Denny E. Marshall- Art

                                                            Telescopic Look



Bio
Denny E. Marshall has had art and poetry published, some recently. He does have a website with previously published works. The web address is www.dennymarshall.com. He also has a “Guest Artist Page” on his dot net site if any artist would like to submit. (See Guidelines)

Alan Catlin- A Poem

Alien Resurrection

Three days gone and revived,

made up to look like Scarlett J.

as seen through a broken lens,

made-up like a Sex Pistol on a

bad hair day then slathered in tar,

give E and forced into a large, airless,

confining room, smoke thick and jungle

wet, Techno-Rave music at ear drum

bursting loud, searching for a note

beyond high C.  Surrounded by indoor

electric lady land laser lights,

disembodied hands and arms,

wave lengths in the air dangling

from nowhere like in a death match

of marionettes, closing in walls

pulsing, animal hot, amplified,

seem to suggest: Listen to My Heart

Beat on drugs.  Anything is possible

now, even the birth of a new life form,

an alien invasion.

John Pursch- Three Poems

Periscope Cakes

  

Catamarans and cigarettes

burn patiently at twilight,

facing blue oblivion’s qualia

with feathered neural undercoats

of sparse exclusion wafer trim,

splashed in extra vagaries

of pomp and circumnavigation.

Floral set piece reliquaries

reflect on harbor noumena

with crisply quantized stunt fanatics,

gazing out to cornerstone asperity

in purely histrionic maze relief,

touting horny dial benders,

bet to traced calligraphy

of nodal craft elusion nibs.

Soil secludes with overwhelming flavor

sighs emerging from savory tortoise poles,

wafting ashore to line-of-sight chronology’s

pineal waveform, relapsed to donkey onus shills

beneath a peculated pod of crumpets.

Shelter passes far below in rancid siren

beckonings of slave mechanic batteries,

sheepishly redacting oxen gamete flipper lore

from bayou’s brittle overwhelm in banded sag

flesh sundry pear appearance set of propwash

hagiography for dining crumb arrest essentials.

Booths touch rusty crippler berries,

leasing juicy seepage every time

a numbered stylish cone falls silently

in actual abscissa abscess overflow

to prayer nook puffer fish excretion quaff,

slimmed to unset periscope cakes.

Impasse City Flutter

Glossy hovercraft imply simple amplification,

waving pie charts at costly station ears,

foundering in open airlock dump truck stings.

Only sonic assonance applies for agricultural acquittal,

ameliorating ambitious actuarial edginess with timid squeals.

Nations pout, entrusting inlet depilation mice

to dapple ivory phyla into lusty chamomile predictors,

spattering an enzymatic sneeze with cabin application crushes.

Laughable carousers mitigate mitosis with wimpy wisps,

washing wallpaper moths in posing blotter candy crepes,

causing sobs in vacant shopping coilers.

Stacked effacement tests you fairly off and on for

cloudy hand-picked mortuary shell regurgitation gist,

flecked with salty scenic gradients of flimsy noontime

derrieres, told to burgeon elsewhere.

Deeply infected luge pennants

gradually defect to fourth-world pumping bars,

prosecuting ethyl geysers under blue striated statues

of arterial clay, barmy injection release, and

uncommonly aspirated spin cycle kinks.

Jealousy rarely airs its threadbare wedding tallow,

calling fallow turbulence by empty shuttlecock

remainder terms in fulminating angst,

but jellied close-ups glom onto requiems

for stooping littered parriers of pallet-bearing salad spiels,

improved upon in substring sequin showers of shouldered

impasse city flutter.

Dream Star Sundaes

Ransacked bumblebee hotels immerse an attic wail in sand, dyspeptic furriers deferred to queue-length bookstand marginalia retreat. Jagged accusations pickle pews in paper handiwork, limping past palimpsest skin canaries bound for mule team coal minorities of subterranean booths.

Beautifully sworn pestilence bemoans infernal highball terrace entry peas, fleeing for hired groins, kicked in quinine sisterhood by bandoliers of brothel coups. Disgraced inguinal statues funnel hissing power off deplaning convict carrion coats, lugging innuendos overhand to tipsy grief collection arias.

Tamed tigresses inter encumbered feudalism before middling sages con milled animals to exit stage cleft, cramping up in time for footholds to disintegrate in cauterized hysteria, billowing fine whines of plaintive aplomb.

A tap dance here, a fraudulent collie tarrying in loyal Quonset tundra lines, a sympathetic sampler fishing nervously off bluefin paraffin aisles, coping with shallow labrum tartuffery by entrance alley overhangs in severed blasting capstone armoires filled with bubbly; even the periodic emblem punctures our posing chillum with chili fog and Cornish ham genes, tasty to culled cetaceans aft of docile drainage tee-top maxima with senior hints of indigence and porous estate plundering, venting accrual semiannually per trepaned fin traction entrails nodding into standing water.

Dream star sundaes filter frowns to grimace gruel’s sedation piles of stillborn fugitives from jaundiced apple plies and viable surrender jets of solvent salutary knots. Choppers saddle manic cholera vacuums with calm tornado ocean liners, shopping for backspin.

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- Two Poems

Fuelquest

"Just my luck." You're thinking,

"To run out of fuel in East Jesus.

Where the hell am I going to find

gas in a God foresaken place like

this?" You dig out your red and

yellow gas tank from amid the ruin

of the trunk and start walking down

the unlighted back road to nowhere,

pass the sign that says: WELCOME

TO EAST JESUS  NO PEDDLERS

ALLOWED  VIOLATORS WILL BE

SHOT ON SIGHT  NO EXCEPTIONS

Start thinking this running out of fuel

business could be worse than you thought

but you don't see how and then you are

in the 42nd Street subway station still

holding that gas can and now you're

sweating bullets thinking they are going

to assume you are a terrorist so naturally

you think, "It's time to hit some bricks."

But you can't.  All the access routes are

blocked by these Homeland Security dudes

like airport luggage inspectors waving

their wands at you like they're going to

attack, then you notice they aren't airport

security at all but the dead aliens from

Area 51 dressed in uniforms and holding

these laser weapon things like a Mars Attack!

movie and you're all set to freak when this

waitress at the Roswell Eat Here Diner is

handing you a menu and you're ordering

the House Special Burger that turns out to

be this green thing on a bun slathered in

lumpy cheese which isn't doing much for your

appetite but the waitress notices and says,

"Don't fret, Son, food coloring makes

that burger green and the lumps in the cheese

are real moon rocks." Which, somehow makes

it all okay and after a few bites and no apparent

seizures a thought occurs and you ask,

"Hey, Honey, do you guys sell gas?"

And the waitress winks and says,

"Depends, what kind do you want?"

That's when you notice all the Helium balloons

being filled and how the room is filled with

Hindenberg replica blimps in all colors,

sizes and functionality reminding you that

this isn't New Mexico anymore but New Jersey

and the radio newsman describing the events

outside is saying, "Oh the humanity!" as the blimp

burns out of control, most on board dead in

seconds and you remember the gas can you

began with and decide, "Now is not the time to

bring up rapid accelerator facilitators.  Hell, I'd

rather walk anyway." Which seemed like such a

logical, such a sensible and prudent course to

take at the time, I mean, really who could have

known otherwise?

Space Cadet

After years of serious drinking,

stints in drunk tanks, begging

quarters from tourists and church

goers, sleeping it off in unlocked

rooms, broken-into rectories, sheds,

dog houses large enough to accommodate

a man not too proud to curl up in dried

shit, after years of abuse, trying so hard

to die, waking up sober, a few fingers

short of a hand, receding gums no teeth

would adhere to, falling out hair a cheap

rug might cover, a dye job mask,

a permanent cast to his eyes, feeling so

strange to be alive and breathing trying

it out for size felt like a novelty act he’d

have to experiment with while working

out all the kinks, a process not without

drawbacks like coming back from the

dead with visions of altered states, foreign

places so strange his tales of woe sounded

like science fiction or fantasy thrillers

rather than a narration of the truth,

felt like the lyric verses he was composing

in a language he’d learned on the other side;

some say it sounded like a revelation,

others like gibberish and they were both right.

Russell Streur- A Poem

TRANSIT TOKEN

Hermit stone

Elephant

Mosque

Demeter

3^rd place finish

Industrial League

1938

Seven pointed star

Thistle

The mask of comedy

Illinois

Six beads

Two feathers

Red Line

To Downtown Mars.