Les Merton- A Poem

Country Man

Pheasants in season

rabbits for the table

clay pigeon at the country fair

he’d shot them all.

     What’s up?

You are looking bloody fierce

     with that AK-47, 

     are you starting a revolution?

No! Just looking after me own…

  What do you mean?

Aliens have been sighted … 

What are you going do?

Enjoy a little target practice…

Les Merton has 20 books to his credit and he has won numerous writing awards. His poetry has been published in magazines in the following countries: Algeria, Australia, Belgium, Canada, Cornwall, Cyprus, Eire, England, Finland, Germany, India, Italy, Nepal, Netherlands, New Zealand, Scotland, South Africa, USA. He also has had many poems published online and in anthologies.

During his writing career Les has also appear on: ITV’s That Sunday Night Show, BBC TV Spotlight News, and on the following Radio Stations: BBC Radio Bristol, Duchy Hospital Radio, BBC Radio Cornwall, BBC Radio 4, Pirate FM, BBC Radio Five Live, Penwith Radio, St Austell Bay Radio, Redruth Community Radio and ABC Radio Canberra, Australia. He enjoys performing and has given readings all over the UK and in Ndola Zambia.

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Aural Voyuer

On the other sides
of hotel walls
the noise of people
you will probably never meet
intrigues so much
one may put
clear drink glass to ear
and drink in what
one can't normally discern
or hear.

A surprise may be in store
or disguise even repulsion
but I always hope
it will be something
kindly disposed
towards my various kinds
or even, just maybe,
me
yes ' lil ole' me.

John Pursch- A Poem

Lung Island

MM-33 woke to the sound of Jack’s snoring. The lab was brilliant, morning sunlight streaming over uptown Madhatter. Her left eye caught the time from holographic ceiling: just after noon. Still no sign of Momo and Emily. Her right eye lay shut on JFK-19’s bare chest; rising, falling in lobotic sequence. Sounds of traffic filtered up from the street through open windows, warm summer air, smell of RFK cologne filling the room, reminder of the row of Bobbies she’d burned out before finally meeting her match around midnight, just fine…

JFK-19 stirred, eyes sprang open: “I, uhh, Miss Monroe, have you seen my birthday cake?”

“Why, no, Mister Precedent, what heavy cuddle moan? Wire wood ladle hold eeny meeny minor hold mien shaver wand to nose out slumber caulk wane sheik hood avenue orchid chasm wend heaven she blanked ewer ossified mint?”

“Whale, hue cotter crude pointillism tariff,” Jack observed. “Two varied grate ponds, canoe datum tinkling a pout hat. Pinochle feed chores, Toby shore.”

“Naught bet tea fly nest,” MM-33 modestly agreed.

As they woke, the conversation drifted and subsided, lobotic lust overcoming any linear programming, and they resumed their marathon. Meanwhile, far below Lung Island’s crashing breakers, Momo and Bahama Matt were mopping up remains of Montauk Chair; MLK-51 safely injected halfway across the galaxy. 

EBGB-88 had long since returned to lunar orbit, bathing in titrations of teenage secretions, recharging his superluminal inklings, already prepping for MM-33’s impending injection. He thought up Lola Kirov, realized she was still in Days Ago, contemplated time lag trawling, and settled for telepathic feed to LL-1, trusting relayed tryst mache. Leaning back, the sluiced gush of Midwest daughters drafting down his smooth hairless grey skin coat, body now coursing with LL-1’s lobotic residue of thought release, flooding his open brain with images of coconut palms, Sloth Specific sunsets, pipeline kick-outs at Whyme? Caught by her grammatical stoppage, he spluttered in the bath, coming up for air, great almond eyes beyond dilation’s spindrift peak, taking in stardust reflection.

“Gotcha, Boy Toy!” LL-1 laughed, deep in Puntagain vaults.

Coughing fit gave way to EBGB-88 acknowledging: “In victoriam pax to woe belief scam.”

“Sleep well, wholly Graylien,” vibing him ursine cosmic blush.

Erik Moshe- Three Poems

"The Stag and the Ethernet Cable"

A squire’s camp in Senegal consists of warrior scholars
Servants pass through the periphery as they manage duties
small tents seldom erect themselves; partisans sit around fires,
relaying on the geometry of the sun’s orbit subordination,
and Ethiopian rice pudding with a bit of menthol
Nightfall assumes its unequivocally dark form,
providing drapery for a setting comparable to a Bedouin wifi café
camel coffee stands, alchemist tables & stools
A boy measures the googols of sweat beads
on his father’s forehead reflected in the firelight;
consigning himself to fetch the water for the morning wash

An exotic stag rustles sheepishly in a nearby cage,
no doubt, coping with bondage, in Adaptation Tug-A-War
A souvenir from foreign trade posts,
luxury livestock product #three from a decoyed Moorish module
The stag amidst the yammering breathes calmly, surveying
campgrounds as an animal spirit caught in a dodo’s wings,
property in an odd template of cosmological herd hierarchy
Is it an object of wealth, of worth? Is it a sovereign creature?
or an instrument used to ride toward the agents of fortune
as they encircle the Jordan River with mysterious resoluteness
(the Euphrates data network support team)
A hand latches itself onto the lower leg of the stag,
jarring it from awake-sleep; the transaction goes unnoticed
It grips until flesh is visibly bruised, blood trickling
beginning to insert a cartographer map-sized yolk of wires and chips
into tendons and bone enamel, utilizing electrical impulses
to replace the ones that give it the gilded essence of life
A human hand of ordinary appearance catapults out of the desert
Half mummified, half massage therapist;
Some connection immediately made somehow sparks communication:
“The people… they’ll use steeds as an expenditure for conquest,
until pale horses that revelation spoke of are unveiled
on the bleeding turf as the latest technological breakthrough…
-- dubbed Palomino Hovercrafts!”


"Pineal Gland Pie"

Young lithium generations
treat budding contra-bandoliers like vanilla cake
They march like impala through rustic heartlands
with biometric pacemakers - the voices of toddlers
act as chakras
octopi in deserts shout ‘influenza!’ from the inlands
Madagascar melts,
under pressure, a titanic library overlooks the boilers
Alexandria, but better known as Allegra
is dampened. Her stores of energy are iotas
A playground at recess
features Bridget, omnivore sidekicks, Icarus
They emit prehistoric grunts as she walks
then boys in the sandstone shanty
upload hieroglyphs, because ancient glyphs are “good”
These alkaline bark brothers in arms chew on cicada kebabs
They eat their veggies too, for nuclear blast nutrition
childhood collides with madness
kaleidoscopes poke out of mouths like popsicle sticks
or thermometers that detect human nature’s feverish
condition
Earth is turned holographic in Townsbend
Did anyone notice
Pee Wee Herman’s letter of resignation
floating on the sea like a merchant's vessel?

“Kids do the darnest things,” said Betty White,
hands on her hips before she jumped 80 feet into the air
landed, then her throat detached -
out flew a toy drone!
an accessory hidden in the neck until activation
Technology will change things, except
for those bright baseball mornings, or discussions
of the third eye at a town tribune by a forest
Surveillance isn’t what the city’s aboriginal architect
had in mind. old ladies laugh, and dead grasshoppers leap
from digital coloring book pages

Elders in an orange landscape
scatter chop suey well wishes in the widgets of the day to day
“Why Richard the Ironheart fell in love but couldn’t close the deal
because he was missing a heartwarming alloy in his extremities…
Heed these words. Let them help you watch “Progress”
Not watch others exclusively from behind the oven door



"The Killer Czar’s Flight-line Badge"

Leather face, Lazerface Lenin-freight
Bulkhead Tunisia pilgrim maker mangles Jango Fett’s head
Psychosomatic spring time…clip of birds that unlearned
How to fly - super weapon Ildemar
Nicaragua nationalist, red badge of curbage to the oil corps
Garbage planet disposals were bad timing
irrevocable relapse resulted in sulfuric barges, binges,
most all of, bargains to keep the country afloat

John Carter of Mars on his Presario
viewing cybernetic hand weavers on a palm pilot
The moon landing in the crosshairs
follicles straight from Pinocchio’s nose growth
Blaring signals
Have you ever seen a crow in space
or a supernova vulture riding on wings tipped
with Sagittarius birth canal suds?
It’s a sight to see
Occult diction wilts each word wispily
Hectorgrams char the benchmarks of Achilles heels
setting fire to a henhouse made of marble
Cosmic eggs rain from the heaven-themed ceiling canvas
flying down like angelic insurance fliers

Let the cultural significance of hidden murals
bear no ill will or wounds toward our concrete forefathers
Equilibrium speaking, we’ve been
War college authors refurbishing the dilapidated curriculums
of the past; paraphrasing age-old idioms
“Don’t be discouraged by what you cannot accomplish
Blood, sweat & tears is no mere vampiric custom”
or“Slice a tidal wave in half with a hacksaw
and it’ll still strike a beach with the same initial impact”
or
“Carpenters may recant on carpe diem
but I consider malice the ballast that enables colonies
to stretch forth across webby land masses”
For every bead of sweat, another species of self doubt
is discovered and polar bear gums bleed
from fresh breaths in the isolation destined for all

 

 

 

Bio: Erik Moshe wonders what horticulture is like in alternate dimensions. He plans on listening to chakra melodies in the morning when he returns to his home planet in two weeks...South Florida. His work can be found at TheCentersphere(dot)Yolasite(

dot)com.

 

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Howard Sheridan

Dad and I
discussed riboflavin
and jacarandas
quadrilles in Burgundy
squabs
and hoary frost.

The toast took on
an extra dash
of graininess
the red peppers
deeply reflected the sliver
of sun uncovering
from a mauve and puse sky.

And then moved on
back into quadrilateral squares
and formicaed doormats
safely encompassing
sweat socks
leg garters
tennis shoes
and tassled loafers.

Denny E. Marshall- Haiku

Three UFO Haiku

landing UFO
earthlings are surprised they had
no concept of clothes

landing UFO
should have been a big story
reporters all crushed

landing UFO
unaware clearance needed
to land at airport


Bio
Denny E. Marshall, his bio this week, is fill in the blank. ____________________.

John Pursch- A Poem

Cinco de Mayan

Days Ago City pharmacies and blackened markets sell a vast array of time drugs: slo-mo spray, fast-forward foam, missing-time milk, time-reversal rub, injectable interludes, paradox pills, time-stop stogies, time-loop lozenges, time-echo enemas, time-delay deodorant, time-travel tabs; all highly illegal outside of Days Ago, hence heavily smuggled, sold in thriving underground trade system-wide.

Practically overnight, Days Ago rose from third-world laughing stock to economic superpower, dominating Dearth and many of the so-called target worlds; all due to the discovery of ancient Mayan time springs deep in the Youcantan jungle. Public time baths soon appeared in every Days Again town; the active ingredient was isolated in labs at the University of Days Ago City, the borders were sealed, entire nation quarantined, time traps installed at every entry/exit point, time bombs secretly planted in every major population center around the globe, world powers forced to silently capitulate, accepting terms of subservience to peculiar whims of Days Again authorities, under threat of instant random regression to technologically helpless eras…

Treaties with the Untied States led to development of the first time machine on Dearth, coinciding with the end of the Mayan calendar. Soon so-called Montauk Chairs sprang up throughout Nerd Americon military bases, leading to rewrite of Graylien treaties with much better terms for Dearth, communication with parallel worlds, alternate timeline trade routes, timeline tourism, mass migration of Dearth’s population to more viable worlds, worldwide time drug abuse, time wars…

New worldwide holiday: Cinco de Mayan, when everyone uses whatever time drugs are available, resulting in unpredictable melees. Time drugs available by prescription in Untied States and Myopia on qualified health plans. Laborers behind schedule avert job loss by visiting doctor, using time-rollback roll-on, time-delay darts, time-reversal rub, smoking time-stop stogies, smear on time-creation cream…

Swiss develop new timepieces that are not effected by shifting realities, stay synched/locked to MMT (Mayan Mean Time), the “universal” standard on Dearth, as measured in the Youcantan jungle, only place on Dearth where time does not slip. Existence of a fixed-time locus on the globe is guaranteed by the Brouwer Fixed-Point Theorem. Intuitively stated, it says if the surface of a sphere is mapped onto itself, at least one point of the surface must remain unchanged by the mapping. The rest of the points on the sphere might be interchanged, but not the fixed point. This, of course, is the minimal case; more than one point can be fixed. In the case of Dearth, the site of the original Mayan time springs deep in the Youcantan is the location of the single fixed point in time.

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems

Rim

After countless light years
Passed, counted, and forgotten
The end is finally visible
Physicists say no center or edge
As far as you can see
Now only a rim
Like a shoreline
To start over again
To another unknown


Paliens

Long time ago first contact occurred
Barely before the start of humanity
Deep in an area now called Amazon
A strange craft crashed in the jungle
Exchanged knowledge with flowers and trees
Intelligent and they too are plants
No way home permanently stranded
After a million years or so
Still remaining silent
Waiting for the right moment


Untouchable

In the night sky
Wishing to fly
Without sleep

The distance is far
To the closest star
So far to leap

The light is old
The void is cold
Out in the deep

Lost in a spaceship
Destination unknown
Someplace no ones has been
A planet to call home


Bio
Denny E. Marshall has updated his bio, can you tell the difference.

 

Jeffrey Park- Three Poems

HARVEST

To the reaper
single-minded
and dispassionate as it is
there are no victims or fallen heroes
or enemy combatants
or collateral damage
only a rich harvest of biomass
waiting to be collected
an abundant bounty
of serendipitous
fallen fruit.


THE LOST MAN

Stranded in an expanding exploding corrosive
universe of attractions, conflicting forces,
pulsars pulsing and quasars quasing, cosmic rays
on the hunt for something to fry to the far side
of extra-crispy, dark energy straining, dark matter
throwing its weight around, black holes wondering why
they can’t just be dark like everything else –
ice-cold and loaded down with the sorrows of a billion
stillborn galaxies, the Wanderer, the Lost Man strides
from one shifting constellation to the next,
watches time and space fold themselves back
before him like heavy oil flowing down a bottomless
drain, like the dream you dream every night
and desperately try and inevitably fail to hold onto
as you drift up out of a deep exhausting sleep.


OBJECT OF DESIRE

Occasionally I ask myself what it is
that draws them to me.
I study my reflection – broad, gently
curved shoulder elements;
gleaming pelvic ridges, razor thin,
streamlined; telescoping
tubular shanks, fully extended;
imposing steel-and-ceramic codpiece.

The face – its absolute lack
of expression, I’ve been assured, allows
the beholder to assign to it any
of a vast array of human emotions.
An onboard systems display with its
mildly hypnotic battery of data readouts.
Every component an unequivocal
statement of functionality.

Am I objectively beautiful,
mysterious, masculine, seductive?
Hampered by built-in self-judgment
inhibitors – useful as they are in
the field – I am ultimately forced
to leave these questions unanswered.
So I continue to accept their
admiration and adulation – to me less
than nothing, but they seem to find it
strangely comforting.

 

 

Bio: Jeffrey Park lives, works and writes in Munich, Germany. His work has appeared most recently in The Speculative Edge, Eye to the Telescope and the Science Fiction Poetry Association's anthology Dwarf Stars 2013. Links to all of his published work can be found at www.scribbles-and-dribbles.com

Michael Cluff- Three Poems

 Untitled

At 5:02
July 19
Lilith Adams
and Damon Cain
were at the top
of the hillock near
Edenia and Pussy Willow Roads
karate chopping
the thirteen foot
balsam wooden cross
Bruce Lee-style
down to nothing
in front of the near
rush hour
ninety-six or so feet below
and no one paid
attention
not at all.

They were sad
and bothered
all those lesson
were for naught
until the Sheriff dropped by
their lower class neighborhoods
arrested Beluah and Zeke
Philonia and Jeremiah
their parents.

Cold dinners and
empty propane canisters
were unplanned for
but the beatings to come
when the adults got home.



Day 4
In A Highland Garden

In the waiting evening
a snake watches bumblebees
chortling over the stung wasp.
The viper turns
and smiles
as only a demon can do
when he sees Valerie and Mario
engrossed in the other
as they move eye to eye
down a bucolic ridgeway.



Untitled

Chinese elms
chaparral clippings
the metatarsal
an afternoon
nee brunch junket
beyond the extension
of the test site
for unannounced fiddlings
Shelley could not fathom.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

America in 4013

Is that lava or simply mud

dripping from the cheeks

of this old woman asking me 

why this library has no books. 

I ask her where she's been 

for the last 2000 years.

Under a rock? In some cave? 

After all, the year is 4013

 

and now the only book extant   

is the Bible and the only copy 

of the Bible is in Rome where 

a few monks older than she is

sit in catacombs all day 

copying pages of it

onto yellow foolscap, hoping 

to create another Bible

no one will read, as was the case, 

I'm told, when dusty Bibles 

were in almost every home

and computers were a luxury.

But then I soften up because 

I can see this woman was born 

without a cell phone in her ear. 

I tell her if she wants to read 

something wonderful online,

as soon as a computer comes free 

I'll call her even though she has 

no cell phone in her ear.

First, however, she must show 

a number, not a name,

tattooed above her navel,

the only form of identification 

accepted in America in 4013.