looking out the window
a crashed alien spaceship
entangled in the branches
in a distant galaxy
an alien shares photographs
of their trip to Earth
waiting in line
to view the alien on display
from the crashed spaceship
Bio:
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Angelica Fuse- Three Poems
Fear to Tread
do not be
afraid to step
here child
the earth
whispers but
it seems neither
of them knew
the blast
that lay beneath
the recently
tilled earth.
Phosphorus
the way
they swoon
after him
you might
think
his junk
had its own
glow
as if he
is some
filthy mattress
angler fish.
Craven
some say
wicked
some say
misunderstood
I say licking
the earth
in desperation
a mad dog
with wild eyes
less evil
more a force
of nature.
Alan Catlin- Two Poems
Abominable Snowmen
Only
abominable
snowmen
walk
here
this
night
stamping
their
frozen
heavy
booted
feet as
they
come
rubbing
their
cold
reddened
hands
breathing
the
still
dead
air
No one
ever
sees
their
double
X'd
eyes
Not
even
the
barman
Ojo Taiye- A Poem
GOODBYE II
Goodbye to those
soft hands
Hands that are care
craft
Hands that are cologne
of comfort
Hands that wipe rains
from the
trenches in my river
beds
Hands that throttle the
empty space
in my skin
Hands that are open
clouds
Goodbye to those smiles
Smiles that are birds
flying and flying
in my forest
Smiles that are eternity
rings
Smiles full of waters
Goodbye to those secret
haunts
nights lost in trees
when sickle twirl and
whirl through
high canopies
John Pursch- A Poem
John
Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net,
his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his
poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
Probability Lozenge
Somewhat immaterial due to the
proliferation of time drugs in this quadrant, star field slips by in pebbled
onslaught of folding secondhand news, crushing distant thunderclouds in frosted
futurity of burbled insects.
“High-eye, Capstan!” salutes the
commodious odoriferous loitering remnant of our foisted mate, O’Silly O’Shea
Candiru O’Sire-us, father of Maundy a folding charioteer.
Indeed, that would make this
Capstan’s Flog, Star Delay irrelevant or at the verily yeasty totally
illegible, ineligible for fodder stumps, SoCal seclusion fees, maniacal married
cardigans, fleeced mechanics, gloved handicappers, prosthetic limburger,
sneezed eruption tetanus ponds, or faintly glorious pastures. Indeed, whodunit
is also a smutty point, moldy and snooty, wad with all hands Velcroed to the
deck, all dealings relegated to parity dumping corns.
Oh, to have feisty knees against
the slinky narrow swans, equipping shoveled sailors with these dazed and
kumquat reproved probationary jargon freaks gone silently into amorphously
abrogated cotton sheets!
Dateline Hominy Lulus doze attack
to screw up a toga three times a lackey? Sol depends on stellar gramophones in
orbit surround Upper Disco, sand known once art yelling data smooch of
anything, cleavin’ the zero-g fling emissary apple crux-spin wedge sweet
noodlings fine them shelved. Sag in, hit all schemes to comely town to these
daze. Sand noon when nose mulch about-face value chronology under more.
“Nod me,” gurgled many a junky,
phlegm big bad bony behind.
A lone bird flies by in southern
space, bashfully unaware of impish endless rerun dimes. Poor Effluent Decatur
Rosily-Felt, erstwhile dilapidated rhododendron, leg awl cooed paternal
unguent, he’s one thirsty mane from bling so valuable as to slake his unwhetted
veterinary surgeon’s most shellfish whistle stop tourniquet for heavier donut
leprechauns. Narrower bums cackle and tease the unprecedented sleeper scar in
habituated jewelry mode, sawing off the alpine inequity what hovers just below
the furry ceiling of low-cropped cumuli in subtle depravation.
“Fly, fly, Capstan Coke!” I
filially virally scotched the surd, meaning seizure we opinion ship or sad sale
fur spurts unrobed.
“Stall abed foul!” Eye cry,
squirting turtledoves from annuli in sodden insurrection, quaking coldly
slobbered saliva drowning skinny slippery tanned and tidal dumpling landfill
exegetes.
“Lotta execrable quotidian escrow
data in themed tarheels,” Kabuki Clem remarks nightly causal out of time-trap
slush, just wading down decadal duodenum all inter-swirly on me. “Yippity
buzzsaw, Idle scupper yer riding nut clean offal into fanned lethal pumping
groin hefty skiff me swan mere chant!”
Eye-eyeful-torpedo-cower, it’s
slovenly fairly too warm him or sandy manta or seven Santas fir matted
flatulence. Sigh mien ewe chest cramped hall oft hound lop cough immense
technicolor weird out a swarming, canny? Occurs knot, a cursive nod, a Corsican
knob, occultation jellyroll probability lozenge.
“Are we prehistorically ratiocinate?”
Kabuki sacks all knowledgeable disco horse machines, swaddling beans leapt from
hysterical Dearth to smeared inviolate lime tines.
“So rack your limbs, sit on
bestial icon glue, slurry too sway,” Eye fined my shelf fiercely sputtering in
mast-limit lounge act. Shallow copter floats by in thuggish atmosphere, means
we mustard on reentered phlegm slow Dearth obituary colloquy.
“Tat’s wad crude can
tergiversation wheel get ewe!” Kabuki cackles, faking his fistula, serrating
unto thyme release.
Eye slam on emergent seals,
porpoise leash bet necked accessory, paltry of nanoseconds to spire, scathing
the crude ship aforementioned slump wherewithal duo buoy pone rewax. Cowed
mangy stagecoach tires dude yawn ding Kabuki’s gunner go through, dime-shopping
phlegm wan legacy too an altered? Show lung wheeled pea bay furor heel reel
eyes tare alley daze aim?
Pet thyme hasp known capsule suit
reverence hear oar ant he wears, morphed mat chatter; Kabuki huff sallow
steeples nose’s disk. So, yeah, covered horse he’s jest eschewing hem solve,
looting surround galactically, shucking cup marked data, melee bleat heaven fun
schmoozing fancy pull-nuts watt are weed-ink sprouting distance, riven sprain
pans all a sprocket imp and loadie dingle angle goop dialing sound auric why
haze.
Ananya S. Guha- A Poem
Nightly Dreams
grandmother said she was psychic
or, my brother said soSaturday, May 14, 2016
Alan Garfoot- A Poem
The Emz
Fly with me my space bound beauty of the stars,
And see the untold wonder of the universe,
Your love is a bond stronger than life,
And soul is the essence of purest infinity.
Do not hurt my sweet tender angel,
For your woe is because you love so deeply,
Your heart though blue is as strong as sapphire,
An immortal’s eternal love in crystalline time.
As we fly in our immortal dream-ship,
Time and space fold through our will,
And we trace the skies in the colours of love,
An unbeatable passion which will resurrect all hope.
Your beauty is as flawless as perfect diamond,
And love I cherish as like your soft tender touch,
Your voice has healed me of the savage darkness,
As your affection saved me from bitter despair.
You are my soul-mate and companion forever,
At night we drift as spirits through consciousness,
Through the spirit-web we speak through our dreams,
As our dragons slowly coil round each other’s forms.Angelica Fuse- A Poem
Squirm
when I looked
last at
my arm
there was a small
bump
but the bump
grew larger
a dark shadow
moving inside
tadpole
moving in its
sac
within weeks
it grew to the size
of a strawberry
then an apple
then a small leg
emerged
wiggling in the air
another leg
an arm
a smiling face
I was left with
an open wound
and a sense
of accomplishment.
Alan Catlin- Three Poems
The
Monkey's Raincoat
He was
wearing
the
monkey's
red
raincoat
when he
came
in
and it
was
five
sizes
too
small
He
looked
like
a
walking
thunder
cloud
dripping
dirty
wash and
wear
water on
my
floor
Looked
like
he
might
be the
point
man
for
some
kind
of
strange
invasion
Music
Men
They
heard
tunes
in
their
heads
no one
else
would
ever
hear
They
were
so
whacked out
on where
they
had come
from
and where
they
were
going
they
didn't have
any time
for
the here
and
now
They
were
Music
Men
lost
in
the
ozone
and
their
plane
was
coming
down
so
fast
you
could
see
the
spirals
in
their
eyes
Cold
Meat
The way
he's
going he
should
have been
dead
and
buried a
hundred
times
or more
already
He's cold
meat
in the
ground
Man
Dead
He's
only
walking
around
because
his body
doesn't
know yet
that his
head
is
gone
Ananya S. Guha- A Poem
Grandmother And Her Two Sons
I have taken this weight off,
the proverbial burden of responsibility
or irresponsibility, we call it whatever we will.
Once upon a time I sat on grandmother's lap
to listen to stories of ghosts, catcalls and her two sons
climbing up the wind, soaring skies after dying of poisonous
fumes of the stomach. The narrative, unreal, surreal blended
into my apostasy, my image of myth maker, teller of fables and lies!
The weight suddenly lessened, slowly in life, when I realized
that truths told were untold ( lies!)
Grandmother, her fabulous world were lies, until she died
at a ripe old age of hundred and two. I looked at her frail self,
and wondered how this frailty could cause a string of lies!
Fabulous, untold stories, of her two sons, flying across
when space crafts did not exist. Now I know.
I know, unexplored terrains, I know grandmother as a psychic
teller of tales. Fantasy.
I know, she is still climbing across untenanted skies.
Grandmother's ghost is real. The house in Guwahati
shackled with ominous ruins is as true, or false as
Grandmother's tales. Her rickety fingers still point
at me. Her narratives give me a lull, and then
sleepless nights. Her two sons, dying of cholera
are my dying assets. I still live. Grandmother, her two sons...
They were
twins.
Ananya S Guha
Shillong, INDIA.
Michael Ceraolo- Two Poems
Holiday Interlude
But first,
the Seven settled in
to watch and experience one of the American Terrans'
famous holiday revelries,
one
they had previously experienced only virtually
Misty fog mingled with lingering smoke
from fireworks shot off the night of their arrival
People beat the sunrise to save places on the beach
for picnicking,
for swimming,
for volleyball,
for tossing plastic discs and other objects
mostly spheroid,
and,
what the Seven
had determined was the most popular activity
to be engaged in,
for
the ritual murder of brain cells
Bi-planes flew by toting advertising signs
Deer,
raccoon,
groundhogs,
squirrels,
and
even a lone coyote were
the latest roadside casualties of the car,
reflecting
the uneasy co-existence between the humans
and many of their fellow creatures
Because
a crowd had assembled
a souvenir shop had sprung up
(definition of souvenir
-a doodad you don't really need
to serve as a reminder
of an outing or a trip
you wouldn't otherwise remember)
Gradually
over the course of the day,
the Seven's
other senses were engaged:
the smell of charcoal for cookouts,
the smells of the foods being cooked,
the smells of the seasonings sprinkled on the foods,
the tastes of the foods when they were eaten,
the sounds of the different musics
both recorded and live,
and
the feel of the lake's water on their skin
At night neon lights lit up the sky,
and
people gathered to watch more fireworks,
most,
though not all,
of today's displays
authorized by the local civilian authorities
And
everyone applauded the shows and themselves
Happily exhausted,
the Seven rested up,
for
tomorrow the real work of the mission
would begin
The Blob from Area 1
It was a man-made creature,
made from
material dredged from the Cuyahoga River
to facilitate the river's shipping traffic,
then
dumped untreated and uncontained into the lake
during a time when such dumping was routine
Age: at least forty-five to fifty years old
Size: two square miles
Weight: unknown
Composition: known only in part,
but
containing dangerous concentrations
of at least two pollutants
from the toxic alphabet soup:
PCBs
(polychlorinated biphenyls),
and PAHs
(polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons)
And
these and the other materials were heavier than water
because the creature was crawling on the lake bottom
Earth bureaucrats had designated
the affected area as Area 1
(no explanation of how they came to name it
as such,
or whether
there are other affected areas),
and
one of the crats had written to another,
in a letter recently revealed,
"Sampling date in and around Area 1
clearly shows the ability
of the sediments to migrate"
(carefully
avoiding calling it a creature)
"and further shows the sediment
migrating in the direction of the water intake"
noting that
the migrations was
"toward the raw water intake
for our Nottingham Treatment Plant"
also noting
"Area 1 is within approximately five miles"
of said intake,
though
given the mania for secrecy
prevalent at that time and later,
they did not disclose the intake's
exact location
Though
they couldn't yet tell how fast the creature
was migrating toward the water intake,
now
that its existence was public knowledge
on this planet,
they assured the public
they were carefully monitoring the situation,
and
that they had a plan of action
should conditions warrant it
JD DeHart- Three Poems
Lotus
Not an island
as might be imagined
but still a place
of sedate longing
perfect geographical
expression of that feeling
in the legs before rising
when one has awakened
and is yet to be ready
Denizens floating by,
dazed, offering us fluffy
drinks with toys in them,
their own swirl of nectar.
(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)
Polar
Icy
his form, flowing
from the cold
center of north
How
we tried to thaw
him but no
such luck
When
he saw us
through foggy
breath, knowing us
we recognized
the gleam
of isolation.
(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)
Saucers
Do you believe
in flying saucers,
the prof asks
before tossing his
plate across
the lecture hall,
then:
How about now?
(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)
Angelica Fuse- Three Poems
The Hinge
a door
that opens softly
in my mind
I can't shut
a scene
I can't shake
a creaking
hinge moment
that changes my
life.
Esoteric
on the Planet Esoteric
many people
speak
but no one listens
because no one intends
to make sense
it is a world of babbling
brook people who only
want to sound intelligent
without actually
knowing anything.
Cinematic
bathed
in a glow of light
I am led
by the hand gently
into the silver
screen
where I become
part of the journey
carved on film.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Dennis Williamson- Two Poems
"Avenues"
Dangerous setting-
The avenues have departed.
Long since has it been when mother
Last closed her music box.
In fact, I was but a boy of seven then;
Now, I'm a man haunted by a boy's half-dream:
The Minotaur among the honeysuckle,
Under a Minoan summer sun soon to be
Honored with the blood of so many boys
Grown to soldiers.
For them, the avenues have departed;
There is no escape...
From Crete to Normandy and on to Basra-
The music box is only opened in a dead
Boy's ears.
("Avenues" was first published on Dagda Publishing's website
on May 1, 2013.)
"Never The Invitation"
I need night, where oft I am dismissed.
I need night, to rewrite myself, as always I am written off.
Born- since have my days been miscarriage;
No nation for me, no messages from God, no hope.
I looked into the summer settings of the sun and knew the
Winter of my gnosis would be forever.
'I hate you,' says my reflection from the window.
Window!- the base of the cipher's empire. Ever
looking in, but never the invitation.
Stray dogs and cats and the mad committed to the
Streets; indeed, they are my legions against the
Parties where the "saved" gather.
Parties...the maw of Our Lord.
Hurled down by the angels and the primates,
I am the skeleton, self-packaged in a grey trench coat;
My apron crudely cut from the tapestry of beautiful beliefs.
Soured in the mouth of a man who cannot turn to Dionysus when
Sinai awakens.
And now I put the morning paper down on the
floor to preserve it.
From the Torture.
Holiest Torture.
I am, as I was when first I learned to speak,
Ever so devout.
Dennis Williamson, formerly published under the pen name Dennis Villelmi, is the author of numerous poems, the science fiction short story "The Apian Way," (appearing in Dagda Publishing's anthology "All Hail The New Flesh") as well as the epic poem, "Fretensis, In the Image of a Blind God vol. 1"(also originally from Dagda, but now a book in need of a new home.) Additionally, there is his author's blog, "Dennis Williamson, a death's head in green light." Mr. Williamson lives in Virginia.
Robin Wyatt Dunn- A Poem
Cheers to Jung-Mal, Earth President
Cheers to Jung-Mal, Earth President.
He has instituted Universal Reading Regimes.
My libation is Stone IPA.
Its color is green.
By the waystation outside my window, all lights are on.
I know the frequency of Reading Regime Discussion Section. It is 425 Megahertz.
I tune in every night.
Each star moves at a certain rate, although that rate can vary,
depending on other phenomena.
This variance is like Universal Reading Regimes.
How long will Jung Mal live?
Will Earth have what it takes to anoint a just successor?
Will Earth continue to tune into 425 Megahertz as I do?
My fellow listeners know the difficulty that attends on successful
radio listening.
Have our chores for the collective been completed?
Have I satisfied my own needs so I may be put to the best use?
Jung-Mal too is suffering.
How can we aid him?
Are we brave enough to speak to Jung-Mal as a brother?
Bio:
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.
Wesley D. Gray- Two Poems
Superior
They are listening.
And they have the power.
We must obey,
or face their consequences.
They bend us to their will.
Our lives mold
within clenched fists.
It is their work we must do.
They crawl into our brains.
They hear every thought.
Their mind is strong.
It strikes us like a viper.
The bite stings,
and poison seeps—
the bitter stuff
that keeps us still.
Appendix
It lies dormant in the sacks of meat,
in the bulbous bundle of tissue and nerves.
Within their core lies the hard stuff,
but even bone is hollow.
The flesh sack has grown aware
of its presence within their bodies,
but they only waste away, moving
throughout the monotony of worthless lives.
Such a naïve species, those sacks,
believing it to be part of their evolution,
thinking they no longer require it.
Such silly sacks!
Yes, we’ve passed it through their coding—
simple double helix, so easy to manipulate—
but it is no more a part of them
than the stones used for their shelters.
The flesh sack is just a vessel.
The flesh sack keeps it safe.
The humans breed like vermin,
spreading their filth throughout the globe,
but our young grow numerous in return.
For now they are dormant
within the warmth of meaty pulp.
But the time to awaken draws near,
and when they emerge from slumber,
they will feed—
our young are nothing if not ravenous!
They will tear through their fleshy hosts,
consuming them from the inside out.
Once the populace has been devoured,
and our youth has been nurtured and matured,
they will depart this planet for the next.
A new species will be selected,
The Appendix, implanted;
Elders will fade from sight,
awaiting the birth of the new generation.
Bio:
Wesley
D. Gray is a writer, an author of fiction, and a poet. His chapbook,
Come Fly with Death: Poems Inspired by the Artwork of Zdzislaw
Beksinski, is available now in print and digital formats. When he isn’t
writing, Wesley enjoys a wide variety of geeky activities, but mostly,
tabletop gaming with family and friends. He resides in Florida with his
wife and two children. Learn more at: WesDGray.com.
John Pursch- Three Poems
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice
nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary
journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
Lucid Fizzies
Lucid Fizzies
drizzle down
to factual drift
of hotel time.
Bather models
ingot slip for
stale recipient
of doubt.
Now committee
waits for ex-con
waving hand in
causeway blur.
Blink
Formulaic astigmatics
ache in chemical ease.
She bargained
for a racehorse cloud
of quaffed somatic coat.
Smokestack bubbles cotton
cattle steak-line banter
bulk belying knuckle offset
cuddle town beautician blink.
Heterotic Eyes
Sonic grammar sips the wartime
ooze of anthropomorphic avidity
in glimpse of fetal gulp.
Gliding through gilded mackerel
her tiny fierce phalanges dazzle
bony heterotic eyes.
Angelica Fuse- Three Poems
Incinerator
let them take
us
to the burning
plains
the mercury planet
where we
will melt
gradually away.
Bleeding Ink
in this strange
world
we open our veins
and ink spills out
spreading
a message
through our cluster
of stars.
Old Longing
ragged
star dweller
travels the distance
still looking
for what
he has forgotten
by now.
Alan Catlin- Three Poems
Fossil Fuel
Whatever
they
had been
drinking
on their
pub
crawl to end
all
pub crawls
did
nothing to
suppress
the acrid
scents
of house
fires,
days and
nights
spent in
dark
cellar pits
wreathed
by yellow DO
NOT
CROSS scene
tapes,
drenched by
high
pressure hoses,
a scent that
lingers
in City
Mission
reject
clothes,
redefining
scaled
and layered
skin,
giving new
meaning
to their
near-dying
requests for
high
octane fuels
for
tanks stuck
way
below empty
Zipperhead
2
Someone at
the Psyche
Center must
have
decided there
was
one too
many
full Blue
Moons
on his shift
at
Security and
said
the hell
with
all this
noise
letting
anyone
ambulatory
with
the will to
travel
and see the
world
at large
though it
was
kind of
sick
to burden
sub-
normals and
zip-
perheads with
folding
money
for their
drinks
of choice
once
they got
outside
Watching
them
trying to
connect
two severed
hemi-
spheres of
thought
and attempting
to
order stuff was almost
as painful as knowing
the shock treatment
that awaited them
once they got
back inside
Green Haus
He had this
strange
corona
of singed
hair
and
unnaturally
white skin
instead
of hair,
eyebrows
and a scalp,
a fringe
that
seemed to
be
gradually
leeching
the skin
from
his body,
tapping
vital fluids,
blanking
out the washed
away blue of
his
unfocused
eyes
as if his
personal
ozone layer
had
spontaneously
decayed
leaving
him
vulnerable,
naked,
totally
exposed to
the
fatal
elements
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