Friday, November 21, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems


Zombie Strippers

There must be a moral and a story
buried somewhere beneath all that
hideous makeup. An unfortunate,
small, random sampling of mid-
movie scenes, suggest there were
not enough letters in the alphabet
to downgrade it, sort of like grade Z
minus sigma nu rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
Why anyone, even a pudgy dweeb,
a past it, studly and well-dressed black
man, who way should have known better,
could find these scantily clad, barely able
to ambulate, ghoul faced hags, hot, was
beyond comprehension. As was all three
of them accepting back stage invitations
to be objects of some kind of gory lap dance,
movable feast. But this was not the kind of
of movie that allowed for questions about
faulty logic, plot consistency or deep
emotional commitments. Consulting
summary of movie during ads revealed
little other than the star was a porn actress
of some repute, once upon a time, known
for her talents on screen not generally
confused with Art.  Maybe this was
the kind of feature where past-it sex
stars went to revive their flagging careers
forever, recruiting new flesh as they worked
in a never-say-die-kind-of way.
The unanswered question of substance must be,
do breast implants matter in Zombieland?



Animatronic Men

Lurk, unobserved in late night
shadows, savvy as contract killers,
biding their time on the edge of
restive crowds, circuits overloaded
like a class picnic for children of
the damned, charged on Ritalin,
all of them singing Talking Heads songs
in synch, burning down the house
with their eyes creating a new kind
of disco inferno, oh those body
snatcher lips and those soul sucking
mouths hungry for more, more, more,
all the while those animatronic men
laugh, oh, how they laugh.



The Conga Line from Hell

There they are the revelers
wearing cheap conical hats,
bearing breath-controlled,
retractable whistles, metal
noise makers they all employ
at once as an ear drumming assault,
all in the name of dressing up
in new frocks and suits to
consume vast amounts of legal
beverages and other kinds of
mind altering chemicals,
driven to become adherents
of Nietzsche’s “everything is
permitted” edict, all rules
abolished once partying begins,
all sense of propriety forgotten,
unlikely liaisons formed in back
room office space, hotel storage
closets, under banquet tables cloaked
in white linens as if some merry
musician, band leader, had declared,
“Let the humping begin!”
Background music becomes the refined
crude that fuels the savage beast,
that suggests otherwise responsible
adults form a line alternating men
and women , grab the waist of
the humanoid in front of you and
let the dance begin, let this hydra
headed millipede begin unrestrained
kicking anything within its path to
jungle fever music, all the faces
wide eyes and lust crazed, mindless
as a herd of headless chickens,
all of them slaves to the hypnotic
beat, following the command of
a pied-piper-with-a-drum music man,
that bandleader of the doomed
exhorting the dancers to kick,
kick, kick until they drop, spineless
and spent in dark, unfamiliar place,
dead to the world.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Ag Synclair- A Poem


abduction

then the toxic matter
will be gathered for the
ruination of thought

preserved in jars
like the heads of baby pigs
we are a study

an experiment
the beginning
of a new world

© 2014 Ag Synclair



Bio:
From the safety of his boring suburban New Hampshire condo, Ag Synclair publishes The Montucky Review and edits poetry for The Bookends Review. Widely published in the small presses, he manages to fly under the radar. Deftly.

Colin W. Campbell- A Poem

 
TANKA

mysterious moon
so loved in fine poetry
so many glimpses
revealing forgotten dreams
so little of moon pigeons
 
 

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

           
              "my thoughts are aliens"

communicated on
parallel levels
of existence,
maintaining lives
extracted from
ozone
a planet and
a particle at
a time
formulating new
worlds like
interplanetary
subway cars
derailing in
a tunnel of
black holes inside
passengers accept
transfer tickets for,
rushing head on
enclosing
indecipherable
messages,
surrendered
before they can
leave the lips


Another Man Who Fell to Earth

He looked like
The Man Who Fell
to Earth but I
couldn't tell if
it was before or
after the contacts,
concealing his alien
eyes had been removed,
because of his wrap
around shades, sd.,
"I have transmitters
in my teeth that relay
messages from outer
space." Sat smiling
as if I should be
impressed so I sd.,
"Canines, incisors or molars?"
"All three." He said,
barely missing a beat,
though I sensed a
distinct lessening in
his perceived command
of the situation he was
attempting to create
so I sd., "Let me know
when you get one tuned
in for Uranus. I'd really
like to hear about that
one.""Very funny."
he replied, not meaning it.
"Let me guess, "I sd.,
"You wear dark glasses
inside at night so no one
can see the cameras behind
you eyes."
"Very perceptive, any other
observations or comments?"
"Yeah, there were a couple
of your guys in here last
week.  Maybe you should
hook up and trade pointers
or, at least, get your stories straight."
"You're a real know it all,
aren't you?""Yeah, you broke
my cover, I do work for the
thought police and what
you're thinking now could
get you life without parole
on a desert planet like ours."


My Favorite Martian

must have been his role model
for haberdashery, although finding
a way to make the rear of the head
antenna stay put had clearly
eluded him.

Both retractable side receptors lay
flat against his hat when not in use,
held fast by duct tape, earphones
for better, easy listening, molded
into place behind each ear with magic
tape and reception improvement
provided by opened spread thin,
doublemint spearmint gum wrappers
crazy glued together and fastened by
diaper pins to his hat for extra security.

Must have been the perfect stepping out
fashion statement, morning wear for a new
wave of benign alien invaders judging by
his blank, beatific smile and the way
no one seemed to notice or to care.

Jon Bennett- Three Poems


Our Wedding

We took the bus to our wedding.
An old bum was getting off
as we sat down
and there was this smell -
another case
of fecal incontinence on MUNI.
In the City Hall bathroom
I got most of the stain
off my tuxedo pants
but it was the smell
that wouldn’t go away.
I should’ve known then
it would all be shit.


 

You Can’t Win

My friend comes and takes me to dinner
“let’s talk about your show,” he says,
“you sucked, I’d like to tell you
I feel bad saying it, but
I’ve been carrying it around
for two weeks.”
He’d been carrying it around
then he gave it to me
and started chatting up two German girls
out of his league.
I do all this fucking art
I figure
something has to give
either me or the world
but I’ll never give up
of course, an old man
saying, “I’ll never give up”
is almost the same as saying
he already has.
 


G.

Someday I’ll have
a scar on my cheek
too, I think
though
5 years older
than Greg
I try to be
slick
and as he
goes to the juke
say, “play
some songs
for me, Greg”
slip him the 50
bucks.
 



Jon Bennett is a musician and writer living in San Francisco's Chinatown.  His novel "The Unfat," scifi about autism, is available on Amazon.

Jason Constantine Ford- Two Poems


The Tower of Illusion

At imposing height so high above the ground,
Machines are impregnating each captive mind
With memories of falsity most profound
Resulting in descent unto a status blind.
Circuits that connect each mind to central command,
Prepare for stage where former names no longer stand.
The tower’s brain replaces facts with callous lies
Designed to destroy the reality it denies.
The brain controlling brittle minds decides to break
Memories of old and inject fabricated life
Into the chambers of thought which blindly partake
In ocean of virtual delusions that are rife.
The span of years from brittle minds have been replaced
With new identities as former names are effaced.


  

Inside the Tower of Illusion
  
Circuits from a machine are placed around my head
unto an infusion of passionate thoughts that spread
to a belief that I am treading in a world below.

As I search through the mist of memories weak,
I am immersed with feelings for a woman I seek
And enter the woods without knowledge of where to go.

I pass through bushes which are shaking in the breeze
And gain a glimpse of this woman among the trees
Until she starts running away from my view.

Without any sense of direction, I begin to chase
Her with desperation but I cannot see a trace
Of features captivating me unlike others I knew.

In this state of ignorance where my goal is hidden
Among other virtual images that are forbidden
To me, a tower of illusion holds me captive.

I am left seeking a woman who does not exist
As passions within me are ones which persist
Under the control of a machine that remains active.



Jason Constantine Ford, Dream Woman, Morning Hangover, Flashback of Pain, The Tower of Illusion and Entrance into the Tower of Illusion, posted on October 19, 2014 at Mel BrakE Press website, http://melbrakepress.blogspot.com.au/2014/10/jason-constantine-ford-poetry.html , October 2014.



Biographical Note: Jason Constantine Ford is from Perth in Australia. He writes for the love of writing. His major influences poetry and fiction are Edgar Alan Poe, William Blake and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Most of his poetry is rhyming poetry as he is dedicated to it. He also writes fiction. His main influences for fiction are Bram Stroker and Phillip K. Dick. Jason is interested in the genres of Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror. He has a personal page at https://myspace.com/jasonconstantine.ford .

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

 
come
come
to earth
our reasons
for exploring space 
twisted by greed and politics. . .
an invitation to alien conquistadors
 



space exploration 

We sing, we dance 
upon every new planet 
We are the minds 
of humanity 
expanding ever further. . .




hangover and 
a mossy blue rash  
what off earth 
did I sleep with 
last night




ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Boston Literary Magazine, UFO Gigolo, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)