: the paraplegics will amputate their legs and
walk once more
                                                                       walk once more
 
no. not always.
the faces of the cliff served as a home for the mortal brides who were
laughing because they got fucked without their husbands’ knowledge
the sacrament of cuckoldry caused their exile.
 
now they’ll fuck unknown figures of
random shapes and sizes
the peacock was raped next to the
marble statue that
 
was holding an iron rose used later to
pierce the flesh of the heroin soaked sky
 
                                                                       she felt her female face and caressed dilated full lips
                                                                       and tasted mascara
 
she felt her male face and detected dancing lice and parched lips
she lay down in the oasis next to the chanting hookers
 
she eviscerated the card sharks in the casino
royal flush of blood and cum. if anyone moved she
twisted the knives until she heard the sickly squish
 
                                                                                                                 this will be our night
                                                                                                                 this will be our love
 
did you know she died from a broken heart?
in the backyard one could hear monochrome words describing her passions
 
                                                                                                                  she was mummified and the moon was hurt
 
she closed her legs carefully under a photographic negative of a
dog panting under the sun
 
                                                                                                                    insects made a slow journey along a trail of embryos
                                                                                                                    the buzzing was lovely and incessant
echoing voices my sounds of my mother
frozen mouths in agony
she removed more flesh each slice
paper thin
alarming witnesses
and an alarming wetness between her legs
it was obvious
esoteric intricacies of sexual intimacies
the monkey gods dictated a rhyme of pleasure
 
voices
silence
voices broken glass
mounds of flesh kneaded by blind ancient languages
veil of touch
ebony haired bloodless flesh
red lizard
red lipped
spurts woven into walls of pain
skin wails
stop fighting
lay down to please her
 
                                                                                                                           she said “i’ll nail your hands to the wall if that helps.”
good people die slowly under parental guidance
(in the landscape)
paralyzed eyes all. sins are counted. then distributed equally.
 
 
we went too far for any solace.
kiss me quick.
they all have that disease we spoke about
when we were hanging out in
the park behind the church
 
it’s the familiar odor once more. the
one that makes her drool.
she ran off to play among the trees. she
limped back all smiles, all red-wet. tresses all damp
sour smelly
 
“they have that disease. you know
the one we whispered about behind
the peepshow.
the priests were watching. but
they’re silent now. fitful slumber.”
 
the raw meat of her visions cooled into a black rainbow.
she began to oscillate.
 
I need Bipolar Disorder. I need Schizophrenia.
I need her paraphilias.
A serial killer will seek enlightenment any way she can.
 
did you know she died from a broken heart?
                                                                                                                   “Please open the cell door. Bring me the heads of the jailers,
                                                                                                                     Make sure their eyes are removed so they can’t see me as I fondle them.”
 
did you know she died from a broken heart?


 
 
there is nothing unusual:
                                                  post traumatic shock and the
                                                                                                               benefits of its aftermath
 
a slip of the tongue or of knives of love
and some objects that are misplaced.
this latest estimate suggests that’s just how
the world feels at the onset of schizophrenia.

her sensuality condemned:
just inject some more pharmaceutical preparations,
that fixes the problem with
(beneficial catatonia).
 
neat and tidy.
try not to gag, my lovely.
it’s coming back up. kick started.
 
the rooms breathe,
then walls whisper to each other.
they speak of the woman who cast no shadows.
her eyes are scarred,
then scared.
then removed by her own hands.
 
she will describe herself without sound
as an entity apart from ourselves.
she will live a life of pleasantries,
being held in the wet jaws of a synthetic mongrel.
 
                                                                                                   “let’s do it now”
                                                                                                                               the clocks stopped.
                                                                                                   “please join her in the attic”
                                                                                                                            up the stairs.
                                                                                                    “watch your head.”
 
she felt her hands delighting in humiliating, cruel,
and objectifying behaviors,
avoiding trauma-related cues as
she gave a poor performance in the war zones.
 
they say it’s a little bizarre and to take it slow,
slowly, but it will go away.
 
the cancerous hurdy-gurdy will convulse as we mate.
 
this will be the culmination
this will be the mutation
of our elements of love that will have come to pass,
taking up residence in the mausoleum of a diagnosis.
 
/a cell of diagonals with broken circles
break my mind with the slash of the mirror/
 
break our circles
crash our cycles
generate a prototype of decaying style:
2 figures in opposite
corners of a room that disappears.
 
latest symptoms of a pattern:
people exacerbated the psychotic motivations,
as sexual aromas aroused her dopamine.
 
the fear latched into screaming flesh. nails digging
deep as the body walked away,
abandoned the reward and pleasure centers.
 
the numerous appendages were clawing at iron gates,
leaving the soul bare, leaving the soul nailed
to a pane of glass. iron piercing air,
tasting guilt.
 
go to sleep. cover it up. go away.
screams from the back of the throat
are mixed with the remnants of last evening’s saliva.

the surgery didn’t help.
the trance didn’t heal.
these generations will die
and the edging of her behavior just taunts her purity.
 
neon nightingales carry our hearts away
breaking the chains of restraint never to return.
 
the vixen screams before initiating the chase,
while porcelain mannequins lick themselves furiously,
under the watchful eyes of the theoretical
nymphomaniacs who hover over the moths aflame.


 
 

(Sensations, Unsteady Hands:
Multiple Episodes of Shock-O-Rama)


  1. the darkness has a rabid odor of mucous and blood. the Madonna of the shadows flicks cigarette butts at our feet. the yen is infinite. many people were sacrificed. we’re hearing new meanings in the old surroundings. snapshots of her voice and moans from a digital audio recorder. floating church of devoured saints. make it your own. search the house to determine the cause of death. the next room was assembled to serve as a private home for new creatures. for writhing almost-humans. for emaciated couples of limited passions. take them by the legs. she took an inventory of corset shops in bargain basements.
 
  1. special victims stole a few deaths to reclaim their reflections captured by cameras. special well-trained shamans licked each other. a ceramic statue was broken. dusty throat, violating your chastity. manipulating it forward. to make the womb weep, she contacted various nuns, obtained controlled substances and she administered them to me. drowned, burned, or otherwise dripping from god’s pulpy face. my love reborn. speed-flesh. 250 wooden kitchen matches. keep away from children. here you can be anything you like and no one will ever know.
 
  1. feeding animals. she was dressed in the sacred leather second skin. i could perceive the face through the translucent mask. the cage rattled around us. we stayed away from the electrified bars. we touched mutual appendages and she grabbed my cock. she touched her cunt. it oozed a new language and odor. we tasted the residue. the minimal audience gasped in shock, so we assassinated them for the heinous crime of ignorance. law and order was abolished. afterwards she was penetrated as she faced the throbbing mirror. she kissed them, reflections kissed back. the news was broadcast from the backseat.
 
  1. there are no words here. there are no more words. anymore. no more freedom. only laws. bulletproof your soul so your kind can speak. surrogate lovers clandestine in nature hide beneath the piers. they made alternate plans to set the church on fire after the torture of the caress was completed. her face was caged. she smiled. mind control cult. ritual war. do you want an odd contraption to make it better? sacrificed over the phone, she lay on the couch to recuperate from the surgery. feel one dangling ebony lock kissed by a fluorescent light, licked by a neon glare. vibrant between her legs. moist and tender and ecstatic. there are no more words only moving images.
 
  1. no awareness of surroundings. hardness sliding, the wall is ruptured to reveal several third eyes for the dance of an Aztec sacrifice. embryonic tumors of god’s children. my guilt. my murders. her conscience. her victims. we had many plans. all of them resulted in victims. she fucked herself to one more orgasm. i evaporated. she etched prescriptions and formulas into randomly accessed tombstones in obvious graveyards. she hid previously undisclosed clandestine documents describing her exploits in the anus of the last moon. people on an exploding bus. wired seats. passengers ran to the back and hid then started violently coughing. window-shifts. she lamented: /i haven’t tasted cock or pussy in such a long time. miss the taste and feel. makes my spit taste like iron. i can feel my salivary glands pumpin’./ she spoke of such things as commodities one could lift from your local stop n’ shop (1-2-3-4-5-6).
 
  1. she said/open my legs, watch my pussy and receive the opium clouds/ float away. frenzy fiend down. frenetic fucking in frozen rooms. her sins got us arrested. the burnt-out figure drew a circle of chalk. the burnt-out figure balanced matchsticks within the sphere. a burnt-out figure removed its face. her burnt out dreams. her sopping wet cunt displayed her secrets to an unsuspecting world. an unsuspecting world felt destruction. hypodermic cries. hypnotic hell. parallel views of simultaneous figures engaged in copulation. the arc changes as the perception shifts. views of an ecstatic death. 
 
  1. she said/ he owed a blood-debt to us. i’m penetrating myself with magickal tools/ as she drooled. the zoo was beckoning as we embraced the panthers engaged in coital fury. sadistic sarcasm was exchanged between her and myself. one half month was wasted performing sexual acts on our enemies. once more. the yen is infinite. the sex-shamers were eviscerated and their organs were left as an offering on the shoreline. mother, mother i’m sick. mommy. cold flash sweat. quiver. blood smooches. we had many plans. all of them resulted in victims. things have gone way-way sour. the Madonna of the Shadows flicks cigarette butts at our feet, then shakily reapplies mascara and eyeliner.




a trip on the bad ship lollipop
(a child’s introduction to Charles Manson)

hiding in a ‘68 Oldsmobile
that obscene gas pig
just like my dad owned
the shit-car he constantly bitched about
a product of the Detroit auto industry at its finest
 
in the front seat
while speaking to females seductively
situated in the back seat
the father next to me disappeared.
 
Sweet thrills shooting up the spines
As she and I celebrated our delusions of grandeur
 
(3 women,
 
                           disappearing. left me…left the car…
                           i passed out tattooed as abandoned… white medicinal… caused
                           clear liquid puke projectile
                           i left…my body for an undetermined period
                           of mucous flex-time
                           came to
                           i punched the accelerator
                           with my left hand and
                           in the process,
 
                            fractured a couple of digits)
 
Alpha 60 satisfied its reproductive
urges: cold
wires of computer circuitry
LED’s flickering
rising in a convulsion as lovers often do
rising up to massage heterosexual flesh remnants
becoming a hoarse voice declaring its
love for the unmistakable
smell of female
the final Strange Adventure of Lemmy Caution
 
we went in reverse
tearing through leaves
squishy noises felt soft
bodies crushing underneath
car stopping with a thud
 
she was peering up through the windshield
heavenly creatures rising from the last apocalypse
they used pussy juice and other excretions
to coat my face and eyelids
 
“you are so sweet baby baby”
 
me intact
glass intact
a whirly noise from flames in the distance
through an obverse puncture in a failing picture window
we can see the driveway chain-link gate off its hinges
those figures are coming towards me again
their purpose was not to help but to hurt
 
“your pain is so sweet baby baby”
 
neighbors buzzing
their wings were pulled off
fire now low
 
in between the flight patterns of
masturbating bees
they were speaking and
telling me to hide
 
lonely people go to live in huts in the snow now
there’s an audible touch of snowflakes but
she can't feel them because there are no windows 
we cannot fabricate both stories
 
in a weird garden
touch the black irises of words and the emotions that
strangle the peeping toms
attach a wire and please hoist me towards the plastic blank moon
 
(chemical teens redux)
 
savages fucked and spit out children in suburbia
behind the expressway and near
the department stores
they created their destiny of the knives
while parents sipped wine laced with iron filings
 
the amoebas stood up and became
her new cunt fur as it approached the 
magnetic zone
 
 
wrap yourself in the American flag
with added gun hole ventilation
better than a Fedder’s Air-Conditioner
spend time screaming at the cenotaphs
 
Uncle Sugar crashed into the L.A. trip
Lady Liberty drew her tongue slowly through the fields of dead grass
 
                            August 10 1969 NYC Daily news headline:
 
                            “ACTRESS AND 4 SLAIN IN RITUAL”
 
                              These words terrified a 10-year-old in
Brooklyn, New York
mommies shook their heads in disbelief
daddies sucked off .44 calibers because it was
the day the American paradigm shifted
 
Satanico Pandemonium
 
Go-Go girl crucifixions were becoming
popular entertainment
while Cielo and Waverly Drives panted and writhed
 
run your nails through it:
sperm-shot-cunt
prime victims for prime pinups became apparent
lining the landscape etched into a skyline that was
turning paler by the minute
true desert getting further away
under the acid-morphed glare of
the leader of the garbage people
the fabricator of a family for those abandoned

                                        “The Love and Terror Cult
                                          The man who was their leader
                                          The charge of multiple murder
                                          The dark side of hippie life”
 
Life magazine panted and drooled. split it. Spit it.
 
Bring it down slow
we’ll take it better than you
the red stuff on the walls
and the words misspelt
accusing existence
neurotransmitters that have been spinning or
swaying for this fractured moment of a delirious movement
jacked vertigo into position
licking the remnants of the My Lai massacre
with their secondhand tongues
 
trembling news footage B&W and color
push it up and in and twist for
a self-fulfilling prophecy
 
"now baby" became Satanic on the home stereo system,
just like me or you.
 
love comes toward me.  
delusions of grandeur
just simple switchblades
walking through the brain’s
thin rivulets creating moments of pain or
pleasure
 
incidental madwomen licking
their lips and sharing translucence under the drop
of the methedrine snowflakes
 
this is how it will be after the cameras
start to roll and the performers
flagellate themselves for the motley
pleasures of a condemning public
felicity burning under a
mesh of black nylon

napalm dancing caged women
Shindig
 
Sunset A: becomes Sunset B:
lose the clothes
and lose the keys
do not disturb
beats
beating
beaten
She holds light under her tongue
She holds the sweat in the back of her throat
Thank you, darkness for hiding me


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Bio: Peter Marra’s writings explore alienation, addiction, the misuse of love, the curse of secrets, the pain of victimization and the impact of multi-obsessions. He is in love with the Three Mothers that sprung from the hallucinations of Suspiria de Profundis by Thomas de Quincey. He has been scarred by his past quests and he has been manipulated by trash culture and fine art. He is a byproduct of the films of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer. Peter has had over 300 poems published either in print or online in over 25 journals. His published works include approximate lovers (downtown materialaktion) (Bone Orchard Press) and an e-chapbook,  peep-o-rama (Hammer & Anvil Books available through Amazon – soon to be re-issued in hardcover). Peter’s latest work is the poetry collection Vanished Faces (a performance of occult infections) published by Writing Knights Press.

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8/29/2017 1 Comment

Loneliness Turned Britney Spears into a Saint By Justin Karcher

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Loneliness Turned Britney Spears into a Saint

Yesterday morning I ignored my libido
And instead ate a bowl of generic cheerios
The banana I cut up into little pieces and put on top was bruised
Like the boxer who goes up against Mayweather
And it all made sense to me 

Celibacy is like giving anorexia to your dick 
Does saying that make me misogynistic?

I can't tell sun from moon anymore
Does saying that make me a vampire?

Nevertheless, my depression is evolving in strange and interesting ways 

Now every bar I go to feels like the Galapagos
And every person I talk to is a giant sea tortoise
Some of them really get me going
Some of them have brunette hair
Some of them have eyes that burn islands into my throat
So that every time I speak it's never whole
Never a landmass of language and thought
Just a scattering of green in a silo of blue 

Evolution is being honest with yourself
I'm okay being alone, I'm happy about it

I've been seeing this girl for a while
I'm a blimp who likes being grounded
But I miss going up in flames 

Last night Aidan recalled the smell of factories
And how the stars looked way back when 

We laughed, told him he was born in the 90s
That he's full of shit
He laughed too
But there was an empty glass in front of him
So maybe it wasn't that funny after all

I kept trying to lock eyes with this girl
Who has pinwheels for feet
Who was wearing a dress of old Vogue covers
Sometimes she looks like a garden
Who has transformed into a human
We all have our issues and some of us wear them well

Another night of waiting for America to burn to the ground
Another night of watching bouncers drink coffee

Another night of watching them build bird baths outta fake IDs
Another night of binoculars getting drunk and vomiting on street corners

Another night of us sifting through the muck
And getting a closer look at our endangered parts

Another night of going home blind, putting on the news
And trying to fall asleep 

And sometimes while you're shaking
You'll hear your next door neighbors coming home drunker than you are
And loudly singing Britney Spears 
"My loneliness is killing me"

The Catholic in you is still going strong 
Sometimes you'll wake up in the middle of the night
And build crosses outta q-tips 

Sometimes there's this voice begging you to come back home
The voice will tell you that you need to evolve by any means necessary 
Or you will be killed

​
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Bio: Justin Karcher is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell from Ghost City Press, http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp003, the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs from CWP Collective Press, https://www.cwp-press.com/#/when-severed-ears-sing-you-songs/ and the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West from Ghost City Press, https://gumroad.com/l/karcher2017, as part of their 2017 summer micro-chapbook series. His recent work has appeared in Foundlings, Cease,Cows, Thought Catalog, varsity goth, Occulum and more. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ghost City Review. His one act play When Blizzard Babies Turn to Stone premiered in February at Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, NY. He tweets @Justin_Karcher.

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8/29/2017 0 Comments

Poetry by Joshua Mcgarry

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Waiting on Explosions

The mortar shell crash-
landed on the couch
nestled in the moldy green
velvet, between your sprawled
legs. Did not explode.
We stared the way we stared
at the television, the room was
quiet, the room will continue
to be quiet even as a light
drizzle comes through the hole
taps its way into our rotten foundation.
I will pour us  more margaritas,

Salt or sugar?

Salt, always salt as you
collect small things, a soft
blanket, your smallest shirt,
a wig off a costume. assemble
these things and the bomb
into a thing you can cradle in this room
where Wheel of Fortune’s always
on, and I pour us martinis. Maybe
You hope it will begin to cry. We will
stay quiet, as you paint eyes, as I pour
More neat shots, make it triple
as you draw a small face

In lipstick, a crack in the steel makes
a mouth you spoon full of tender
mashed fruit, you will look up, I will pour more
drinks , we will stay quiet, we will stare
at each other, we are waiting for someone
to blink, maybe the bomb, we are waiting
as we light Tarrytans, we are waiting,
waiting as we watch the lighter
Strike sparks.





Night in the Slaughterhouse District Tenement Apartment Complex: 3am

    In a top floor studio the painter licks the blood off his knuckles, the painting of a
non-reflective mirror is wrong again, there is another fresh hole in the wall another fist shaped
hole of frustration and the canvas is black. Brush scratchings catch the dim bulb. His boyfriend
sleeps on the futon, the painter too wants to sleep, knows he can’t as he wraps his hand in a layer
of gauze. Then he stretches a fresh canvas, and gathers himself for another leap. A drop of blood
rolls across the palette. The vibrations of a passing train form ripples in the paint

                                                                                                   *
    The roof is full of dance steps and spilled beer. The lovers fuck. They tangle their bodies
into unfamiliar shapes, trying to make this pretend real then unwind into the lighting of
cigarettes, smolder springing from one to the other in an ashmouthed kiss. Quietly, smoke and
sightlines drift over the edge. On its side one can reads
Nonalcoholic. Duke Ellington jazz strolls
out of an open window two floors down.

                                                                                                   *
    The needle catches in the pitted slab, the only light is the moon reflected off of the wax,
but the piano keeps casting its shadow over the young woman her body pressed tight against the
plaster, shrinking. A frozen steak over an eye hides everything the music doesn’t. There’s an
airless moment between tracks, then the tender brass announces
Star Crossed Lovers.

                                                                                                     *
     Through the glass thin walls someone stirs to the fanfare, but stays asleep. In his dream
he makes a phone call and gets an answer
Yes, Yes I’m here and it’s okay. I’m long gone. He
hangs up and lingers for a moment, the honeyed memory of dark skin hangs in the air, before the
scene snuffs out.

                                                                                                     *
    like the Rosemary candle that lights a letter one floor up. Dear…. I should say father, I
can’t say father, I don’t think I ever will. I need help, What is the price of help?
A small doodle of
Sputnik orbits the words, caught in the gravity of broken connections

                                                                                                      *
    Preparing to leave before light, someone slaps eggs and toast into a pan. The fire off the
range illuminates wrinkles that she swears weren’t there yesterday, but she whistles anyway,
carrying on the night’s score where Duke left off. On her plate the yolks run like slow dawn.




​

Deterrence Theory

She stands there, naked
in the open window, in the after-

math. back to me as I
fill two glasses, cold

like the wind in the bare
branches outside, the wind

on her bare nipples. In a minute
she will turn, behind her eyes

there are silos, screens showing
not  love movies

but launch codes.
she knows what lies

behind my gaze. In a minute
the light will flare

plutonium oranges
growing in the branches

their peels blooming
into mushroom clouds, and against

the white world we will
clink our glasses

as our Geiger counters
gargle, click

chirp, like crickets
worshiping the blast.





A Lebkuchen*

Split in half
smells of ginger
and cloves, of holidays
fills the small living
room like the delicate light
from the open winter
windows. I do not know
that is this the first sweet
bite my grandfather has touched
in four months, have not yet heard
of the cancer and chemotherapy
the stories, that don’t drip through
The receiver, him on morphine
bedbound, writhing with hallucinations.
Hair is only now returning
moth thin to his head.
Right now this does not matter
as we share the,
warmth and ginger that
fill the soft brown corners of the room.


*A type of German cookie eaten around Christmas time.

​
​
Bio: Joshua Mcgarry is a poet working on his MFA at Old Dominion University. Originally from Wetzlar, Germany, he now lives in Norfolk where he writes, reads, and collects too many records. He has been published both online and in print with: Ekphrastic Review, DoveTales, and Boston Accent Lit.

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8/28/2017 1 Comment

Artwork by Jennifer Martelli

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                                Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board
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                                She Has Always Been With Me
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                                Spirit Photo
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                                  Outside a Small Circle of Friends

​
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Bio: Jennifer Martelli’s debut poetry collection, The Uncanny Valley, was published in 2016 by Big Table Publishing Company. She is also the author of the chapbook, Apostrophe and the chapbook, After Bird, from Grey Book Press. Her work has appeared in Thrush, [Pank], Glass Poetry Journal, The Heavy Feather Review, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. Jennifer Martelli has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes and is the recipient of the Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant in Poetry. She is a book reviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly, as well as a co-curator for The Mom Egg VOX Blog Folio.

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8/27/2017 0 Comments

Justin Karcher gives Buffalo another masterpiece of poetry By Abby Wojcik

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Justin Karcher gives Buffalo another masterpiece of poetry

​By Abby Wojcik

      Buffalo can officially welcome Justin Karcher’s newest poetry chapbook, “Just Because You’ve Been Hospitalized For Depression Doesn’t Mean You’re Kanye West.” Unlike his previous chapbooks, “Tailgating at the Gates of Hell” and “When Severed Ears Sing Songs”, this is one single twenty page poem instead of several short ones joined together. It is similar to his past works in that Karcher has created a work of art to capture and explain aspects of life that are difficult to put into words.
       On the surface, this poem is about personal and public problems, the struggles of depression and expectations, and the passion for creativity and understanding, all within the setting of beloved Buffalo. Each stanza and line contains a complex mashup of personal anecdotes, symbolism, cultural allusions, and much more. Reading this chapbook is comparable to reading the mind of Karcher and seeing what he really feels about art, mental health, and himself.
       Karcher explains, “I felt like my writing needed to cut deeper into me, to really expose my insecurities, struggles with depression and failures as a friend, lover, and son. Considering that at the time I was writing this, I was also getting sober, [it] was a huge influence (pun intended) on the work. I needed to be as real as possible - and sometimes real-ness comes off as something utterly and totally bizarre.”
       At points, this poem can seem choppy and unexpected, as he mentions, but the twists and turns of the mood make it interesting and enjoyable. Karcher writes in the poem, “But the only dungeon you’ve ever been lost in / Is one of your own creation.” Here he creates a self-criticizing tone only to then turn the page and reveal a profound conclusion, “That the things you do for beauty, of poetry, are really just a reflection of your own / insecurities, of not knowing who the hell you are as a person.”
      The role of art and beauty in his writing are extremely intertwined and connected to his thoughts on social media in today’s world. He references modern popular media(??) such as I Am Legend, Twilight Zone, A Christmas Story, and Siri.
      He says, “I think poetry is a huge part of pop culture; it's just that a lot of people don't realize it. Pop culture gets its juice from social media. Whether or not you like social media doesn't really matter, because it's a huge barometer of how we gauge what is ‘cool’ and ‘good’ these days. The foundation on which social media like Twitter stands on is quick lines that grab your attention and uses language in interesting ways. Poetry is not dead; it has just evolved. Using these pop culture references allows me to build an obvious bridge between poetry and pop culture, forcing metaphors to flex their muscles in something that we all have in common.”
       Another method Karcher uses to convey this message is through utilizing the iconic Kanye West in his title and throughout the poem itself. It is Karcher’s opinion that titles are an art themselves and he takes great time and thought into crafting them for this reason.
      “A good title is that interesting-vibing person you see across the room at a party,” Karcher says. “Deep down you know they'll probably have something riveting they'll rant about. It's almost like they have these bear traps full of honey for eyes and you know your hunger will get caught sooner or later - it's weird to think that way, isn't it? That your hunger is something that someone else has to eat. A good title is the opening of the mouth.”
       Kanye West plays an important part in Karcher’s poem for several reasons. For one, he is used as a transition tool to move the thoughts in the poem along. He is first mentioned four pages into the work when Karcher reminisces of times when West’s songs would play over and over at parties, making him feel electric, fearless, and immortal. The music would interrupt a thought or memory, bringing Karcher either back to reality or further into the abstract. All powerful and overwhelming feelings are what Kacher associates with Kanye West’s music.
      The next mention of him comes shortly after, revealing a second reason for writing Kanye West into the chapbook. West is written to act like a holy figure for worship and praise. He writes, “Kayne be with me tonight, I say to myself as I walk through the darkest valley.” It is read like a prayer to the rapper.
      There are many biblical and religious allusions in the work that contribute to its message. For instance, he writes “Like God Chinese finger trapping Adam into life. / The Chapel roofs we build above our heads on a daily basis are no less magical / Than what geniuses did centuries ago.” The combination of lines like this one, and the times Kanye West is treated like a guardian angel, fashion a message that peace and safety can be found in a variety of places or people. They can be replaced, intertwined, or demolished because nothing is permanent and love is not an exception.
       Lastly, Justin Karcher explains another reason for incorporating West, which is his own personal love and fascination with the star. “I absolutely adore Kanye and have loved his music for years,” he says. “There's something beautiful about someone using the spotlight as a surgical knife to cut deeper into themselves, which is something we should all strive to do if given the opportunity to shine. The way he has used social media is the same way a poet uses literary devices. For me, he's the patron saint of an evolved form of poetry, a form that specializes in straddling that line between self-indulgence and beaten-down sincerity, a line that I feel all young people straddle.”
       Karcher explores so much in this poem it is amazing that it is only twenty pages. This latest work of his is only one pebble from the mountain of Karcher’s endeavor to contribute to and innovate the Buffalo literary scene. He is a great and inspiring artist that the public is lucky to have.
        In addition to reading what Justin Karcher publishes, any interested individuals can encourage his and others’ artistic talents at several poetry readings throughout the city of Buffalo. On Wednesday November 15, there will be a stage presentation of “Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West” at Road Less Traveled, Buffalo, NY.  
     Underneath self-loathing and public violence, Justin Karcher’s poetry reminds us that “Between likes, non-likes, comments, silences, etc., we are constantly self-evaluating ourselves every time we post something online,” as he said. “It is a self-inflicted lobotomy without truth and genuineness. Art corrects this. For poetry to evolve, it must reflect our constant criticism of ourselves and turn it into beauty, into revelation.”

​
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Bio: Abby Wojcik is a current student at Canisius College majoring in English and creative writing. She is the assistant features editor for The Griffin Newspaper. Her hobbies include, reading, writing, painting, drawing, and thinking of ways to make others happy.

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8/27/2017 3 Comments

Poetry by Sophie App-Singer

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Light

light; a process
you are nothing more than a cell in the ocean
a single drop makes you a canyon
so fuck the schizophrenic gods
after you've been deprived for so long
your brain starts to make things up
because once the nothingness becomes tangible
it ceases to exist




grl pwr

your new york street cat-calls

will never touch me

because i am woman,
and you will fucking hear me

roar, loud enough
to shake the earth

and sky

people always said to me
"you're too young to be a feminist"

but what does that even mean?
are you ever to young to fight?

i swear on the bible

girls with dreams and big ideas
are scarier than monsters

and her eyes are not oceans,
she is not a tsunami

she is beautiful
she is god
she is woke
she is queen

the black girl, the white girl
the brown girl all make

a rainbow
and I want

to savor every goddamn moment
​

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Bio: Sophie, AKA Sparkle Jumprope Queen of Hello Poetry loves rap music and hails from the pacific northwest. She loves slam poetry, and is influenced by music and by other poets. 

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8/25/2017 0 Comments

Poetry by Marieta Maglas

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Senbon Zakura Mirror Dance

I had closed the cracked window.
The gust of the first born wind
disappeared into the coming rain
together with the flute, the drums, 
and the fleeting nature 
of the movements-
explosions, distortions.

'Twas like dancing slowly with 
the image in the mirror
or like fragmenting 
the memories of love
to empty the minds-
emotions that were eaten by
the heat of the summer.

I took a seat near my neighbor
whose husband had been 
a soldier fighting in Asia
until having his half of the head 
removed by a bullet.
He had always been
one of the best.

Suddenly, the movement 
became very fast while continuing 
without music
like in a sequence of movie frames
that builds tension 
to enhance the consciousness-
euphoria, chills.

The dancers were, in fact, 
impair numbers having
their white sashes wrapped 
around their heads
while pirouetting
at a heightened tempo
to give this motion a sense
of living.

The window opened 
to bring the noise of the metropolis
and the smell of the twisting wind.
Well, it was not a killing one
like those coming from the polls 
and being filled 
with some tiny bacteria
that had been left by the meteors or 
by the lost civilizations.
'Twas only a rainy wind.
These bacteria are not fictions; 
they warm up to become 
real weapons, 
not Disney animations.

Life itself is not an illusion.
When life becomes hallucination, 
then, something else 
must be actual.

The hail hit 
the roof of silence.
The dancers 
were waving their arms above 
their heads while clapping wildly
their swaying bodies
to express the words- 
numbers of God.
I would say that
'twas not a previously 
choreographed dance.

Ancestral emotions moved 
all the things of the mind
out of the free space.
Crawled swiftly within
the suffering souls from which
have started to disappear peacefully.




The White City

I'm in the white city.

A dense fog

Disintegrates all my hopes.

There are people dreaming

Of nonexistent worlds, 

There are disoriented people

Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.

There are lights turning on and off so erratically

In this white city.

There are hidden screams in the night

Covered by the heavy rain sounds, 

That rain falling continuously

And monotonously.

In this white city, 

The victims

Don't understand that they are victims yet.

There are flowers, 

There are fast food kiosks, 

There are botanical gardens, 

With beautiful exotic trees, 

And there are horror movies in the theaters.

As shadows emerging from the fog

Are the last steps.

There are steps searching each other, 

And there are steps that are separated forever.

The rain's sounds

Vibrate the eye of the windows, 

Vibrate the burial stones, 

Vibrate the dreams, 

Those dreams

About better days.

Apparently, 

Someone screams

In the white mist of the night.

Maybe he's the victim of an aggression, 

Or maybe, he's someone who has lost his love.

Maybe it's just an echo...

I'm in the white city

And I'm searching for you in the darkness... 




​
The Last Cicada 

The sadness scattered 
over the walls resonating 

with what was 
in the heart 
of the mountain.
No sound could be heard.
A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas
were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded 
like a speech
surrounded the sky. 
Maybe it was an echo, 
a sesquipedalian one.
It wasn't breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved 
nature around.
Neither of the forests, 
neither of the birds, 
and neither of the bears 
could survive.....
Nothing more 
could have been done. 

All the moving peaks became 
small stones, as solitary 
as the moon, 
at the fugitive horizon. 
The last cicada
disappeared.

Everything became motionless.
There were only the shadows 
of the trees
to follow the sunbeams.
The nature game 
turned detrimentally 
into a disaster.

In an illuminated city, 
a man bought
a lovely bouquet of red roses 
wanting to bestow 
what it is considered to be
a symbol of romance. 
This man needed 
to express his love 
and to let his woman know 
how he feels about her.
This man disappeared.
He was the last one.
Nothing could have saved him.
Nothing more 
could have been done. 


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Bio: Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, Silver Birch Press, HerEthics Books, and some others published the poems of Marieta Maglas in anthologies like Tanka Journal , Three Line Poetry #25, Three Line Poetry #39 edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin edited by Marie Lecrivain, ENCHANTED - Love Poems and Abstract Art edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, Intercontinental Anthology edited by Madan Gandhi, and Nancy Drew Anthology edited by Melanie Villines. Her poems have been also published in journals like Poeticdiversity, I Am not a Silent Poet, Our Poetry Corner, and Antarctica Journal.

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