Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Two Poems

Lovely but Rotted

You lovingly share
a large part
of your beauty
with me

And smaller parts
with whoever
upon them.

karma bandits

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)

Friday, November 21, 2014

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.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Ag Synclair- A Poem


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

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


mysterious moon
so loved in fine poetry
so many glimpses
revealing forgotten dreams
so little of moon pigeons

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

              "my thoughts are aliens"

communicated on
parallel levels
of existence,
maintaining lives
extracted from
a planet and
a particle at
a time
formulating new
worlds like
subway cars
derailing in
a tunnel of
black holes inside
passengers accept
transfer tickets for,
rushing head on
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.


Someday I’ll have
a scar on my cheek
too, I think
5 years older
than Greg
I try to be
and as he
goes to the juke
say, “play
some songs
for me, Greg”
slip him the 50

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

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.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

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.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems


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.


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 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)

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- A Poem


another fallen chunk  
as the zombie sighs 
a lung detaches

zombies soaked 
by morning’s acid mist
bubbling puddle-goo

dental hygienist
screams as a maggot
falls from my nose

tearing another friend
into beefy chunks

remote train wreck
many severely injured  
zombie magpie food

black and red dawn
fading rumble of a
graveyard nightmare 
transmogrify into this  
dead awakening. . .
grasping my wife as 
she chews on my arm

living as the dead
soon enough, whatever remains
of everyone
werewolf, vampire, zombie, 
oh, my!  so many shortcuts  
to immortality. . .

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)