Tuesday, September 29, 2015

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.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

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.

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


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.


where does myth come
other than reality, I keep thinking
as the horns approach me
and I realize I'm done for here.

JD DeHart- A Poem


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.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

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.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

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

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

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Waiting for the UFO’s

Every week,
garbage trucks
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

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
the game player soon
the door to only open
one way
so settled in 
for a many-leveled

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

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.