Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Rebecca Cowgill- Three Poems

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


Rebecca Cowgill has small poems on Poems and Poetry and Dead Snakes

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.


the way
they swoon
after him

you might
his junk
had its own

as if he
is some
filthy mattress
angler fish.


some say
some say

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
walk here
this night
their frozen
heavy booted
feet as they
rubbing their
cold reddened
the still
dead air
No one ever
sees their
double X'd
Not even
the barman

                                                Star Wars

                                                I said I
                                                knew a guy
                                                one who
                                                thought he
                                                was from Mars
                                                Come to think
                                                of it he was
                                                just about
                                                your size and
                                                he liked them
                                                draught beers
                                                just like you
                                                do too   You
                                                know this guy
                                                used to come
                                                in here every
                                                afternoon about
                                                4 o'clock with
                                                some crazy wild
                                                lines about
                                                extra terrestrial
                                                life  I don't
                                                suppose I'm
                                                getting through
                                                to you am I?
                                                I wasn't
                                                He was from
                                                somewhere else
                                                now and all
                                                that I was
                                                saying was long
                                                ago and far away

Ojo Taiye- A Poem


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/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.

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 so
I did not know what it meant
however her deeply troubled
eyes told me that she was uncanny
and when she spoke about a figure
that wandered by the pond every night
opposite the ancestral house
I visited a different world of nightly
dreams, covered the quilt and slept.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Mark Myavec- A Photo

                                                  "Big Eyes"

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


when I looked
last at 
my arm
there was a small

but the bump
grew larger
a dark shadow
moving inside

moving in its

within weeks
it grew to the size
of a strawberry
then an apple

then a small leg
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
the monkey's
red raincoat
when he
came in
and it was
five sizes
too small
He looked
like a
thunder cloud
dripping dirty
wash and wear
water on my
Looked like
he might
be the point
man for
some kind
of strange

Music Men

They heard
tunes in
their heads
no one else
would ever
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
in their

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
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,
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,
                                 what the Seven
had determined was the most popular activity
to be engaged in,
the ritual murder of brain cells

Bi-planes flew by toting advertising signs

even a lone coyote were
the latest roadside casualties of the car,
the uneasy co-existence between the humans
and many of their fellow creatures

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)

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,
the feel of the lake's water on their skin

At night neon lights lit up the sky,
people gathered to watch more fireworks,
         though not all,
                               of today's displays
authorized by the local civilian authorities
everyone applauded the shows and themselves

Happily exhausted,
                             the Seven rested up,
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,
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,
containing dangerous concentrations
of at least two pollutants
from the toxic alphabet soup:
(polychlorinated biphenyls),
                                        and PAHs
(polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons)
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),
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"
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,
given the mania for secrecy
prevalent at that time and later,
they did not disclose the intake's 
exact location

they couldn't yet tell how fast the creature
was migrating toward the water intake,
that its existence was public knowledge
on this planet,
                     they assured the public
they were carefully monitoring the situation,
that they had a plan of action
should conditions warrant it

JD DeHart- Three Poems

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)


his form, flowing
from the cold
center of north

we tried to thaw
him but no
such luck

he saw us
through foggy
breath, knowing us
we recognized
the gleam
of isolation.

(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)


Do you believe
in flying saucers,
the prof asks
before tossing his
plate across
the lecture hall,
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


on the Planet Esoteric
many people
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.


in a glow of light
I am led
by the hand gently
into the silver
where I become
part of the journey
carved on film.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Dennis Williamson- Two Poems


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?

Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.

Wesley D. Gray- Two Poems


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. 

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 na├»ve 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. 

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/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.

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.


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


let them take
to the burning
the mercury planet
where we
will melt
gradually away.

Bleeding Ink

in this strange
we open our veins
and ink spills out
a message
through our cluster
of stars.

Old Longing

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
decayed leaving
him vulnerable,
naked, totally
exposed to the
fatal elements