Sunday, November 17, 2013

John Pursch- Two Poems

Plumbing Tool Watch

Speedily the bronchial, 
the light bombastic flew,
over us they cast their wit
in ceremony sheethed,
off the edge, extravagant, 
and missing only timelines,
sequenced to the genome's 
creed of crinoline and quinine. 

Teacups overflow at 
the slightest jet's impression, 
providential and imprecarious 
in their grace. 

Skeptical blotch 
and spansule notch 
and filament whirl of yore,
plumbing tool watch 
and hammer toe corn 
and luminous pillows of fear,
germinal tendrils and planets of mire, 
adoring a weatherproofed bore.

Decimal Skin

Narcotic folk songs seep 
from warbling tanagers 
in soggy circles. 

Leafy geriatrics slide through 
sweltering breath roulette, 
charting teak cetaceans 
with taupe allergies. 

Should ordinary egg yokes feel 
hysteria in sanitary sackcloth, 
stubbing out the sordid flame
of pesky dioramas? 

Cranking daughters hump 
in steely superstructures, 
explode in sweet beginner sprawl, 
and axiomatize a glowing cinder’s
decimal skin.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Passage II

The shift from dark to light
is seamless, sameness,
saneness for Carly:
she accepts it without cry
or whimper, wall less in points
of fact and factors
just the slight fuzz feeling of new-blossomed peaches
mauls the edges a minute bit
when Jensen
meanders past the meager cell
in the library Carly maintains
until anything of slightest salamander
redrawings wanders and wonders along.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Michael Cluff- A Poem


Indigo umbrellas
ameliorate before the mid-morning
mass of bellicose soup
quivers within the centipedes' side
understanding a conceptual farce
in these early mid-afternoon nights
totality finds forks delicate
trying to slip down the path
inbetween shots of bad whiskey
nicotine knuckles dilating
grips on jammed roque mallets
nick off the oaken balls
orotund in November
risque sounds forming inside a chanting
crowd looking for elegance
or a least a soft-core bloodless death.

Denny E. Marshall- Two Poems

Breaking News (Version #3)

It is late evening on a summer night
All of a sudden, sirens start to blow
Resonance of the approaching hum grow
Look out the window, the feel of things not right
Way up in the sky a strange blinking light
Voice interrupting the radio show
Breaking news, the details remain unknown
Rushing reporters to the landing sight
With a panel of experts on the phone
A special announcement on the radio
Is this a hoax or are we not alone
Repeating, happening a short time ago
Stating over on the microphone
Vague story about a UFO

Space Spies

Since man first set foot on the moon
On the floor of the earth
The telescope pointed at us
Unlike Hubble larger than a bus
With a 10,000 micro-lens
In all these years
Just a few rides to the moon
A few dozen robots
Spinning the solar system
The watchers thought
What a waste of money

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Jeffrey Park- Three Poems

As the change begins, memories fade
into one another, merge with the shifting
blurring flow of dream currents – the world
where I was birthed, colors, smells, textures,
a handful of moons flung across a crimson
sky, shells of my fathers, flipper limbs
of my siblings, mother’s gelatinous caress –
Goodbye, my sweet Earthling, I’m sorry
to leave you this way, sleeping peacefully
with no intimation of what it is that has
shared your bed these many years – I shed
my skin tonight, and more, this alien flesh,
these eyes, tissues, organs – cast them
off with a sense of relief, to be born again
as a creature of your wildest imaginings,
the chimera you never suspected, stranger,
visitor who came and loved you for a few
revolutions of this planet around its star
and left you with nothing but memories
and vain questions and a telltale smear
of exotic goo on my side of the bed.

I knew it had to happen sometime
and now it sure damn shit is –
finally at long last and without any big
eyewitness-news-at-eleven to-do
they’re actually coming down to earth
or Planet ZB705-137 or some such
in their crazy vernacular
and now they did it and here they are
in my own damn field right among my
carefully tended crop circles (some
of which are more oval than round
but whatever)
here in middle between the light
of the stars and the dim glow of my
porch lights – and they’re interested
in ME by God, and in Brownie and Rex
too, but mainly in me, they can tell
I’m the dominant species around
here I guess
and they’re all gangly and eyebally
and alien-looking as hell and they have
long toes and necks and foreskins
intact – could be they come from an
unhygienic planet or maybe they
regenerate willy-nilly, who knows,
but I’ll ask them once they’ve scanned
my brain and learned to speak
American and now they’re touching me
all over with their finger suckers
and it feels nice – and son of a bitch
they take me inside the ship, we’re
going up, space is calling, the moon fills
the porthole all bulgy and off-white
and who the hell’s going to believe it,
I’m pinching my own butt cheek
but I’m weightless now and they say
they’ll let me piss out the porthole
so I can watch my piss droplets freeze
and boil at the same freaking time –
and let’s face it,
it just don’t get any better than that. 

Hope abandoned
forced to put down on a dark planet
constantly shifting gravity
inky immunity to instrumentation.
We hurl ourselves out through
the airlock
lie gasping
and retching on an endless plain
of night.
And then
when the dark people finally come
as we knew they would
no resistance
we follow them into the night
to the place where
magnetic shadows sleet down
from above
scorch the unseen surface
with pitch-black incandescence.  

Bio: Jeffrey Park's poetry has appeared most recently in Mad SwirlCrack the SpineDark Edifice, and the new science fiction anthology Just One More Step from Horrified Press. A native of Baltimore, Jeffrey currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school. Links to all of his published work can be found at

Michael Cluff- Two Poems

Boreal vs. Decorative

The begonias
underneath the mighty oak
grab Lianne's eight years old attention
while Sylvester the engineer
sees the solidity of
the more mundane
over the flash and impermanance
of the striking and fragile.

Annie just rests
under the tree's heavy, brooding
yet sheltering branches
secure she can enjoy
the bursts of floral tints and hues
in a soltitude that does not
threaten or impose
as rooms and corridors
are wont to do.

In Ashwater

Samantha Grey pauses
on the edge of the cantilever
and waits......

The sun touches the hair
of Lucas' left arm
and its copper red hairs
flashes into her cortex
at breakneck speed
blinding the mature woman inside.

He is contemplating Schopenhauer
in a corrupted version of low German
from an edition the Nazi
refused to approve in 1938
on-line graduate courses
are an ambiguous solution
for him until the high holidays
are over.

He never sees Samantha
even though she is above him now
and closer to God
and  beneficent closure
than he may ever be.

Audrey waits in the inbetween zone
and hardly moves a mote of dust
the fine soot
of strange factories
and smelt chimneys
best befit her and Lucas
these marsh thinning days.


Under the ripples of relief
that barely teases the town
the soil remains electric
in the need to shift and stifle,
Martin Crosse perpetually
unstains his white dress shirt
and Sisyphus gets to sleep in
a dog works just as much
as the most focused banker
and begonia expert:
neither have had a sufficient bath
in these many clotted years.

Lucas grimes the text up even more
with the spittle from his onion-defined throat
while Sisyphus intemitently will chase
solid-sized pebbles Audrey tosses now
at Samantha and inadvertently
always misses.

Brisket and belvederes
and elbowed elation
is just the soupcon to keep
Lucas reading on.

John Pursch- Two Poems

Half Egg Time

Cows shed chromosomes,
pigs float in saucer foam,
Gray-Glo whale eye-eyes
ogle sallow drilling sites
of raw pituitary potion. 

Heated pint o’ legs a-drying, 
hybrids hover paralyzing
hefty hairy hoi polloi, 
scuppered into twisted boys 
of candy homo sapiens. 

You yourself are calmly shown 
polyurethane urethras, 
dying tutti-frutti pleas
in shellfish frowns 
and quacking sounds 
of alien abduction. 
Shave and sew in quiet orbit’s 
flying disco hypo climb, 
luminescent thighs absorb it,
just relapse in half egg time. 

Chimpanzee Debris

Trichinosis threads 
ethereal assiduity’s 
European hardtack spine, 
handing endorphins 
to funky umbilical prawns. 

Kookaburras ignite defaced dew lines, 
saturating posh cops with cranial insistence, 
shelving spaceports with inner tube leis. 

Pressing gowned cigarettes 
in vividly smocked alarms, 
we realize diurnal battery drainage, 
spilling sumptuous eagles where tariffs soil 
embalmed golf balls with sewing crabs. 

Washing handedness 
of noble orientation, 
spiriting away a stone floor, 
lapsing into false contusions, 
fisheries melt the air with 
ossified remains of mendable fins.

Stretchers stoop 
in umbral seclusion, 
swiping floral tin 
from forehead wearers.