Saturday, May 31, 2014
Brandon Theis- A Poem
THE IS
Part 3: conscripted grift cherries plumb cloaks faded in folds of limbic symmetry. Slippery?
Time lords dealing in state machines. Drugs control drone homing into pigeon breaths, beating hearts. Conquest.
Sloped moaning out whale semen seeped in lime, rise tide, rise! waves meshed milky spawned portal stacking, darkly into the cave maze. Crowning.
Keepsakes honored by locked wombs embrace, worlds flipped pearly, replicate endless drift pretenses, flirty truth like surfaces, bound infinite to threaded energetic fabricants. Lube.
Lobe thumpers pump frequency defeat, scorned by borders. Vacate.
Prism humping mind pools just so eager to know order, break bold moldy concurrent torrent holding cached flows for perception. Design.
Glimpse it crushing downward, bleeding lines crossed wide, clean, received as daydreams flee. Functional abyss, visible to hybrid machine carrion. Burnt.
Bliss fridges, gush goopy goblins groping at existence; alien, human, zesty life formed of matter. Scrape tiny edges of the whole. Complete.
Souls flood in and out, born inside routes that ever shape patterns for payers and prayers, prey cold empty outside consciousness. Burning brightness invades the images, keen on sweeping the pulse radar. Quality.
Constructs? Complete sidebars, wrapped conclusive, injected by abducted paradigm plumage. Forced inspection has no reflections, thus, impacts of messaging signals: moot. Jesus.
Grey framed solid beings, superior but infinitely weak, attempt known solutions, flailing seedlings. Grow.
Ever lost placement testing, objective nesting of stress. Valuable exchanges happen vacant of space, time, revolutions.
Energy.
Forked earths' root berth bubbles brooding murky mumbles. Half century, maybe. Maybe, this version erodes too soon. Gamma?
Power provisions given by fives, prototypes alive, rewired memory pillars. Crumble.
Positioned for effect: hover hives urge eyes to subscribe, beside brane bending, brain welding, brine capsules, encompassing exactly nothing. Poof.
Freedom from all knowing scaffolds: drunk with worth. Vague illusions only. Masks.
Furious awareness, doesn't slow or depend, isn't colluded or inspired, just is. Beyond.
The is.
John Pursch- A Poem
RFK-129
She
drink semi-solid carbon in long black quaffs from stingray muppet skullcap,
inhaling secondary cloud counter smoke from crane operator on emergency relief
valve lunatic assembly, midway down any careless gradient you dare to defame.
Flowering
brunt of springtime jet exhaust falls in wisps of midday heiress launderings,
capturing essence of distant fluoride scrape from ownership’s heightened tingle
of breathless spurts and warm incantations from massive hot sundaes, overtures
to hot-hand stealers and sheets gone sultry in the wintry excess of Nubian
zero.
“Wad
spray we wend hourly wave on drowned to Flirty Sackcloth Street, spree to lock
all urgings far away fer good-hand-punchy mirrored longings, what we filched
from interrupted human meals lost night?” Penelope inquire all laconic, her
voice effusive in screen door shutter motion frost-alike contestant lilt.
Lola
chesty glance up from disassembled torso, whar she shirkin’ on shrink-wrap
duty, tryin’ to keep same semblance of pay grade fir canned tenebrous monitor’s
silicon saddle faction. “High’m makin’ marks like they’re crowin’ outasight and
steel this hollow lobot want glom to life. Hail, eet won’t heaven glow, from
I-sockets or andy rectilinear orifices!” she laments, severing frosty
crustaceans from erstwhile pineapple seedlings. “Props I otter chaste give
hup?”
Penpal
she chest shake her head, suppress a cacophonous grappling hooker bauble: “Ear,
slammy heave a go-go,” grabbing that recalcitrant torso. “What’s it, RFK
series?”
“Yo-yo,
he’s 129,” Lola grateful fer da help.
“129?
Movin’ trite a lung, icy… Mammary serves me, last RFK I tweaked wuz 38, mossy
bean wayback… No, five years aged canoe?”
“That’d
be, well, sex years now,” Lola surmises. “Mangy improvements shins thin, methink.”
“Nod
two worries,” Penpal now absentmindedly, way into fixing this Bobby. “Thar ya
go, Mr. Cannery,” one last cervical yank and RFK-129 sits up alert, tie hanging
over open shirt and wireless entrails.
“I
uhh don’t believe we’ve been uhh properly introduced uhh ma’am,” Bobby smiling
into Lola’s thighs, baby blues locked in conned nubile precursor to lobotic
foreplay.
“Correct,
Misty Senator from the grated state of Your Nuke,” Lola catches the downbeat
flush, extending her hand. “I’m Lola Kirov and this is my co-pilot, Penelope
Penpal Jones.”
“If
I may be uhh frank, I seem to be at a bit of a loss as to our whereabouts…”
“Where
exactly are we, Mr. Cannery? Why we’re aboard the S.S. Didactic, on maiden
heaven voyage from Dearth to MJ-88, target whirled soon to be rescued from
ecological implosion by a bland new ruler with all the modern conveniences,”
Lola’s practically treading water in midair now, the ship going weightless for
transition to time slip.
“Perhaps
we otter button up your shirt, Mr. Cannery,” Penelope volunteers, deftly
beginning the process.
“Why
I uhh thank you ma’am, but maybe we’d be uhh better off uhh unbuttoning yours
instead,” reaching for her blouse without a pause.
Lola
laughs: “One of the so-called upgrades in the RFK line this year; offal chart
libido, automatic philanderer module, womanizer tweaks. He’ll be two fistfuls
in no time. Best to bring in an MM-99 or two, let them wrestle for the rest of
the trip before we team him just prior to landing.”
Penpal
struggles, escapes Bobby’s clutches with skirt half off, blouse in shreds.
“Yeah, just an animal,” pressing her lapel, signaling the orderlies to
hand-deliver a bevy of MM models. “Let’s get outa here!”
“Uhh
uhh whey-a ya goin’? I uhh we-ahh just getting uhh acquainted,” Bobby protests,
grappling for a loose ankle, pupils wildly dilated.
Lola
and Penpal slam the door behind them, giggling in the airlock, just in time to
hand-select the MM’s who’ll keep the newly online RFK-129 occupied.
Penpal
and Lola recline in strap-on tachyon bath, smearing time-slip gel on each
other’s faces, tingling with subcutaneous burn of lost emotive grounding, soon
becoming present then past now distant memories of mammaries in wartime hovels
of Dearth’s manned conflicted 21st Century resource wars of
obsolescence and econometric foreshortening.
“Feel
it on my right elbow now,” Lola moans, jerking her arm, response to sudden
chill of slipped whirled blue foam intersection.
Penpal
smiles, shoves a plunger Lola’s way, flooding them both with star-baked
baby-blue rays. Lola relaxes, feels the warm glow of old-time bodice partition
seep down her thighs, ionic cloudburst wisping off into tachyon drainage
filter. Penpal soon lets go, whole ship now slinking into rising shadow
overhead of doves on blue sky, not a care in sight, minnows bracing for impish
pterodactyls, pachyderms eluding pavement overhauls, mynahs winking at cubicle
dawdlers, mediocre ogres eating okra in wan plantation filth belying bayou
bombast, plastic sorcerers bemused by funneling circumstance on everyday street
corners of drag queen youth in pink crockery carbo-loading growth mechanics,
flight to pox-built rotary gaveling cons spelling miles at miniature shell-game
continuity, spotting wax house mud line quartets even monkeys in atypical
wiener-trike-haul banner-glow nautical punditry, reasoning from floral
goon-a-bite to haughty simian nectar winds, spoiled spatially by versioned
brocades of Kalamata gravesite shallows, pestering floorboard opinions from the
donkey’s awning…
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/
Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems
off-world visitors
complicated discussions
about origins
she sees aliens
where the rest of us can't
love that about her
Vampyr Poem
From within my thirst, we
shall know each other.
From within your blood,
from within my thirst, we
shall know each other.
From within the darkness,
from within your blood,
from within my thirst, we
shall know each other.
From within our thirst.
ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs), hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/119+ issues), and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Alan Catlin- Three Poems
Under the Skin
She’s unnaturally pale: icy
and distant. Obviously from someplace
else, a not-of-this world accent,
cruising back roads for hitchhikers,
down on their luck loners one
drink away from a heart attack
machine. When she walks into an along-
the-side –of- the-roadhouse everything stops,
even the juke box, all eyes on her
like hands with a license to touch.
Claims to be lost, and she is,
but not the way people imagine.
Chooses a man to provide more precise
details for an M8 motorway,
dual carriage drive, three planets
and a solar system from where she
needs to be. Asks them to show her
the way, gives off this strange vibe
men misinterpret as an invitation
for sex, disrobe in what passes for
her pad, feel her hands on them
leaving black widow marks on
their skin, tiny pin pricks venom fills,
leaving them cold and lifeless,
ready for the web, a harvest of flesh.
The Local
Climbing the narrow walking
path,
The Local points to
where
the crop circle appeared last
year,
says he met some Americans
like us,
last year, who were here from
Kansas,
who said they made the
journey near
the Summer Solstice, like us,
to be closer
to the UFO's that seem more
frequent
in warmer
weather.
His companion checks out the
Neolithic
burial chamber we were
climbing
to see, says, "It's walking
into the woman's
vagina, that is, the mound
opening.
Each of the interior cavities
represents
different parts of her body:
the arms, legs
and head." I was tempted to
ask,
"What about the glass windows in
the antechambers? Are they
mirrors to
the soul or
what?"
But I bite my
tongue.
Questions might spoil The
Local's monologue
about Crop Circles, UFO
Landings
International Conspiracies,
Cover Ups,
and all that good stuff. He's
into juicy
stuff like, "Silbury Hill is
a landing area
for space ships & other
UFO's.
Everyone around here knows
that,
all this stuff about a shaft
collapse
during the last monsoon is
just government
nonsense." When he notices my
hearing aid,
he knows I'm listening but he
can't be sure
to what, or, whom I might
represent
and backs away, tongue tied
now,
fearing the
worst.
Beam Me Up
Scottie
After the
initial
tricorder
readings
revealed no
intel-
ligent life
forms
all that
followed
should have
been
water
flowing
downhill but
they
kept coming in
the bar as if
there
was a high
powered
cloning
machine
cranking out
replicants
at an
accelerating
pace, one that
threatened
to take over the
bar,
the street, maybe
even
the town like
some
kind of,
happening-
right-now-extended
play movie in real
life
of the Body
Snatchers
grafted onto Star Trek
V
The Final
Frontier,
the episode
where
the transporter
room
fails to do its
thing
& everyone left
behind
on this hostile
planet
dies.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Haiku
mating season for
our latest off-earth allies
how to disengage
an earthy affair
your cool, green skin
pressing against mine
remote colony
the youngest generation
has a seventh sense
ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/118+ issues)
Denny E. Marshall- Three Tanka
Three Tanka
Martians get ready
For satellite arrival
Plan like the last time
Move everything again
Over and hide in dark side
Aliens arrive
To study the planet earth
Take a core sample
About two thousand miles wide
From the North Pole to South Pole
Only a few men
Walked the surface of the moon
Were they told to smile
When cameras took pictures
Did they tell them to say “cheese”?
Bio
Denny E. Marshall has had art & poetry published. Recent credits include cover art for Illumen Spring 2014 issue, interior art and poetry in Night To Dawn #24, Stinkwaves #3, and Nth Zine #23. Denny does have a website with previously published works. The web address is www.dennymarshall.com
John Pursch- A Poem
Fast-Forward Flapjacks
Whirled
War III was strictly chemical until the mid-1980s, when it went biological. Up
to that point, the Untied States and the Sobeit Onion worked frantically to
save their people from chemical ruin, but this proved largely futile. The bulk
of the lower and working classes had been hopelessly infiltrated and reduced to
gibbering idiots; pathetic victims of crack, meth, dust, weed, junk, and mass
brainwave entrainment, virtually useless for all but the simplest repetitive
tasks. The coincident global emergence of mass automation then rendered them
totally obsolete, saddling the superpowers with half a billion or so lumps of
useless flesh.
What
to do, what to do? After farming out of what menial tasks remained to the
so-called Turd Whirled, the two major powers basically imploded. Urban centers
rotted inside-out, families disintegrated, national IQs plummeted, intelligent
laborers were imported from Aphasia and Eastern Myopia; puddles of drool
accumulated in shopping malls, abandoned classrooms, strip clubs, fast food
joints, seedy bars, graffiti-covered subways, musty old libraries filled with
yellowing obsolete books, gum-slicked sidewalks outside infested flop houses…
Faced
with the total collapse of all that is good and righteous in totalitarian life,
the stupor-powers collaborated and appeared to find temporary salvation in a
biological war, turning virulent strains of pathogens loose on their own people,
targeting the brown, black, junkies, poor, disenfranchised, unentitled,
sodomists, crack heads, toothless meth scratchers everywhere… But this too
turned out to be more problem than solution, soon threatening to spread to the
global blood supply and wipe out the good, the clean, the rich, the upstanding white
elite.
The
idea of running a good old-fashioned conventional war was then entertained but quickly
abandoned due to lack of interest on the part of the hollowed-out masses, whose
brains simply couldn’t be entrained sufficiently after decades of addiction. Gone were the days when millions
could focus their hate long enough to jumpstart a large-scale campaign.
Feasibility studies had long-since ruled out the viability of solving the
so-called “population deadwood problem” with nuclear weapons, due to global
fallout, so things were pretty much left to drift into the new millennium.
The
various alien powers-that-be were appealed to, but they’d already abducted far
more humans than they needed to establish their hybrid lines. Nor were they
interested in vaporizing a billion or so on a contract basis, due to the
projected impact on what they call the “off-life”; we refer to this variously
as heaven, purgatory, limbo, the bardo, nothingness, depending on your belief
system. They claimed that purging the deadwood would flood the off-life,
generating an unpredictably devastating tsunami rebound effect on the living.
The Grayliens seem to have a much clearer, more evolved grasp of the cycle of
life and death, to the extent that they manage their involvement with it as a
tractable systems engineering problem might be dealt with by humans. However,
in the late 20th Century, they were either unwilling or unable to
enlighten us further in this area.
With
the discovery of the Mayan time springs deep in the Youcantan jungle, mankind
finally caught a break. Due to the subsequent proliferation of time drugs, it
is now difficult to pinpoint the date on which the springs were discovered, but
it appears to have been shortly after the turn of the new millennium, give or
take a year. Within a decade, despite the best efforts of governments
everywhere, time drugs had spread across the globe into every walk of life. Virtually
everyone became addicted to slo-mo sprays, time-reversal rubs, stop-action
powders, injectable interludes, fast-forward flapjacks, rewind roll-ons,
time-slip Slurpees, time-stop stogies, time-travel tabs…
Anything
that flies was soon converted to distribute time drugs, flooding the
atmosphere, seeding every cloudtop. By 2010 (or what passed for it, given the
increasingly subjective nature of time), Dearth’s water cycle was totally saturated
with time drugs. Surprisingly, the net effect was a certain averaged temporal
quality not totally unlike the original pristine environment, though relatively
discontinuous and unpredictable. As a result, the newly washed world clock
tends to jitter a bit, giving life a certain unmanageable quality. The tenor of
this departure from continuous time varies with locale, depending on the cloud
seeding activities of the local government and her enemies. In addition, the
global presence of a vast melange of time drugs tends to enhance the effects of
individually administered agents, increasing their potency several fold.
Today
it is almost unthinkable to attempt to compete on any level in any field
without the aid of time drugs. Battlefields, studios, boardrooms, auditoriums,
theaters, barber shops, supermarkets, garbage trucks, churches, cemeteries,
tourist traps -- all are treated continually with the latest custom time drug
mix, designed for ultimate consumer satisfaction. The effect is quite disconcerting,
making it virtually impossible to know whether one is dreaming, reminiscing,
waxing nostalgic, or actually time traveling at any given moment. The whole
concept of the present has been essentially trashed.
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/
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