UFO Gigolo is Dead

UFO Gigolo is Dead

Thank you to all the poets and artists and photographers for making UFO Gigolo so successful!  It is with great sadness we're closing her down.  Please send your poems that you have emailed in to another poetry site.  There are many great poetry sites out there.

Keep writing and Mega Cheers!!!

Stephen Jarrell Williams

 

Jennifer Lagier- A Poem & Photo

 Solstice Moon

 

Spring evaporates, elongated days

of humid sunshine arrive.

 

Abbreviated night trembles on

the precipice of seasonal solstice.

 

Full moon languidly rises

above wetland tules and mist.

 

Swollen orb pulsates, glows,

levitates between cypress limbs.

 

Dim light infiltrates darkened rooms,

instigates summer’s sensual itch.

Jennifer Lagier and her three spoiled dogs live beside the Pacific Ocean where they entertain poets, a few select mad men and a small gopher snake.

 

 

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem

“Smiling Among Inert Shipwrecks”

[For Robert and Kathleen Nolan]

Oh, to extinguish the seas,
and make the waves recede.
The nights between you both and me
are oceans that separate.

To meet at a nadir
between continents,
to traverse
dryness in endless leagues,
to descend
the fathoms now made shining canyons,
where all the former depths are rendered
newly whitening plains,
I would find you
smiling among inert shipwrecks.

All their rusting hulls would be
as iron strange oases,
now in an ironic desert —
the seabed under midday.
A warm new noon alights their wakes.
Intermittent citadels
of masts again in sun
would brightly tower over
their resurrected figureheads;
their mermaids’ opaque eyes would find
we three gladdened
among the once benighted bows.

There’d be an incongruity
between crustaceans now
slowed almost to stillness
in the blanching sun, while we …
we rushed to an embrace.
Our shouts would break
the silence of epochs.

Somewhere on a shore, this night,
beached upon an altar
of lunar-like nocturnal sands,

finally, face to face,
dessicated starfish
stare at their namesakes in heaven.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2016

Ken Allan Dronsfield- A Poem

Soul Circus, UFOs and Corn Dogs

Behind midway lights live alien souls
waltzing through dreams, devoid of life.
Excitement flares; a mother ship lands
as patrons hunt cotton candy stands.

A favorite game of the screaming insane
launch an arrow high into the night sky
run around in wonder, where it will strike.
Perhaps in the sand, or your right eye.

Tractor pull is on, rumbling the coffins
tilt a whirl spins, grasping for dear life
hide twixt the rides, young are smoking
pick your own poison, puff puff, cough.

Games shutting down, midnight is here.
dancing on the strip as the lights go low
parking lot empty, as the masks come off
swap out the booty at a corn dog stand.

The hideous and dark gather stolen souls,
stored in a dybbuk box; off to the next town.
The trucks roll the back roads, moving slow,
the UFO loaded to the dark side of the moon.



Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet and author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the co-editor of the poetry anthology titled, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in journals, magazines, reviews and blogs throughout the web including: Indiana Voice Journal, The Literary Hatchet Magazine, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Web

Extraterrestrial spider,
Invisible; they say.....
Spins a web of deception,
That is growing every day.
Possessing insatiable hunger,
A master of deceit,
It's web a snare for humans,
Who become a prey at its feet.
The web is becoming stronger,
Tightening every day,
And the spider is wiser than humans,
Determined to have its way.

Irsa Ruci- Three Poems

Silence

I.

Shshshttt... Listen to the sparrows

Knitting plans behind the wings

And ask yourself

If the words are enough

To build a city of gossips

Under the sparrow's songs...

 

II.

Come now, return from pain

That with courage you build it in days, and every day

While it tears down like sandy castles

In the nights

When you shed in tears

Freezes the hurricanes;

But enough already:

Even slavery is drunkenness!

 

III.

Spy a little on the silence

While is speaking

And tell me:

How many were killed by the despicable silence of hers

Defeating

When none of us bothered

To look for answers?

Meaning takes form only in subconscious.

 

IV.

A drop of liquor let's have today

Till the end

For the end of the two-facets

That don't know end

And let's sing together,

Sing with us

The sparrow's song...!

 

© Irsa Ruçi              (Translated by Silva Daci)

 

 

 

A man! *

 

Men will never fully understand

How weak they feel in front of love

How the strength of their pride are betrayed in that childlike

And the path of his heart, are easily lost

In purity of thoughts, through conscious exhaustions

Like the toddler who hides his lies in their smile.

 

Women will always think that they have one more sense

To feel that the light which comes from the manly chest

Is his unsaid word

Is a rocky silence

That breaks disturbed breaths of emotions,

In their eloquence appears absence, like the sight

In a mirror where the self is absent

And the reflection is the soul

Drowned in the ocean of deliriums that conquers the being.

 

They burn their wishes like cigarettes, with the grace of simplicity

And the future is asked in the fog

Wordless, lost in paths in solitude

Because a man gives love like his breath…

 

And the women put the devil in the bottle for that love

That afterwards know the angel that lies in his soul.

 

© Irsa Ruçi              (Translated by Silva Daci)

 

 

*(First published at Ashvamegh Magazine (Ashvamegh Indian Journal of English Literature), May Issue)

 

 

 

Immortality

 

Through tears we come in this world
...tears that smile to life!
We carry a bunch of them behind in that journey to eternity...
Silence is our only peaceful prayer
against time our silence is equal...

When opening our eyes
we can see how in dreams, they swing us
turning love in our motif
we close our eyes, leaving behind
The echo of our own words
permitting death to sing hymns for eternal life...

Truth is that one never dies,
only leaves... In a world with no words
his memory foreverly alive!

© Irsa Ruçi              (Translated by Silva Daci)

 

My Bio: 

Irsa Ruçi is an Albanian Writer, Speechwriter and Lecturer. She was born in Tirana (Albania), in 1990. Her books of poetry include Trokas mbi ajër (poems and essays), 2008 and Pështjellim (poetry), 2010.

She has been published in anthologies: Antologji, 2007; I kërkoj agimit vesën, 2008; Antologji poetike “Kushtuar dashurisë”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Udha”, 2014; Antologji poetike, 2014; “Malli dhe brenga nga distancat”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Qyteti”, 2014; Poeteca, 2015; and her works has appeared in a number of print and online national and international magazines, including Sling Magazine, Issue 5; Ann Arbor Review, Issue 15; Poeteca Magazine, Issue 35; Aquillrelle Anthology, 2015; Aquillrelle Anthology, 2016; Metaphor Magazine Issue 5; The Commonline Journal, Issue 4/22; A New Ulster poetry Anthology, April 2016; Best Poems Encyclopedia; Issuu April 2016; In Between Hangovers, May 2016; BLUEPEPPER, May 2016; Duane's PoeTree, May 2016; CREATIVE TALENTS UNLEASHED, 8 May 2016, Tuck Magazine, 12 May 2016; Whispers... 2016; Dead Snakes Magazine; - RANDOM POEM TREE, 13 May 2016; RANDOM POEM TREE, 16 May 2016; In Between Hangovers, 14 May 2016; In Between Hangovers, 24 May 2016; SCARLET LEAF REVIEW, May Issue; Ashvamegh Magazine (Ashvamegh Indian Journal of English Literature), The Beatnik Cowboy, 19 May; Dissident Voice, 22 May; Joomag, May 2016; Bear Creek Haiku, May Issue; Dissident Voice, 29 May; Ourpoetry Archive;Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; All Poetry; Vscorpiozine's Blog; The Ofi Press, Issue 48; Sicklit Magazine etc.

Among many awards, she has received the first prize in poetry, in competition "Anthology 2007", as the best poet in Albania.

 

 

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.

Peduncular Sam Wazoo!

Peduncular Sam in hologram is square-eyed chuck tease gravel barker, ripping dog contamination cries through Sloth She’s Cargo street fair. Fallen skeet in leaky partridge waddle wow and hoot and hiss and hobble-kiss his sweetened come-on quotient: “Cam swan, clamp hallway you, yeah you, un-you, hands two adder climb,” singling out entire blocks for military suction. “You, sir! Wad’s at? Swipe and kids? Them two! Yes, ma’am, step ride up,” drooling shards of freeway spasm.

Monitoring the auction back at Fission Control, Foisted Glass Lude-Tenant Amelia Surely Hardened the Pith is oh-so slightly reticent: “Don’tchya think he’s maybe chesty bit too smudge, heathen fur lobotic crowd?”

Geritol Superior stirs his coffee, cadges a glance, erupts in cackle: “Swaddle haystack, Sammy’s song is whale-deported blonde belief, phlegm in time pejorative, pea-fire ewe was heaven barn, cheery dial! Wise goats and sheep in counterpoint wad possible objection toucan hyphenate?”

“Snob haven routine vile of action,” Amelia murmurs in petroglyph.

“Said nothing; spin factual turnip the gain, suck entire quadrant sew mud ewe mention hat!”

“Pi-high, sir,” mopping disappearing brow, her last move incarnated squabble, she’s vaporized to wading cesspool, transits pecan flax repeat in dielectric imposition, compensated saddle orca into sundry timer newsstand disassembly. Assimilated figurines examine underwear from 1812, freckling the future with premonitions of comestible flan.

Meanwhile, downy street bevel, Sammy sucks She’s Cargo clean of sputtering pedestrians, spurning heavenly swans to abduct tease. Kids flood teleporter beams from double playpen, slept aloft in khaki. “I’m Erica! I’m Erika!” a statuesque emboldened looker cries in junta breastplate. “Eureka! She’s fond of it!” swoons erectronic palimpsest of steadily decanted vinyl.

Swallows tick off oh this cluck soar fanny bother, could afford malfeasant veil on antsy con in plover quad, granting dubbed dubiety. Compulsion skims redacted jellyfish, shaving tees in solar dross: “Avast Tomasi! Averted mossy Aussie, ossified flapjack quail!”

Oguns Peter- A Poem

Latent truth

Papa told us
that the inverse of love
was not animosity:
resultant vector in form
but the ghost of apprehension

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Shillong's Headless Horseman

The man on horse back

wearing his bowler hat

is said to stride the roads 

of a hill station where he 

lived. But headless, the sounds 

emanating clearly, horse hooves.

His spirit can never forsake a place, 

a country which he ruled. I heard them once.

Clearly at midnight. Did not see but heard 

till the noise deafened the ears, frightened 

the soul out of wits and recalled Grandmother's 

gory tales about her sons flying like UFOs. 

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, INDIA.

 

 

Eric Robert Nolan- Two Poems

"June, Washington, 1998"

June, Washington, 1998
A woman in a white convertible.
Some short words, a long
Pull at a brown bottle.

Approaching the city
The improbable White shapes
Of The Dome and The Monument
Glitter against midnight.

Somewhere in that city stands
A vast, empty room,
Quiet except for the echoing wings
Of a plain brown bird.
The room
Has no windows, only
Four white walls and the sound of aimless flutter.

Thump, thump
A sound
Punctuates the stillness, the sound
Of a tufted breast against white plaster
An almost inaudible collision.

How improbable those walls seem
To the indolent eyes of a bird.  The walls
Are eggshell White, really,
The same eggshell White as its birth and yet
So unlike those breakable surfaces.

Thump, thump, the corners
Are new and also sharp.  Everywhere
White walls and angles
Confront its persistence.

Its own breast was White once
And its brown, twiggy nest
A universe of failure, it
Never imagined a night
When such bright, clean places
Existed only elsewhere.

Union Station.
Ethereal tunes escape
A brown-skinned man and his horn
Of unpolished brass.
The moon, as White as Love,
As White and as cold
As a headstone for the sky
Sits low above the Dome.

Thump, thump, the sound
Is only a gentle reminder
Of the ordinary aspects of life
White walls and angles,
Childhood' past,
Hubris and White plaster,
The existence of corners, the fundamental
Limits of endurance.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2012

*****

"Crow's Feet"

Crow’s feet arise
Beside my eyes.
There’s no bird ruder
Than age’s raven.

Marched and marked nocturnally
All across my face, did he.
Is “goose-stepping blackbird”
A contradiction in terms?

(c)  Eric Robert Nolan 2016

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.

Trip to Planet Zinco

Commotion-free police tremble in iron quicksand, belongings scraped to carbide metallic yoyo dish of contrail flesh. Undercurrent of stuporous wealth contraption confabulates a richly infamous neural spirochete to fixate any hidden agenda straight outa mouthy ritualistic lawman hustle, busting into waveform swill.

“Which way to Falling Back Brace Tendencies?” I reckon axial quench be battered shoestring salesman conquest of lucky slob repeater film, coughed to dirty secondhand life.

Sullen ticket agent just look away, stifle belch into folded mosquito netting, slump over steering wheel in detritus of ‘50s war-torn zebra, wad with striped T-shirt nonsense scream held in pending locomotion by Magellanic clod.

“Sure, I tell you, but first you buy exploding trinket from Planet Zinco,” was all he ever said, some kinda lapel toupee flipped over-easy sawdust style.

I fish in pocket for randomized currency, come up short again in senseless fury of sequential downpour, primate mumblers eyeing me through trapdoor septic dialect. Canopy of spaceport slogan collapse in warm combustible heap, scratching through fetid cheese lagoon for soggy wax loam, grown to six-foot corncob irrigation ditch of tempered stubble in facemask blues.

“Here, take off useless coinage sand fill bullion dollar nicotine perusal breath,” I proffer sweaty discs and crumbling banknotes in time-release delaying swerve as hands evaporate to dusk.

“Too late for tourist junket flick routine!” he cackles indiscriminate, all relaxed in beryllium nut grin, gleaming gums powdery wad with sneezing talcum block and steady grain of tackled footfall.

Just the same, he snatch the random money, salivating splendor begin to count in memorized precision, dead giveaway he’s holographic. Sure enough, I kick clean through would-be groin contraption thighs, flushing out ionic traceries of swollen pustule sag, frittered country lanes in southern bell-hop loquacity.

Sensing my passing cloud, the image counter clicks to offal pendulum and entire subway set debarks for parts unspeakable, leaving me in frozen desert tundra of High Chapultepec, what with paddleboat noggin doormen in such precociously youthful disguise.

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem

“Delaware Sheets”

Sharon lies,

a sylph amid the sheets

in our room in the hills,

drawn up around her –

are waves of fabric.

Her warmth is the same

as that of green hills:

gentle, blessed by the sun,

fertile with promise.

Her dark eyes

are as thickets.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2013

 

 

 

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry & had poems

appear with Dead Snakes, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Mind[less] Muse, The

Fib Review & others. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee]

she was born in Queensland, Australia.

 

 

 

              COMPOSURE    

 

           Every Moon-flower

                Hangs above

                        An

                  Aggrieved

                    Garden

 

 

 

            1984 (Orwell)     

 

            Dawn: there is

            A long

            Distance

            Billowing in

            The loneliness

                       Of

                       This

            Shoal-water

            Summer –.

 

 

 

            MISSING   

 

            ... Seen but not

            Heard;

                    The Devil

            On horseback

            At a roadside

                    Shrine.