SALTED SLUG By Strider Marcus Jones

your words stung,

and hung

me upside down, inside out,

to watch you

swan turned shrew-

hairbrush out all memory and meaning,

from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling-

that my Michelangelo took years to paint,

in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.

the lights of our Pleiades went out,

with no new songs to sing and talk about-

suspended there

inside sobs of solitude and infinite despair-

like soluble syllables of barbiturates

in exhaust fumes of apology and regrets.

you left me prone-

to hear deaths symphony alone,

split and splattered, opened on the floor,

repenting for nothing, evermore-

like a salted slug,

curdled and curled up on the rug-

to melt away

while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.

the heart of truth-

intact in youth,

fractures into fronds of lies and trust,

destined to become a hollow husk-

but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools

and left the field of fools

to someone else-

putting her finished book back on its shelf.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine;The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

Shift By Susan Isla Tepper

The walls were the last

to go quiet, though not

without some creaks

and shuddering I swear

I could see them shift.

Tho’ nothing cracked 

the plaster stayed smooth &

dreamy— like it had gone

through a terrible war

to return home unscathed.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her stage play "Crooked Heart" will be featured in Origin Theatre Company 'May Play Festival', NYC.

Starman By Alex S. Johnson

In memory of David Bowie

Tracking the echoes of the

sidereal mystery show

Where red platform boots lick the stars 

Where the shadows of white stains glyph

themselves to the crimson carpet ride

Where unspeakable dimensions of 

foreign objects immersed in expired milk

Crack the yolk of the actor within

Being and becoming the tempter or Satan

Lacerating the heart with the will to break spines

Lancing minds with Crowleyan knowledge

And oh how good it is to be King

in the shimmering desert of Malkuth

Long live the sephora the wheat from the chafed ass chaps

In cybersonic sedition forever the Holy Ones unite 

Their limbs surrender thy Uncle's politics

Ever more disturbed to crack the primate archives

and break out the dancers of white heat red hot

They surely know the boogie grimoires on separated

sheets of blotter acid

They surely know birasure fissures of men

They sought the Kingdom in the waters sifted around the

toes of the Kingfisher

They melted into psychedelic vampires ultimately

And Major Tom's the space vampire they warned you

about

Spinning eternally through the abyss of Deep Time

And magick cancels magick thrusts its hips rhythmically to the warp and creak of 

the Starman's astral footprint

A sensation novel to the taste what's the frequency Giatri Spivak

Yet somehow the subaltern does speak contrary to all expectation

In the liminal spaces statuettes plunge from the cliffs of Aldeberan into the Holy Grove

And lost minds are herded like cattle through the 

Egyptian afterlife 

Photonegative zombies clench fucked jaws in supplication of the homoerotic meat

We salute the arctic traces of your tongue on our

flesh of memorial marble

Kissin the whip in final surrender. 

John Shirley, screenwriter of The Crow (1994) with David J. Schow wrote of Alex S. Johnson that he is "the Baudelaire of our time; the poet of the underground." Johnson has worked as a developmental education specialist, a secretary to entertainment royalty Tom Sullivan and Betty White, assistant to the CEO of the boutique Los Angeles ad agency Haller Schwarz, and scorer of the AP English exam for the Educational Testing Service. His books include THE DOOM HIPPIES, FUCKED UP FAIRY TALES VOLUMES 1-12 and FINAL DESTINATION: WIPEOUT. His forthcoming books include GRIMWAR: A BOOK OF POETIC WARFARE in collaboration with the legendary Steven Johnson Leyba, ordained a high priest in the Church of Satan by Anton LaVey, a magus in Thee Order Ov Psychick Youth and founder of the Church of Coyotel. Johnson lives in Carmichael, California with his family. 

Made It By Chad Parenteau

Now stouter

and broader,

temples too

gray to hide.

Had to turn

ugly as me

to become

somebody

able to take

own baggage.

Welcome to

man’s world.

Population:

an army of

lonely ones

cut off. 

No longer

wanted 

but oh so 

very needed.

No one 

gets any

except those

who ask 

so much of 

your all.

Chad Parenteau hosts Boston’s long-running Stone Soup Poetry series. His work has appeared in journals such as Résonancee, Molecule, Ibbetson Street, Pocket Lint, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, The New Verse News, dadakuku, Nixes Mate Review and The Ugly Monster. He has also been published in anthologies such as French Connections, Sounds of Wind, Reimagine America, and The Vagabond Lunar Collection. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine and co-organizer of the annual Boston Poetry Marathon. He lives and works in Boston.

 

Irritable Bowel Syndrome By Dan Provost

And, after finally being

able to take a shit after

three weeks of suffering…

I stood up, turned to my left,

then, forgot what I was doing.

I threw a right jab in the air…out of frustration. 

Swearing at Bukowski under my breath…

Saying to myself, “I would have taken that fat bastard

out with one punch…”

I bled on the toilet paper…

Hemorrhoids, or maybe just some leftover sadness…

Flushed, wiped off the sweat from my brow…

Picked up the book of poems I was reading by Alan Catlin…

Wishing I could be in the same stratosphere with the posey as him…

Sprayed the stench, for, my wife was coming home

from work soon…

Not yet diluted, but looking at the ceiling…

Waiting for the count.

The TKO…

That would afford me a chance

to leave

the game

for good.

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years. Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily. He has two books coming out in 2020. Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.

Unmooring My Blue Boat That Was Hidden For So Long By Trish Saunders

 

After months in weeds, I thought my little blue boat was

ruined.

It hardly leaks at all.

Hop in, I say to a wood duck watching from the shore.   

See how it feels to be a passenger

 for a change.

He nods yes, he would like that.

and we drift, us two, for hours

over Lake Washington 

until I see a face 

staring up at me from the reeds.

Come on in, it whispers,

 the water’s fine,

which startles me awake.

The duck has flown.

How far away the shore is now, how very far away. 

Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle, formerly Honolulu. She has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Medusa’s Kitchen, Off The Coast, Pacifica Poetry Review, and the Rye Whiskey Review.

Fade By Wayne Russell

Sunset in full bloom

bleed out the old day

sleepily into silence

rain gentle on me into

lulling dream, we had

our moment in the sun

danced together for

a little while, but nothing

last forever, kiss me now

goodbye, join me in those

sweetest of memories.

Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Poet, singer, artist, rhythm guitarist, photographer, and author of the poetry books “Splinter of the Moon” and "Waves of Lucidity", both published via Silver Bow Publishing, they are both available for purchase on Amazon in paperback and digital formats such as Ingram Distribution at your local library.

 

ABSTRACTIONS By Susan Isla Tepper

                for Simon Perchik (1923 – 2022)

While you lay dying

my left ear bled

abstractions

streaking the pillow

— you’d unearth a poem

were you able

Day after I woke to

red filling the white

of my right eye

— both sloshed its river

But when the limb

entwined

crashed down

what was left to feed the other.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her stage play "Crooked Heart" will be featured in Origin Theatre Company 'May Play Festival', NYC.

Pages of Us By John Drudge

A conduit of dreams 

And truths 

Wielding words

Transforming

Connecting 

A bridge 

To understanding

A window into worlds

A spark 

Igniting change

Journeys 

Of self-discovery 

Communication

The essence of us 

Challenging perspectives

Touching hearts

Crafting realities

From thoughts unspoken

Wrestling the shadows

Of imagination’s depth

Breathing life

Into the unvoiced

Evolving visions

Beyond the page

Every sentence a heartbeat

Every story a reflection

A dance of ink and thought

Leaving imprints

On the eternity

Of us

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology.  He is the author of seven books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024) and Sojourns (2024) . His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.

 

Angst By Bruce Morton

We think we must fake it,

Take it as it comes, or goes.

No need to be anxious about

Anxiety. It is best to let it be,

Let tension become pretention.

We worry about worry, hurry

As we scurry to and from

Who knows where or why.

Afraid we are to be judged

So we refrain from judging

And judgment. Sooner or

Later we run out of fingernails

Anyway. Unable to scratch

The surface of our insecurities,

We rub hurt feelings, massage

Inflated and deflated egos.      

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona. He is the author of two poetry collections: Planet Mort (2024) and Simple Arithmetic & Other Artifices (2014). His poems have appeared in numerous online and print venues. He was formerly dean at the Montana State University library.

Doctor Theaters' Kiss By Alex S. Johnson

Having spun the eyes of

carnival

creation 

into

a tapestry of black silk cinema 

Mistress Spider squatted 

philosophically over

The navel of herstory 

With a winedash pour of

self-sufficiency

Scattered glitter dialectics to 

the four corners 

Stretched the sun's skin and

fashioned a 

Drum from it to

Procreate polyrhythms that 

rival tabla dialogues 

Rat rat tat machine gun

blistering blast beats of 

black metal

Shapeshifting to raven stretched her

guillotine wings over the

giggling quantum foam 

As coyote chuckled once more to

see humanity dash itself to

bits of pottery shards over 

shallow ideals and 

hollow men

Doctor Theater hovers at the door

of the final floorshow 

Tickets please. 

Alex S. Johnson is the acclaimed author of Final Destination: Wipeout, Jason X: Death Moon, Bad Sunset, The Doom Hippies and Bizarrely Depared. His poetry has appeared in numerous venues including 13 Mynah Birds, Misfits, Unlikely Stories, Black Noise, and much more. John Shirley, screenwriter of the cult classic horror film The Crow starring Brandon Lee, wrote of his forthcoming dark poetry collection Thunderstruck, "Alex S. Johnson is the Baudelaire of our time; the poet of the underground." Among the honors he's received are the acquisition of Skull Vinyl and The Doom Hippies by the Widener Library at Harvard University. Johnson's upcoming works include Blood Red Romance: A Dark Poetry Collection with Alea Celeste Williams. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family. 

Living Close by Susan Isla Tepper

Colliding memories 

the sad bird who lost its voice

living close to crashing waves

who could compete

I felt my own voice take a turn

hurrying down the mountain road

for the train

no time to sniff lilacs

growing wild

after that it got easier

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her stage play "Crooked Heart" will be featured in Origin Theatre Company 'May Play Festival', NYC.

Night Cap By Jake St. John

Sometimes

late at night 

when I can’t sleep

and the glasses

are empty

I wander down

the hallway 

past bedrooms 

some of them full

some of them empty

I trip over laundry

and navigate the stairs 

and head into the garage 

where I'll stand 

and look out 

into the night 

usually the moon

hangs over the yard

or at least 

a street light 

on the far side 

of the woods 

breaks through

on some nights 

coyotes yip 

the darkness 

other nights 

owls echo 

the shadows 

but tonight 

there's nothing 

so I guess 

I'll go back in 

the house

and write a poem.

 

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."

His Last Drunk By Keith Pearson

The end of the parade.

I stagger outside and puke

behind a dumpster.

Been a long time since I tasted that

awful burn.

My best shirt marked with that stink.

The rain on my face may be just tears.

When I can crawl I find the front door locked.

I sit on one of the chairs on the porch

and in time the rocking

no long makes me sick.

Like a boat finally run ashore.

I would practice walking

if I could stand.

Across the valley the mountains

are frosted with diamonds.

It is the most wonderful thing

I have ever seen.

keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.

I’m in Trouble By Jay Passer

 

Like being torn apart and eaten alive by a frenzy of sharks

I remember being squirted out of my mother

but not too well

Delivered with deluxe chopsticks

weaned on soy milk

stored in a shoebox.

I’m in love with a pubescent fantasy construct

born from a SuicideGirls babysitter

it’s terrifyingly

overwhelmingly

obvious and passé.

I’m buried in a heap of bird feathers

I’m a moron dressed as a matador

a surgeon operating on double-A batteries

a pterodactyl in a tutu.

She’s not the usual kind

she’s not somebody’s wife sister cousin grand-niece 

baby-mama auntie stepdaughter

she’s not even a she or a he or a he-she or she-he

or anaconda or spider-monkey or zebra

or fire hydrant or exhaust pipe or keyhole.

I’m in love with my own damn self

my predilections

my insecurities

my obsessions staring morosely back at me

from the mirror hanging on the wall

the wall supporting the ceiling

the ceiling keeping me from shitstorms and sunburn and 

the world in chaos and dubious heavens and the Man Himself

and by the way

That son-of-a-bitch owes me 4 decades worth of rent.

I’m in trouble

because I’m in love with the Mona Lisa the Queen of Sheba Venus de Milo Joan of Arc Esther Hadassah Madame Curie Camille Claudel Isadora Duncan Tawakkol Karman and that one Thai cutie from Blackpink.

I’m in love with a cross-country-bound Greyhound busload 

of traumatized Nobel laureates

with a goldfish posing as a mermaid

the natural spawn of an apocalypse cult

squid ink and bird droppings.

It’s a testament to acceptance of the boomerang’s return

Meat on the grill and a pain in the neck.

I’m in love with 

trouble

a child’s scrawl on the face of a flower

horns spurting from halos

black seas of chlorine

cool rain for blood.

The poetry and prose of Jay Passer has appeared in print and online periodicals, magazines and anthologies, in subterranean basements and men's room stalls, cave walls and space shuttles, since 1988. He is the author of 15 collections of words, symbols, diatribes, missives, isms, schisms, rain drizzles and blood fizzles. A cook by trade, he's also dabbled in daubs, photo-montage, reverse Feng shui; while failing at mortician's apprentice, news butcher, and criminal savant. Passer's most recent chap, Son of Alcatraz, was released in February of 2024 from Alien Buddha Press, and is available on Amazon.

Snaggletooth Muppet By Manny Grimaldi

My printers outlast my shredders,

I believe in scissors more than a pen.

I rip up my notes, rarely keep records,

and burn my manuscripts in salty fens.

I find certain words are static charges

alive with present shock and rumble:

annoyance, dryness, blockage, sludge,

black-swan and crumple, 

the color cyan: piercing, glancing,

inhospitable—the nut straight at poker,

the sound of all-in, then raking the chips 

by a dribbling drink,

and your drunken sister doesn’t care

if she’s wearing mascara at your mother’s

second wedding, and the faces 

of the clowns doing balloon tricks

for your upstart kids start to frown.

There’s always a brat that knows

where the rabbit went and tells

the crowd. That was me in nutshell.

My story to tell. It is rare I formed

a partnership with a human

lasting more than a couple of years.

My teeth have never blunted.

Manny Grimaldi is a Louisville, Kentucky poet, a spit and a cough just west of the "bourbon trail".  He is the managing editor for the poetry journal Yearling out of Lexington, Kentucky.  Years ago, his drinking got arrested and thrown in jail, and occasionally Manny has marched on its behalf.  Manny is also a clown.  Personally, and by training.

Dennis Took A Dive By John Patrick Robbins

He was looking for treasure, so he said.

In the cold waters below in Marina Del Rey.

His friends tried to stop him, but he was full of life and a liter of vodka. 

His marriage was on the skids; his band wanted him out unless he checked into rehab.

He was the only one that could actually surf.

A wildman and past heartthrob.

He kept diving, to his friend's dismay.

Producing various scraps of junk.

A rope and an old picture frame he had tossed from that very same slip from a previous marriage.

There was such glee in his insanity and life within his soul.

And on Christmas day, Dennis Wilson dove one last time to never return to this world alive.

Maybe he found that treasure he so desired; my hope is he found peace instead.

We are but a cork on the ocean rest well within her depths.

Sail on sailor.

John Patrick Robbins, is a southern gothic writer his work has been published in. Horror Sleaze Trash, Punk Noir Magazine, Impspired Magazine, Piker Press, Medusa’s Kitchen, Disturb The Universe, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fixator Press and The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is always unfiltered.

Fascist Sandwiches By John Doyle

Traffic lights bled his least favourite colour -

crossing over -

protecting fascist sandwiches for fascist parents

expressing concern at a once proud nation's decline;

I revved up just for fun; spotting my Vladimir Lenin goatee

he eyeballed me, 

considering if he'd offer me fascist sandwiches

made from knuckle and bone - perhaps a little too much hair

I thought to myself, for me to digest,

fascist sandwiches awaiting their port of call

as boats of strange-fleshed unknowns trashed up and down

on oceans bloodied from butchers' aprons - their final port

not down this road -

but somewhere a little deeper and more vast 

than that pure-bred utopia

in his wasteland across the road; fascist sandwiches

trashing up and down in a plastic bag,

awaiting the colons of socio-cultural empathy

Half man, half creature of very odd habit, John Doyle dabbles in poetry when other forms of alchemy and whatnot just don't meet his creative needs. From County Kildare in Ireland, he is (let's just politely say) closer to 50 than 21.