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.

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

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)

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.

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

 

 

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)

J.D. DeHart- A Poem

Motor Man

His face is the grill

of a car, his mouth uttering

the diesel fumes.

Arms like axles and palms

like rolling wheels.

He can tell you the lay

of the land as far as eye

can see, then farther.

He's been up the highway,

married to it, loving it,

holding his face close

to the white strip lapping by.

Another turn,

another endless run.

John Pursch- Three Poems

 

Hobo News

Misty beggars kneel

before oncoming transits

of Venusian counterculture’s

toroidal quotation gist,

scoffing at lawless sand residuals

for diced illegal dimwits

in canvas tertiary matrices

of whale-bound indignation.

Nights turn to frayed

conjugal retractor pools,

budding quietly to roadside

narc involvement jests,

stormed suddenly by

cellophane instantiation blots

of germinating hobo news.

Coated Cyborg Pie

We stumble over sorry zonal talismans

of burial crates, drifting notational delays,

and coursing modal flop surrender,

shipping piecemeal junk

to warring sunset jelly trolls

on biscuit lunge expulsion rigging’s

maritime conflation flute defrayal skim.

What if swans blurt smiling minutiae

at coned-off visual understatement’s

hysterical imposter,

soaping down dinner croakers

till the fussy mozzarella fling explodes

in piezoelectric phonic dithyrambs

of Dionysian cave trawlers,

coldly inculcated by the Queen of Thyroid’s

basement ignition quarries,

yearning to splay her vernal waveform

in coated cyborg anode pie

on factual angina pepper mills?

Now alligators peruse the soaking stacks

for corpus gallium galore cahoots,

nod to knowing carriers

of lost contagion impetus,

and seep emasculation chrism

from beneath their orange and ruby

scythe retardant papillary wingman signage,

glibly scattering decoded tesseracts at sea.

Esophageal Cave-In

Trumpets harken plaque to

plagued electric tender feet,

slurping purple edibles

when grasping becalms extorted

humpback conning shouts of

“Wayback infiltration pups

to pimped elegiac logic!”

in halfback circumstance recision

dynamo eclecticism,

impounded nearly every day

by salient hailstorm purveyors

near your eustachian brute.

Slopping to dunk a ring-tailed icon

in roped-off toboggan silhouettes

of ancient geeks and sentient beanbag mollifiers,

shimmering raincoats peel whereabouts

with glacine hauteur,

crossing skyline shouts with vernal Huguenots,

punched to disappearing rental shrouds

by weakly elevated riptide shrieks

of dumpster-thriving politicians,

lazy protocol imbibers,

and loosely cobbled drones

in nautical smirks.

Brahmanic lobots dance to

lunar vestibule entrancement gist,

singing quietly in unison for

candle aura periscope espousal peeks

at dollhouse funk in airy marriage oomph’s

esophageal cave-in. 

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.

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

MIDNIGHT ACTOR

Often at midnight I’ll go out to see
an abundantly clear sky
and its cast of starry characters,
playing lead roles
in their own dimensions.

I stare upward on a bed of grass
as the lingering heat of the day
penetrates cotton fabric
which covers my back.
The night quiet soothes me.

I venture to become part of the scene,
take my place in the universal drama,
a fragment of infinity,
belonging to an existence
greater than the value of man.

But the part overwhelms me,
the boundless stage is frightful,
space and time alter my perception
and as small a role as I play in the production,
I no longer feel comfortable with the script.

Abruptly, I rise
to return to the friendly lights
and secure surroundings of home,
happy to be a leading character
in a lesser presentation,

a star with gravitational force
in a personal galaxy,
aware that upon another midnight,
I’ll attempt to compromise my casting
in the grander scheme.



SPACE DIRT

In the living air
of bedroom darkness

a ray of sunshine
pierces the margin

of a drawn shade
and dust celebrates

with a dance
on the bottomless stage

twinkling like stars
in the lifeless corridors of space

floating amid empty tunnels
and illimitable holes

after an unparalleled boom
which resulted in particulate

with one minuscule speck
of inhabitants.


 
THE FIFTH LEVEL

The moment arrived
when I bridged the chasm
between chronological time
and the timeless holes of space
to bask in the wonderment
of stasis. Death kicked my rear
beyond the realm of mortality
toward the gangplank
over the sea
of chaotic debris
where the brave swim
in swirls of creativity
to shape floating potential
into radiance
singing human essence.
With a jump
I submerged into a void
of unlimited aesthetic possibilities
adrift upon Earth
and about the unfiltered universe.



Michael Keshigian’s ninth poetry book, Dark Edges was recently released this September, 2014 by Flutter Press. He has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications with 5 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)