Alan Catlin- Three Poems

                                                Alien Invasion

Claiming immunity from persecution,

he communes with fire hydrants,

looks to traffic signals for validation,

directions to the next astral plane.

He is the receptor of vital messages,

all the knowledge needed, he knows.  

Harbors secrets like the ones contained

by the scared books of the Apocrypha,

the ones after a Book of Revelation.

Says he once opened the Seventh Seal

to see what was inside, rode with

the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse

as if they were an outlaw band like

the James Gang, the Dalton boys,

before they headed South, donned hoods

and burned crosses on lawns. Beheld

the pale horse, pale rider at a stakes race

at Finger Lakes that was later cancelled

due to inclement weather. Expected

more news of a strange kind of alien

invasion he was a future commander of.

Spoke to blurry images in picture windows

when all other pleas for attention or

recognition failed.  Said he wasn’t crazy,

just misunderstood, his words misconstrued.

Has a visitor’s pass for a locked-in ward

in his wallet he has never uses, since

the last time, when they threatened never

to let him out.  What was that all about?

A man like him with so many connections,

in so many high places.

The Extraterrestrial Highway

He said that he gave up

a lifelong dream of

hitchhiking the US of A

just outside of Roswell

New Mexico in some               

roadside diner where

the menu included dead

alien burgers and the waitress

says, "It's just food coloring

the makes them look green,

honey, inside its just Grade

A US Inspected beef.

Besides, everyone knows real

alien burgers are much greener

than that." He made a

spontaneous decision to give up

meat that day, a decision he

hadn't gone back on since,

right after ordering the Area 51

Special: Green Eggs and Ham

with a side of toast and mint jelly,

a meal that took away his

appetite, his sense of purpose

and direction in life along

Route 375, The Extraterrestrial

Highway.

Alien Vengeance

Maybe it was because the pact agreed to

by President Eisenhower and

the invading aliens was no longer

in effect, both sides violating terms,

we, the host planet, having allowed human

experimentation on select subjects were

no longer playing ball, reluctant subjects/

science projects fighting back, slaughtering

guest Mengele’s in outburst of native fury,

their bodies whisked away to secret holding

areas like the bodies from Area 51.

Maybe it was because reparations were

not forthcoming, explanations offered,

a million Americans disappeared and

were never heard from again, thousands more

in Mexico where disappearing was becoming

an art form, a new atrocity exhibit every

other week, each more ghastly than the one

before.  Maybe these disappearances were

a planned act of retribution more furious than

the first, the secret pact between Ike and Alien

leader hoped to forestall.  Maybe they are

seated on Supreme Court, heads of corporations,

banks, foreign lands, already nuclear armed

and ready for the Big Bring It On.

Maybe you.  Maybe me.

David S. Pointer- A Poem

Acme Air Novelty Company

Warship virus vending machines

started out serving the overpopulated

game rooms of those undead kids who

had everything then space orders started

rolling in over the custom telepath computer

aboard that abandoned UFO that digitally

complimented our hideous death making

capabilities as it paid with a space credit

card before disappearing all surplus stock

like those poor villagers in the burnt out

still glowing hot-white-green area at 62

About the Author: David S. Pointer has recent work accepted at “Scifaikuest,” “Horrified Press” and elsewhere. David currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN.

Nancy May- Three Haiku

UFO Haiku

alien food

on eyeball crumble

hot blood custard

alien sightings

an amateur's camera footage

makes the news

alien life

for national security

all countries unite

Bio:

Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review, Writer’s Haven, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone and Every Day Poets. Haiku will soon appear in Cattails, M58 and Ppigpenn. She is a monthly contributor at The Camel Saloon and Poems and Poetry.

She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once.

She is working on her first haiku collection.

Brandon Theis- A Poem

THE IS

Part 3: conscripted grift cherries plumb cloaks faded in folds of limbic symmetry. Slippery?

Time lords dealing in state machines. Drugs control drone homing into pigeon breaths, beating hearts. Conquest.

Sloped moaning out whale semen seeped in lime, rise tide, rise! waves meshed milky spawned portal stacking, darkly into the cave maze. Crowning.

Keepsakes honored by locked wombs embrace, worlds flipped pearly, replicate endless drift pretenses, flirty truth like surfaces, bound infinite to threaded energetic fabricants. Lube.

Lobe thumpers pump frequency defeat, scorned by borders. Vacate.

Prism humping mind pools just so eager to know order, break bold moldy concurrent torrent holding cached flows for perception. Design.

Glimpse it crushing downward, bleeding lines crossed wide, clean, received as daydreams flee. Functional abyss, visible to hybrid machine carrion. Burnt.

Bliss fridges, gush goopy goblins groping at existence; alien, human, zesty life formed of matter. Scrape tiny edges of the whole. Complete.

Souls flood in and out, born inside routes that ever shape patterns for payers and prayers, prey cold empty outside consciousness. Burning brightness invades the images, keen on sweeping the pulse radar. Quality.

Constructs? Complete sidebars, wrapped conclusive, injected by abducted paradigm plumage. Forced inspection has no reflections, thus, impacts of messaging signals: moot. Jesus.

Grey framed solid beings, superior but infinitely weak, attempt known solutions, flailing seedlings. Grow.

Ever lost placement testing, objective nesting of stress. Valuable exchanges happen vacant of space, time, revolutions.
Energy.

Forked earths' root berth bubbles brooding murky mumbles. Half century, maybe. Maybe, this version erodes too soon. Gamma?

Power provisions given by fives, prototypes alive, rewired memory pillars. Crumble.

Positioned for effect: hover hives urge eyes to subscribe, beside brane bending, brain welding, brine capsules, encompassing exactly nothing. Poof.

Freedom from all knowing scaffolds: drunk with worth. Vague illusions only. Masks.

Furious awareness, doesn't slow or depend, isn't colluded or inspired, just is. Beyond.

The is.

John Pursch- A Poem

RFK-129

She drink semi-solid carbon in long black quaffs from stingray muppet skullcap, inhaling secondary cloud counter smoke from crane operator on emergency relief valve lunatic assembly, midway down any careless gradient you dare to defame.

Flowering brunt of springtime jet exhaust falls in wisps of midday heiress launderings, capturing essence of distant fluoride scrape from ownership’s heightened tingle of breathless spurts and warm incantations from massive hot sundaes, overtures to hot-hand stealers and sheets gone sultry in the wintry excess of Nubian zero.

“Wad spray we wend hourly wave on drowned to Flirty Sackcloth Street, spree to lock all urgings far away fer good-hand-punchy mirrored longings, what we filched from interrupted human meals lost night?” Penelope inquire all laconic, her voice effusive in screen door shutter motion frost-alike contestant lilt.

Lola chesty glance up from disassembled torso, whar she shirkin’ on shrink-wrap duty, tryin’ to keep same semblance of pay grade fir canned tenebrous monitor’s silicon saddle faction. “High’m makin’ marks like they’re crowin’ outasight and steel this hollow lobot want glom to life. Hail, eet won’t heaven glow, from I-sockets or andy rectilinear orifices!” she laments, severing frosty crustaceans from erstwhile pineapple seedlings. “Props I otter chaste give hup?”

Penpal she chest shake her head, suppress a cacophonous grappling hooker bauble: “Ear, slammy heave a go-go,” grabbing that recalcitrant torso. “What’s it, RFK series?”

“Yo-yo, he’s 129,” Lola grateful fer da help.

“129? Movin’ trite a lung, icy… Mammary serves me, last RFK I tweaked wuz 38, mossy bean wayback… No, five years aged canoe?”

“That’d be, well, sex years now,” Lola surmises. “Mangy improvements shins thin, methink.”

“Nod two worries,” Penpal now absentmindedly, way into fixing this Bobby. “Thar ya go, Mr. Cannery,” one last cervical yank and RFK-129 sits up alert, tie hanging over open shirt and wireless entrails.

“I uhh don’t believe we’ve been uhh properly introduced uhh ma’am,” Bobby smiling into Lola’s thighs, baby blues locked in conned nubile precursor to lobotic foreplay.

“Correct, Misty Senator from the grated state of Your Nuke,” Lola catches the downbeat flush, extending her hand. “I’m Lola Kirov and this is my co-pilot, Penelope Penpal Jones.”

“If I may be uhh frank, I seem to be at a bit of a loss as to our whereabouts…”

“Where exactly are we, Mr. Cannery? Why we’re aboard the S.S. Didactic, on maiden heaven voyage from Dearth to MJ-88, target whirled soon to be rescued from ecological implosion by a bland new ruler with all the modern conveniences,” Lola’s practically treading water in midair now, the ship going weightless for transition to time slip.

“Perhaps we otter button up your shirt, Mr. Cannery,” Penelope volunteers, deftly beginning the process.

“Why I uhh thank you ma’am, but maybe we’d be uhh better off uhh unbuttoning yours instead,” reaching for her blouse without a pause.

Lola laughs: “One of the so-called upgrades in the RFK line this year; offal chart libido, automatic philanderer module, womanizer tweaks. He’ll be two fistfuls in no time. Best to bring in an MM-99 or two, let them wrestle for the rest of the trip before we team him just prior to landing.”

Penpal struggles, escapes Bobby’s clutches with skirt half off, blouse in shreds. “Yeah, just an animal,” pressing her lapel, signaling the orderlies to hand-deliver a bevy of MM models. “Let’s get outa here!”

“Uhh uhh whey-a ya goin’? I uhh we-ahh just getting uhh acquainted,” Bobby protests, grappling for a loose ankle, pupils wildly dilated.

Lola and Penpal slam the door behind them, giggling in the airlock, just in time to hand-select the MM’s who’ll keep the newly online RFK-129 occupied.

Penpal and Lola recline in strap-on tachyon bath, smearing time-slip gel on each other’s faces, tingling with subcutaneous burn of lost emotive grounding, soon becoming present then past now distant memories of mammaries in wartime hovels of Dearth’s manned conflicted 21^st Century resource wars of obsolescence and econometric foreshortening.

“Feel it on my right elbow now,” Lola moans, jerking her arm, response to sudden chill of slipped whirled blue foam intersection.

Penpal smiles, shoves a plunger Lola’s way, flooding them both with star-baked baby-blue rays. Lola relaxes, feels the warm glow of old-time bodice partition seep down her thighs, ionic cloudburst wisping off into tachyon drainage filter. Penpal soon lets go, whole ship now slinking into rising shadow overhead of doves on blue sky, not a care in sight, minnows bracing for impish pterodactyls, pachyderms eluding pavement overhauls, mynahs winking at cubicle dawdlers, mediocre ogres eating okra in wan plantation filth belying bayou bombast, plastic sorcerers bemused by funneling circumstance on everyday street corners of drag queen youth in pink crockery carbo-loading growth mechanics, flight to pox-built rotary gaveling cons spelling miles at miniature shell-game continuity, spotting wax house mud line quartets even monkeys in atypical wiener-trike-haul banner-glow nautical punditry, reasoning from floral goon-a-bite to haughty simian nectar winds, spoiled spatially by versioned brocades of Kalamata gravesite shallows, pestering floorboard opinions from the donkey’s awning…

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. His recently released experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

off-world visitors

complicated discussions

about origins

she sees aliens

where the rest of us can't

love that about her

Vampyr Poem

From within my thirst, we

shall know each other.

From within your blood,

from within my thirst, we

shall know each other.

From within the darkness,

from within your blood,

from within my thirst, we

shall know each other.

From within our thirst.

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs), hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/119+ issues), and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Under the Skin

She’s unnaturally pale: icy

and distant. Obviously from someplace

else, a not-of-this world accent,

cruising back roads for hitchhikers,

down on their luck loners one

drink away from a heart attack

machine. When she walks into an along-

the-side –of- the-roadhouse everything stops,

even the juke box, all eyes on her

like hands with a license to touch.

Claims to be lost, and she is,

but not the way people imagine.

Chooses a man to provide more precise

details for an M8 motorway,

dual carriage drive, three planets

and a solar system from where she

needs to be. Asks them to show her

the way, gives off this strange vibe

men misinterpret as an invitation

for sex, disrobe in what passes for

her pad, feel her hands on them

leaving black widow marks on

their skin, tiny pin pricks venom fills,

leaving them cold and lifeless,

ready for the web, a harvest of flesh.

The Local

Climbing the narrow walking path,

The Local points to where

the crop circle appeared last year,

says he met some Americans like us,

last year, who were here from Kansas,

who said they made the journey near

the Summer Solstice, like us, to be closer

to the UFO's that seem more frequent

in warmer weather.

His companion checks out the Neolithic

burial chamber we were climbing      

to see, says, "It's walking into the woman's

vagina, that is, the mound opening.

Each of the interior cavities represents

different parts of her body: the arms, legs

and head." I was tempted to ask,

"What about  the glass windows in

the antechambers? Are they mirrors to

the soul or what?"

But I bite my tongue.

Questions might spoil The Local's monologue

about Crop Circles, UFO Landings

International Conspiracies, Cover Ups,

and all that good stuff. He's into juicy

stuff like, "Silbury Hill is a landing area

for space ships & other UFO's.

Everyone around here knows that,

all this stuff about a shaft collapse

during the last monsoon is just government

nonsense." When he notices my hearing aid,

he knows I'm listening but he can't be sure

to what, or, whom I might represent

and backs away, tongue tied now,

fearing the worst.

Beam Me Up Scottie

After the initial

tricorder readings

revealed no intel-

ligent life forms

all that followed

should have been

water flowing

downhill but they

kept coming in

the bar as if there

was a high powered

cloning machine

cranking out replicants

at an accelerating

pace, one that threatened

to take over the bar,

the street, maybe even

the town like some

kind of, happening-

right-now-extended

play movie in real life

of the Body Snatchers

grafted onto Star Trek V

The Final Frontier,

the episode where

the transporter room

fails to do its thing

& everyone left behind

on this hostile planet

dies.

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Haiku

mating season for

our latest off-earth allies

how to disengage

an earthy affair

your cool, green skin

pressing against mine

remote colony

the youngest generation

has a seventh sense

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/118+ issues)

Denny E. Marshall- Three Tanka

Three Tanka

Martians get ready
For satellite arrival
Plan like the last time
Move everything again
Over and hide in dark side

Aliens arrive
To study the planet earth
Take a core sample
About two thousand miles wide
From the North Pole to South Pole

Only a few men
Walked the surface of the moon
Were they told to smile
When cameras took pictures
Did they tell them to say “cheese”?



Bio
Denny E. Marshall has had art & poetry published. Recent credits include cover art for Illumen Spring 2014 issue, interior art and poetry in Night To Dawn #24, Stinkwaves #3, and Nth Zine #23. Denny does have a website with previously published works. The web address is www.dennymarshall.com

John Pursch- A Poem

Fast-Forward Flapjacks

Whirled War III was strictly chemical until the mid-1980s, when it went biological. Up to that point, the Untied States and the Sobeit Onion worked frantically to save their people from chemical ruin, but this proved largely futile. The bulk of the lower and working classes had been hopelessly infiltrated and reduced to gibbering idiots; pathetic victims of crack, meth, dust, weed, junk, and mass brainwave entrainment, virtually useless for all but the simplest repetitive tasks. The coincident global emergence of mass automation then rendered them totally obsolete, saddling the superpowers with half a billion or so lumps of useless flesh.

What to do, what to do? After farming out of what menial tasks remained to the so-called Turd Whirled, the two major powers basically imploded. Urban centers rotted inside-out, families disintegrated, national IQs plummeted, intelligent laborers were imported from Aphasia and Eastern Myopia; puddles of drool accumulated in shopping malls, abandoned classrooms, strip clubs, fast food joints, seedy bars, graffiti-covered subways, musty old libraries filled with yellowing obsolete books, gum-slicked sidewalks outside infested flop houses…

Faced with the total collapse of all that is good and righteous in totalitarian life, the stupor-powers collaborated and appeared to find temporary salvation in a biological war, turning virulent strains of pathogens loose on their own people, targeting the brown, black, junkies, poor, disenfranchised, unentitled, sodomists, crack heads, toothless meth scratchers everywhere… But this too turned out to be more problem than solution, soon threatening to spread to the global blood supply and wipe out the good, the clean, the rich, the upstanding white elite.

The idea of running a good old-fashioned conventional war was then entertained but quickly abandoned due to lack of interest on the part of the hollowed-out masses, whose brains simply couldn’t be entrained sufficiently after decades of  addiction. Gone were the days when millions could focus their hate long enough to jumpstart a large-scale campaign. Feasibility studies had long-since ruled out the viability of solving the so-called “population deadwood problem” with nuclear weapons, due to global fallout, so things were pretty much left to drift into the new millennium.

The various alien powers-that-be were appealed to, but they’d already abducted far more humans than they needed to establish their hybrid lines. Nor were they interested in vaporizing a billion or so on a contract basis, due to the projected impact on what they call the “off-life”; we refer to this variously as heaven, purgatory, limbo, the bardo, nothingness, depending on your belief system. They claimed that purging the deadwood would flood the off-life, generating an unpredictably devastating tsunami rebound effect on the living. The Grayliens seem to have a much clearer, more evolved grasp of the cycle of life and death, to the extent that they manage their involvement with it as a tractable systems engineering problem might be dealt with by humans. However, in the late 20^th Century, they were either unwilling or unable to enlighten us further in this area.

With the discovery of the Mayan time springs deep in the Youcantan jungle, mankind finally caught a break. Due to the subsequent proliferation of time drugs, it is now difficult to pinpoint the date on which the springs were discovered, but it appears to have been shortly after the turn of the new millennium, give or take a year. Within a decade, despite the best efforts of governments everywhere, time drugs had spread across the globe into every walk of life. Virtually everyone became addicted to slo-mo sprays, time-reversal rubs, stop-action powders, injectable interludes, fast-forward flapjacks, rewind roll-ons, time-slip Slurpees, time-stop stogies, time-travel tabs…

Anything that flies was soon converted to distribute time drugs, flooding the atmosphere, seeding every cloudtop. By 2010 (or what passed for it, given the increasingly subjective nature of time), Dearth’s water cycle was totally saturated with time drugs. Surprisingly, the net effect was a certain averaged temporal quality not totally unlike the original pristine environment, though relatively discontinuous and unpredictable. As a result, the newly washed world clock tends to jitter a bit, giving life a certain unmanageable quality. The tenor of this departure from continuous time varies with locale, depending on the cloud seeding activities of the local government and her enemies. In addition, the global presence of a vast melange of time drugs tends to enhance the effects of individually administered agents, increasing their potency several fold.

Today it is almost unthinkable to attempt to compete on any level in any field without the aid of time drugs. Battlefields, studios, boardrooms, auditoriums, theaters, barber shops, supermarkets, garbage trucks, churches, cemeteries, tourist traps -- all are treated continually with the latest custom time drug mix, designed for ultimate consumer satisfaction. The effect is quite disconcerting, making it virtually impossible to know whether one is dreaming, reminiscing, waxing nostalgic, or actually time traveling at any given moment. The whole concept of the present has been essentially trashed.

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. His recently released experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.