Friday, December 12, 2014

John Pursch- A Poem


High-Phase O’Teuton

Omens of yearly comestibles
flock in fruitful flyby quay pontification blooms,
incestuous and bespectacled with
manic heirloom cribbage terrier flesh,
bought from spindly planetary maelstrom detergent police,
flown from ground to whacked thigh shin spelunker noons
of trebled moon-cave commissar release
to tandem truncheon bulb retort
on baffled sojourn oceanic isthmus arks
of covert island pie-yacht wanderlust.

Emphatic tears imbue
arched inguinal diurnal favorites
of sheds of statutory dysentery,
making local mocha’s Molotov inception discount
into dipsy ragtop strudel triptych fairies;
foundering on bylaw vowels, missing eels,
exploded zebra tentacle belief,
and culled-can paramours of lengthy locking
heel-to-spandex antler’s inveterate extruding pentagram,
waxed to fondled gobs in constant ambulation poofs
of nerdly christening cigars.

Surplus bone cooks puzzle under
kindred Hittite wall clock stocking lint,
pressing flying showboat gruel to
cider longings for chauvinistic euphony
in simply corrosive parameter-pinch jelly
rotunda blossoms of scrunched body bigwigs.

“Pulpit bodice camphor career-peen glamour curls
to the resuscitated eschewal of piebald flirtation lungs,
commendably towering past skirted city outhouse dereliction!”
crumples High-Phase O’Teuton,
Royal Salivator to Ornery the Kith,
Cheap Nasal Hobnobbin Gone Palookey
Till Dearth Fazes Ovarian Sieves,
rotated dourly on slovenly pebbled governing crises,
brought to flowed and cowering disassembly platform nudes
for legal bedroll spackle flotation’s incendiary nook
in Cranapple headwater quaff contagion mythos pleats
of time-retardant carousels.



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.


Monday, December 8, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems


Vulcan Mind Probe

Maybe he thought
he was some kind
of David Byrne
clone dressed in
ill-fitting, mis-
matched clothes,
too large shoes,
voice box cranked,
speaking in some
high speed variation
of all the tongues
of Babel endlessly
tested and repeated
in some unknown,
alphabetical order
as if he had
been subjected to
some kind of
horrible reverse
brain washing
experimentation,
negative and positive
poles reversed or maybe
he was just the subject
of some bad practical
joke gone bad warping
into some new hyper- 
space where the Top
40 Hits were earth
classics like Burning
Down the House
translated into Klingon
and made vocal at warp
speeds no human
neurons could accept
or process, whatever
it was afflicting him,
death was going to
be a blessing compared
to what he was
experiencing now.



Vulcan Mind Probe 2

He looked like
Rasputin after he
had been shot
several times,
poisoned and fished
out of a frozen
river, his long
scraggly beard
and below the
shoulders hair
knotted and
encrusted with all
manner of dirt,
refuse and matted
leaves, his clothes
a fabric not worn
by most men some-
thing like burlap
cut to size and
stained a weird
off color not unlike
the scent that
emanated from him,
a foul odor of human
waste, rotted garbage
and death, his glazed
eyes embers from
a camp fire beyond
caring, warmth in
tent on obtaining
-Drink!-, rumpled
funny money clutched
in his outstretched
fist, his voice a
distant, feral calling
out from Siberian
steppes, frozen wastes
no man can survive in.



Vulcan Mind Probe 3

She looked as
if she'd spent
her formative
years as a bare
backed rider of
pale horses
whipped to
a lathering
frenzy those
full moon
nights of demon
lovers, banshee
wails & ghost
coyote songs,
tone poems for
a restive soul
in perpetual wet
heat, summer
storms never
far from her
gloss tainted
lips, blue
shaded eyes,
hooded, barely
contained pale
tints of prairie
fires

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Two Poems


Lovely but Rotted

You lovingly share
a large part
of your beauty
with me

And smaller parts
with whoever
stumbles
upon them.



karma bandits

and
they’re
again
together
two karma bandits
and a centuries old romance
an incarnate love affair beyond all known lifelines



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, Dead Snakes, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)

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.