John Pursch- Three Poems

An Orbiting Simian

Thumped and watery,

scolded parsimonious elders

squeak through rocket laws,

stooping to canned nieces,

framing fabled laundry

for a holy waxing.

Crossing auspicious stelae

with arcane gushers,

marbled socks endear

a yawning spiral to

colonnades of grass,

imbibed with ladled

mailing slips down

flickering corridors.

Incommodious sortie pleaters

graze on woolen plenitudes

beneath an orbiting simian,

smelling rookeries of

steep drought paddy

chillum sash recoil,

freezing elongated

in prefigured enervation.

Numbly sheltered herbal phones

encase sequestered yearlings

in pallid extraneous lore,

stumping for runny séance

malaise on fire.

Flexing Carbon

Eyeful closets cower

in clovered sill-hop

caterpillar garden curls

atop enamel furrows

of an easily potable

oaken ensign on

puberty charade

from biblical shipping.

Orange adders cull

cuneiform sighs from

freshly wheezing balalaikas

in restive hauteur’s comely

masquerade of

pelican quadrature,

pentameter armature,

and rotund obsequious inanity,

propounding swollen trimarans

with tetrahedral glaze.

Heated kittens rise to

slightly handy ferns

of tousled shallot praise

police and cosine reprobates

in foundling undulation,

dripping warm and bobbled.

Bubbled hands sire

an auditory embolism

in fulminating flaxen

trance hall flunky

disputation crates,

flexing carbon.

Shuffled Cargo Mania

Tumblers slip in tonal

fossil fizzle exclamation,

buried in a shallow

bridal dredge replay

of parking lot intentions.

Boomtown wristwatch

checkers hop a crusty stern

for tiled and sutured molds

on shore relief from sable

egg contrivance dwindle,

pleating coefficients into

turpentine ablution skiffs.

Sanguine sawed-off public

hothouse pliers snooze in

histograms of lorry steins

and fear balloon imperilment,

trailing surgical zeroes.

Bubbly pyres infuse a crayoned swallow,

deep in sputtered bootstrap shine,

swigging ticker sod from molting

noun home dueling lesions.

Venison alleviates cicada mist impunity

for mildly porous cop-art dreams

of sliding chorus keyboard hands

in shuffled cargo mania.

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.

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems & Art

                                                         "Close-up Encounters"

Three Haiku

UFO landed
no one was there to greet them
in middle ocean

landing UFO
all personal surprised on
aircraft carrier

UFO for sale
in excellent condition
only drove “sun” days

 

Volodymyr Bilyk- A Poem

"Interdimensional travellers mission statement"

1. I will record the hum in my ears during the transition.

 

2. I will write down the description of a taste i had in my mouth at the moment of arrival.

 

3. I will stand still and  perpetuate the change of temperature of my body during the first moments on a new place.

 

4. I will document the duration of my first breath in a new place.

5. I will recount the set of movements i've performed after.

6. I will leave an insignificant mark on a place of arrival.

 

7. I will describe precisely the sound of my first step.

8. I will memorize the feel of wind on my face and the movement of hair on my head . 

9. I will trace the first smell i've heard.

10. I will check the colour scheme of the sky by my Pantone cards.

11. I will put the portion of the air in a bubble.

12. I will spend some time in a desolate place and will think about nothing for a while.

13. I will spit on a ground a lot in a various ways in order to make a cloud and will record the results and recount my impressions. 

14. The last things i will do will be: rolling eyes, clapping hands, plopping lips, knitting brows, wrinkling forehead and inflating cheeks.

15. I will eliminate all sources of light in a place of my departure.

16. The feelings right before my displacement will be striking enough to change my appearence.

17. I will take a deep breath and will keep it until my next destination. There i will exhale.

 

Bio:

Volodymyr Bilyk is a writer, translator from Ukraine. 

His works include: visual poems in the series This is Visual Poetry (2013), CIMESA (2013), Casio's Pay-Off Peyote (2013), SCOBES (2013), THINGS (2014), Laugh Poems (2014), Vispo Ay Ai Ay (2014), "To When Tea Ties Hence to Wank It Too" / "Eminent Means of Basil Dado Hem-Welt" in The Chapbook 5(2015) and screenplay for the film "Waking" (2015).

His works were exhibited on Bright Stupid Confetti Asemic Show, Yoko Ono Fan Club, Venti Leggeri in Bologna, The Spiral Asemic Show in Malta; EL MARTELL SENSE MESTRE in Barcelona, The Future is Here Again: VISUAL LANGUAGE in New York, 1st International Literary Fair of Mato Grosso (2015), World Association of Visual and Experimental Artists in Valjevo.

He is contributing editor of Utsanga.it.

 

Roger Still- Three Poems

Pusilanimouse

He's a cowardly mouse

who hides behind

everything, until finally

he finds that inner strength,

discovers he knows

how to use an axe (!)

and then overtakes

the small universe

inside the wall.

Sounds Space Guns Make

this is the flash

sizzle dazzle sparkle

razzle rizzo sound

of an intergalactic conquest,

so turn the volume up,

enjoy the ride.

Wendigo

where does myth come

from 

other than reality, I keep thinking

as the horns approach me

and I realize I'm done for here.

 

 

JD DeHart- A Poem

Province

Son of a Greek god hidden on an island

floating in the desert,

moving like a phalanx, 

the young man has no idea what his journey

will be.

He journeys through narrow gates and through

a burned land where an old man

threatens him from heaps of ruins.

He meets long-armed giants and beautiful

women who invite him to death.

He rides the high mountain, which moves

with eternal certainty, and outwits Hades.

Then, the young man returns home to discover

his mother is an eagle, his father has returned,

and the island is no more.

 

 

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  He also blogs and you can publish your own on his site, Tangerine Heart Poetry Zine.

Janne Karlsson- A Cartoon

                                                           "Alien Encounters"

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

The Progeny

The academic subjects she

showed the most aptitude for

were chemistry and biology.

Not that she’d actually studied

either. School was for dipshits,

everyone knew that.  As an

apprentice in the family business,

making meth in home cooking,

trailer trash rigs, she’d aced

all her prelims, moved from basics

to high level work, until she knew

all there was to know.  In between

courses, by the age of 13, the age

of consent in her neck of the woods,

consent being a relative concept,

she started dropping kids, six,

maybe seven, but who was counting?

They were all sallow faced, malnourished

things, some so dreadfully pale and

with tainted yellow eyes, people

wondered if they were of human born. 

Not that she could say much about

their origins, having only been there

in a physical sense at the time of their

conception.  A couple of generations

down the line, genetics would reveal all:

cretins or aliens, it would all be

the same to her.

Alien Sex

According to published

reports, UFO sightings

skyrocketed following

sputnik launch and release

of a steady proliferation

of science fiction movies

featuring beings from outer

space.  Attendant abduction

stories involving undocumented,

unverifiable close encounters

of a sexual kind, caused cynical

observers to remark, “ Given

what these folks look like,

it’s the only kind of sex they

could get.  Most of them couldn’t

flag down a bull in a tightly

closed ring.”  Who knows what

an alien finds attractive? 

How long it had been?

The Thing

The guy who did stats for

the local rag said he was

officially listed as seven foot

four and a half inches and weighed

three forty-five. He could have

played in the NBA, if he could

have shot, run or dribbled a

basketball.  All of which went

a long way to explaining why he

was marooned on one of the outer

moons of Jupiter playing minor

league basketball, which was what

Albany was to pro hoops in terms

of the NBA. The way he picked up

a pitcher of beer and absorbed it in

his hand, was the way mere mortals

handled a shot glass.  After inhaling

three or four of  those, he claimed

to have arm wrestled Andre the Giant

and the guy who played the original Hulk

and won, a dubious claim no one was

about to challenge.  A few more snorts

of suds and he looked ready to audition

for a starring role as the title character

in yet another bad remake of “The Thing

from Outer Space”.  He wouldn’t even

need makeup.

J "Ash" Gamble- Three Poems

Hang from the Moon

Like surfers of the stars

and spreading universe,

we hung ten from the moon

and caught some glorious

waves.

Shirley the Siren

She's short and round

with kinky blonde boy hair

but I love her and it makes

me head toward the rocks.

Wet Suit

It lives, it breathes,

we thought it was skin

but it was only a suit.

 

 

J "Ash" Gamble is a late in life poet from Florida.

 

 

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems

Three Haiku

in wide long orbit
starting from the Kuiper Belt
earth killer arrives

telescope viewing
riding with the universe
in a time machine

space exploration
unmarked tombstone in graveyard
dying a slow death

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Waiting for the UFO’s

Every week,

garbage trucks

compacting

their loads.

                                   

Fenced in dog’s

                                            frantic howls;

what kind of

monsters are these?

Screaming Orgasm

Maybe she was a new joke

on the electorate, signed up

for post grad work in Idiot

Savant, a degree she didn’t

have to study for.  Set free

for lunch, she informs the unwary

at the bar of an uncanny

coincidence of celebrity

sightings combined with

a tidal wave of UFO’s alleged

to have polluted these same skyways

the celebrities were seen in.

I was almost amazed how one

seemingly innocuous quasi-news

items could get twisted so

completely out of shape by

what was presumed to be a human

intelligence.  I listened as she

spoke to the diehards along

the wood, who would put up

with just about anything as

long as the next beer was forth

coming, about how Elvis, thought

dead by many for decades, had

switched his voting allegiance

this year from Republican to

Democrat, as if , somehow, that

would have been significant if he

were actually alive.

Mind Parasites

They are as malleable as plastic figurines,

space vampires and mind parasites,

come in all sizes and shapes, determined

by phases of a solar system of planetary

moons and radical changes in climates

these phases may produce. Life-sized

replicas are available for purchase online

for true believers at an introductory, one time

only, rate of 488 dollars plus shipping and

handling. 

These alien creatures often masquerade as

angels, hiding inside burning bushes or on

the edge of wild fires of indeterminate cause.

Are known to speak in tongues extinct since

the last days of the Tower of Babel and can only

be interpreted by psychics trained in the art

of ciphering unknown tongues.

Infra-red cameras capture their images as blurry

smears impossible to determine as true shapes or

finger smudges.  They appear as shining dots

on star charts often confused with super nova

stars or cosmic event residues, but at such great

distances, who could determine accurately which

they are?

Sun worshippers built temples that are still being

unearthed by scientists who cannot explain

how their civilizations worked, if in fact,

they appeared at all.

Their acolytes are legion to this day, said to be

recruited through brain wave effusions, interceptions,

where extracted thoughts are modified and thoughts

stifled to create the illusion of free will.

Like the gods of yore, they rule without mercy,

exacting vengeance for violations of strict codes

contained by unwritten laws.  Their history has

been written with invisible inks.  Hold the handmade

paper it was inscribed on up to the light and

the documents dissolve.

JD DeHart- Three Poems

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is currently available on Amazon.

Born of Wire

crossed, electric

the small face

emerges, blue

and sparking

Hey Babe

she calls digital

across the wave

of space and distance

a voice simulated

and somehow changed

from the time he knew

her in the real world

Game Player

jacked in

leaving the desk job

behind

the game player soon

found

the door to only open

one way

so settled in 

for a many-leveled

ride

 

 

John Pursch- Three Poems

Bunk Bed Apple Skyline

Early eerie pods erode

to deep despotic Oreos,

plugging wired and burping

suns with capillary comet blurs

of bluish posse pomegranate,

infiltrating the Crusades from

softened planet hideaways.

Vans erupt in burbled fog

extrapolation paid by dinner

shower sovereignty to savored

feasibility of muted tans

in docile eye soliloquies.

Through the grated calm

a steamboat sighs replacement

plumes of misty hoodie

wink-a-thons of hyphenated

halftrack dolls in merry manic

discotheque denomination dance.

Heretical ideals escape

in raw notational belief,

scoring duvet governess

unveilings of another

bunk bed apple skyline blue

in forest knolls of sheer

metallic flounder.

A Softly Peeling Urge

Hired anonymous crunchers

spread the word from

semaphore amalgamation

texts of ancient hieroglyphic

floods with bike infusion pumps

of faux androidal lollipops,

masquerading as teenage

undercover mules on strictly

party slant to parity in bilge

of mollified retreat from

self-effacing roguery

of enigmatic grace.

Even so, brow line

simian confusion silt

collects in systematic

flecks of toothy smile

and metaphoric hair,

splashed to sunrise trip

parade of moon caress

and softly peeling urge

exceptions, flipping

rumored carousels from

film to pterodactyl moans.

Stairway Minotaur Exclusion

Apes rehearse their lugged intent

within entendre cigarettes

of turbid laminectomies,

preventing sweetness

from caressing boldly hushed

and chiral phonic tourmaline

inception chords of two-timed

encephalics.

Swine collect the heinous payment,

scrolling up to bubbled raft

skullduggery of process-level

patrons in supine romance.

Duplicated leeward shouts

imbue the horsehide collarbone

with serpentine deficiencies

of snappy school thesaurus eyes

and stapled judgments sold to

womb commuters.

Xenophobic creature calm

of furtive coda close enough

to ointment spires of paraffin

enclosure cops in beach

receipt occasion.

Scooters paste secreted punks

to chad religion nomenclature,

peeved at stairway Minotaur

exclusion booth repairmen. 

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.

Matt Margo- Two Poems

lines shifting

lines shifting themselves into shapes:
denim shapes, found shapes…

denim drug-and-out, i have read your play.
offer your usual prank of goat heads, prompting

some obituaries,
electronics, ordeals, an aesthetic, a beloved buffet…

electronics took of electronics, electronics with personnel—
i am the electronics,

i am a townie’s clank,

always the sewer, the dramatic communion…

to the syringe sleeping in the weatherman:
come as you are, tarry not over your traffic!

take, oh, take those longbows away!
take all my mallets, my mallets, yea, take them all!

the frail lip of junk opens its red navy.
stamina, the sycophant stimulant, is this year’s pleasant lampshade.

aloof and lumberjack-hearted, i take to the open rumple.
my music stands at the statuesque drudgery, laughing…

i do not understand the portraits who tell me to stare;
i do understand excrescence.

everyone looks at me as if i’m a refinement.
everyone suddenly buzzes out, singing:

“when my fiction held its bit line-up,
many believed in the stitches…”

  
 

zombie enby

zombie enby grins a little grin

made of sweetbreads and sparklers—

the grin of a very slow slowworm,
the grin of a boozehound hungry for bourbon…

zir dead posture and zir dead swagger sway.

zir life’s little labors, they’ve lost their molars…

still ze smiles, opening zir polymath textbook

to a page coated in old lochia.

three eels come swimming from afar.
all the obtunded eels come to zir.

ze whistles out a ghostly gluestick tune,

a lonesome shanty headphoning forward…

mango-colored housemothers with leopard ligaments

ring around zir waxen melody.

the melody—afraid—falls seasick,

swallowed by a boatswain’s words:

“soon you will be where fog meets flotilla…”

it withdraws into itself, fades out as a failure.

but failure is counted sweetest
whose broken yield is a debunker of autonomy.

zombie enby understands this

and smiles still, zir cyan sun having set.

 

 

Matt Margo is the author of Blueberry Lemonade (Bottlecap Press) and When Empurpled: An Elegy (Pteron Press) as well as the editor of Zoomoozophone Review and experiential-experimental-literature.