Sunday, August 23, 2015

Alan Catlin- Three Poems



Day of the Triffids

Life here is a form an alien culture
brings to men made sightless by light.
In gardens, new seeds are growing,
and transformations are taking place
that no one can be made aware of
until it is too late.  Plants seek
nourishment in human flesh they enfold
into tendrils made sticky with wanting
and with death.  Once inside the mad
embrace, there is no escape; what began
in wonder, will be concluded in fire.
All the villages are damned now. 
Erecting walls cannot prevent what has
already happened inside.



Red Desert

The final stop on his cross-country
dream trip of a lifetime was at some
place on the edge of  a dead valley with
a name like Never Open Café: bar
and grille, featuring house special of
rattlesnake subs and, for the tourists,
burgers and fries, essentially the same
stuff in a different form.  He ordered
a sub that tasted like chicken heavily
spiced with hot sauce, Tabasco and jalapenos,
with a dash of red peppers that made
fire ants’ sting feel like a puppy’s nip.
Two glasses of water only made the pain
worse. Decided to have what the locals drank:
Snake Venom a sickening combination of
Mountain Dew, Hawaiian Punch with
a liberal dose rotgut white tequila,  
that was smuggled over the border
in skull and crossed bones containers
labeled as toxic chemicals, which wasn’t
far from the truth. Locals, those sexless,
shriveled creatures with skin leathered
and wrinkled by dry desert heat that had
sucked the life out of their bodies, watched,
as he ate and drank, with hooded eyes,
nictitating membranes that pulsed and
fluttered as they drank their own liquid
deaths in the afternoon. His passing,
if he had been aware of it, would have
seem odd to him, so unexpected and incongruous:
dying, at lunch, among strangers in a place
the middle of where life had once passed by
on the way to somewhere else and had always
meant to return to and establish a community
but never had gotten around to it.  No one noticed
when the end came: the unpaid guest check
on the bar amid the remains of the rattlesnake,
the venom.



Repulsion

The dead object in her purse
is the skinned head of a rabbit.
Seems almost innocuous, lying
there amid rumpled tissues,
apartment keys, a small wallet and
makeup items.  Innocuous that is,
compared to what will occur later,
what the head signifies in terms
of what is happening in her mind,
full, as it is, with a host of demon lovers
who take her pinned against a cracking
wall made pliable by intense heat
and all the tremors her brain has
been made to endure. Her young,
exquisite body is nowhere near as
ravaged she thinks it is, despite being
left uncovered by all those intense dreams
that removed all the outer layers of
her skin. Still she feels threatened
and marked by the unseen while all
about her, the natural world decays.



Jeffrey Park- Three Poems



Bio: Jeffrey Park lives in Goettingen, Germany where he is Lecturer for Scientific English at the Georg-August-Universitaet. Links to all of his published work can be found at www.scribbles-and-dribbles.com.


 
AFTERMATH

Long after the resistance
has been crushed
and the shimmering network
of attack vessels
has faded from the sky –

after the last traces
of organic life
have been cleared away,

radio waves crackling with
alien transmissions
writhe over the land,
blanketing once-fertile fields
with harsh white noise.



MORAL HAZARD

The way they squirmed and struggled
and carried on emitting bubbling noises
from their repulsive fleshy orifices,
almost as if in an attempt to communicate,
you might have imagined – just for
a moment, mind – might have imagined
them to be sentient beings of some sort.

Ridiculous, of course, to entertain such
thoughts about primitive bipedal life forms.
Nevertheless, in a purely hypothetical way,
one could allow oneself to speculate,
to conduct a thought experiment of sorts –
if it really were so, my goodness,
what kind of monsters would we be?



ROUGH SPORT

Just neighborhood kids,
harmless enough in their own
xenophobic way.

They never preyed on
weaklings or stray dogs,
but they showed little mercy
to any aliens that chanced to
fall into their hands.

Jesus, how this one stinks
when you poke it with a stick,
the boys would shriek,
quick, check this out,
this one’s full of lemon goo!

Boys will be boys,
the old folks would always say.

And really, who’s going to
have much sympathy
for creatures so damn stuck up
as to refer to themselves as
“extra” terrestrials?
 
 

Denny E. Marshall- Art
























Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems



Three Haiku


UFO landed
Should have picked a better spot
Than on a live mine

 
UFO landed
No one even noticed them
At one half inch tall

 
UFO stranded
Nothing wrong with the spaceship
Lost the keys again

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems


myths, slumming

every now and then 
among our eons 
myths emerge from 
the primeval void 
within Mediterranean 
whirlpools, epicurean 
merrymakers and a 
few fortunate humans, 
reassurance of our 
gene pool’s well-
being, vitality, and
ability to party





three years of an 
expensive apprenticeship
the first clumsy attempt 
with a sorcerer's spell
erases his memory




a scrumptious birthday 
grandma’s homemade sauce
over hobbit-ka-bob


ayaz daryl nielsen, who has been a hospice nurse and roughneck (as on oil rigs), lives in Longmont, Colorado.  He is editor of bear creek haiku (26+ years/127+ issues) and an award-winning poet with hundreds of poems published worldwide.  His poetry collection ‘haiku  tumbleweeds still tumbling’ is at Amazon.com, and!  he is online - bear creek haiku  poetry, poems and info 


J.D. DeHart- Three Poems


On Ramps

a web, continuous
network and we are
engine rumbling roving
through the fallen
universe where ragged
figures roam and linger.


Trichotomy

he tried to tell them
he was one in three
and tried to warn them
about their own misery
etched across the stars
but their ears were stuffed
and their eyes were dull.


Similitude

in those familiar
eyes
I see my own
I see my space
and land
and planet
in those wings
I see a promise
of what I could be.
 
 
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  Please check out the blog for his chapbook, truthaboutsnails.blogspot.com.

 

John Pursch- A Poem


A Lobot's Thirst For Love

Three days later,
she still had not solved
the greatest mystery know to man
or beast or androidal life form,
on this or any other planet, planetoid,
has-been asteroidal compartmentalized carburetion clot,
or flexibly denoted popping cork entrainment vessel.

Nuns knew less than her
about crossing patterns,
crusted flakes of frosted
klaxon motivational tweakage,
and biplane tendon flagman manuals,
edited or not by wretchedly textual whitening agents,
tipping sandbox concierge goblets
to lick the final frumpy swath
of limpid factory youth
from transport bulkhead ballast bunks
of binomial barricades in bollocks
of a beatified swinger's setting son-in-slaw.

Coldly manufactured playground sty impingement
scuffs toenail glitter into vocal outrage,
currying to scary ontological potions
to rival any spun docks
of paste sport dancing drones
in tuned oracular omniverse communication frost,
swiped every other millisecond by frozen achievers
in unmet urges of an ogling diplomatic poacher.

Sometimes the past
had represented sated monopoles
with crowning lotion feedbag scoops
of carefully coated skirts in schoolyard stress point
fanning smacks and loose contraction friction,
gleaning sweetly quelled songstress tears
from subtly wined and actualities induced
to snowblind expurgation of posse parts,
torn lazily to splashing hordes on planar squeals
of causal aphasia's messy berm.

Galleys echo steeply lit
caulk penetration towels,
snapping bullfrog tent flap cortisol
to brawny maze semantics
of a salivating burial pet,
frothing fuel and towline notary
incubation wheels of central iffy goofball cork,
filed dangerously close to raw dyslexic eels
in hokey oral mushroom clods
near dualism's knifing divination.

Even so,
we could resist hebephrenic lamentations
of eternal earthquake rust long enough
to smash remainder mirror proving grunge
with shallow par syringe plaque decadence
on pithy hortatory radiation crunch
from falling feelings of a lobot's thirst for love.



John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks
Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.