Thursday, July 25, 2013

Michael Cluff- A Poem


A shoulder loses to ennui
a world tumbles into an ink void
Atlas is on the injured list
Prometheus got a permanent
liver from a donor in the Doric part
of strident Sparta.

Nowadays Hamlet
could be as happy in Lake Elsinore
as in  the Scottish part of New England
dunkin' donuts does not depress him
have a Dutch apple faced uncle
plus ambiguous father does.

Godot is in a holding pattern
between a shoe and a shepherd boy
bowler hats hide the hair
one is only lucky to have.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

John Pursch- Two Poems


Polishing tin shanties by the Wobblyass River, native Who’syerdaddies skedaddle at the merest hint of enema contractions, fearing the dreaded dung heap of eerie sewage known to erupt from river monster entrails on an hourly basis. Blown sky high by billows of bilious sod clouds, u-turning dirigibles deflate in rank succession, decapitating flood victims before ureic seepage hops their peristaltic trains. Rhythmic paddleboats steam up river, saving the hotties, shifting them to hired ground for immediate enrollment in neural armpit sex slavery, perhaps shipment to Knobby Scepter via transcontinental plastic lubrication tubes buried far beneath the disappearing topsoil of Nerd Americo.  Farm bred corn-fed nubile creatures fan out from Indianimus, Ioweya, Neveraskher, Cannedass, Misery, Manysodas, Sillynoise…

Once was corn belt became porn belt, feeding Dearth and many more viable timelines, pumping freshly sown boys and girls to lechers, vagrants, CEOs, hobos, oglers, perverts, doppelgangers, two-timers, polygamists, hypnotists, donkeys, mules, sports celebrities, senators, congressmen, renegade lobotic escapees on piecemeal orbiters, hastily constructed android shacks, any kind of sex junkie in any starving world. Blondes, redheads, brunettes, tall, short, leggy, buxom, petite, served up piping hot from Dearth’s burgeoning online porn catalog; millions of adolescents zipped from Midwest Americon bedrooms, nighties still intact, in Graylien pipelines lubed and packed with vital nutrients, picking up to escape velocity aboard mammoth mother ships, kids converted to time-bath gelatin pools, attributes in cryogenic computation silos, jumped to wormhole regression in myriad rotating cylinders…

Picked up nightly for cloning, dropped off before daybreak, teenagers worldwide form the breeding stock for lobotic armies, spawned into slavery across the system. Mother ships send thousands of scout saucers to perform this somewhat onerous task. While preferable to the collection of bovine genetic material, it is nonetheless considered menial labor among the Graylien hierarchy. Upstream reside the inter-timeline transfer functionaries, translating cloned identities into soul receptacles, governing the transmigratory process, allocating breeds to competing worlds, occasionally siphoning off pristine samples for their private harems.

Lobotic Pulp

Regional conflicts rage round-the-clock, migrating the dead to viable timelines as fast as Graylien pipelines can absorb them. Direct transfer through death-rebirth is the preferred method of transmigration, most likely to result in a unique, one-to-one, stable, constructive thread of consciousness; necessary to spiritual growth, required by lamas, gurus, ascendant masters, and the like. Death and reinjection into cloned hosts, on the other hand, results in lobotic awareness, a shunting of the identity to merely automatic life, a dead-end evolutionarily speaking; useful for mass labor and specialized leadership positions, but useless for the generational progression of consciousness.

Lobots are actually unaware of their limited identity predicament, believing themselves to be fully gifted human stock. This illusion is of prime importance, of course, in the execution of their missions, but saddles them as somewhat pathetic figures. The confabulations and rationalizations generated by superintelligent lobots are profoundly entertaining, however. Properly translated and reframed, they form the basis of virtually all the most popular mass-produced fiction available in the system. Actual human work along these lines tends to be far too nuanced to compete for mass appeal; lobotic pulp wins out everywhere. Oddly enough, lobots prefer the human-generated brand, providing an artificially steady market for actual creative art, while humans wallow in lobotic pap.

What of interbreeding, of lobotic sex slaves humping humans and Grayliens? And what about lobot-on-lobot action? Surely lobotic females must give birth. Actually, lobot-lobot sex does not create offspring, due to inefficiencies in the lobotic genome. This “problem” is not easily addressed, even by the Grayliens and their contemporaries, or so we are led to believe. It’s possible that the Grayliens simply prefer this state of affairs or don’t have the Graypower to fix it. In any event, it is well beyond the current ability of human scientists. Human-lobot sex does, however, generate offspring, via lobotic females only; lobotic males can impregnate human females, but the fertilized egg is soon sloughed off. When lobotic females give birth to hybrid human-lobots, the above limits on further reproduction cascade along probabilistic lines.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in many online literary journals. His most recent book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at . He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems

Motion Stars
Wondering the space with no light
Dark holes, planets hidden from sight
After long stares a silent ring
All night motion stars dance and sing

Take a chariot track the hoofs
Dust of nebula high above roofs
Riding the moon upon a wing
All night motion stars dance and sing

A wishing star passes the skies
Leaves a long trail before it dies
A stage of future shows will bring
All night motion stars dance and sing

Unseen Deep Travelers
At the far edge of the universe
A life form travels much faster than light
Tracing in the endless voids and wormholes
In between the absence of day or night
With form and frame larger than some planets
With little effort, countless shifts and glides
Older then some of the known galaxies
In cosmic camouflage effectively hides

Just 400 Million Miles Short

Hearing a signal from space
Reaction was surprise
Curious to find the sender
They studied since that night
Together working the project
Was large in scope and size
Had the knowledge and know how
To send a ship a year from that night
A journey that took over a year
Engaged in overdrive
Very close to the destination
The craft had a malfunction
And crashed into a planet
With a red haze sky

Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, & fiction recently published. Denny does not have a Facebook page or Twitter account but does have a website with previously published works.