Darken My Doorstep, Never My Grave By John Patrick Robbins

Because the drinks will be far better shared than spent speaking to shadows out of the madness that is isolation.

I was sad, but you were something so significantly worse.

A false friendship in hopes of gaining what I would have gratefully have given away.

The bourbon contained fire where I had long since lost all true passion.

But my companionship was real, as fake was your true character.

It seems I was alone even amongst your company.

So I guess I was fucked from the start.

Truth never wavers as the pavement does not give an inch.

I was miles ahead and lost from the start.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer, whose work has appeared in Schlock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Lucifers Retreat, Fearless Poetry Zine, Lothlorian Journal Of Poetry, Impspired Magazine, Fixator Press and Disturb The Universe.

His current book is Midnight Masochism and is published by Black Circle Publishing and available on Amazon.

His work is always unfiltered.

https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Masochism-John-Patrick-Robbins/dp/B0CRQD523K

Radiant Sun Splashed By Susan Isla Tepper

   (In Loving Memory of Karen Friedland)

Another death has come 

to call

despite the trees abloom

and daffodils riotous in the grass.

Her house looks so pretty

in the pictures.

The front porch rejuvenated

sparkles—

and the neat backyard’s  

brick pathway, 

flowering beds along the fence.

Inside, every little corner. 

Tucked with cuttings 

the bright pots painted 

by some brave hand

in some land.

When I saw the picture

of her new kitchen floor—

radiant sun splashed

I felt a positivity

come ringing at her door.

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.

OLD CAFE By Strider Marcus Jones

a rest, from swinging bar

and animals in the abattoir-

to smoke in mental thinks

spoken holding cooling drinks.

counting out old coppers to be fed

in the set squares of blue and red

plastic tablecloth-

just enough to break up bread in thick barley broth.

Jesus is late

after saying he was coming

back to share the wealth and real estate

of capitalist cunning.

maybe. just maybe.

put another song on the jukebox baby:

no more heroes anymore.

what are we fighting for-

he's hiding in hymns and chants,

in those Monty Python underpants,

from this coalition of new McCarthy's

and it's institutions of Moriarty's.

some shepherd’s sheep will do this dance

in hypothermic trance,

for one pound an hour

like a shamed flower,

watched by sinister sentinels-

while scratched tubular bells,

summon all to Sunday service

where invisible myths exist-

to a shamed flower

with supernatural power

come the hour.

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.

Meaty Words By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I struggle in my search for meaty words.

I know no confabulatory myths.

The words slip like rain through my mind.

I am groping in darkness where my heart

is permanently living in the night.

I cannot conjure magic or clever tricks of

the craft. I turned over tables and throw

chairs searching for answers. Day turns

to twilight and I have nothing of substance.

I offer flowers to the drunken muse.

I go back to the beginning and start 

from scratch. This is where it will end.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Fearless, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Unlikely Stories.

Tomorrow Night, And The Night After That By Trish Saunders

I hear the band warming up. 

A ‘40s jazz tune is what we need right now.

Think of the bars and cafes we loved,

friends who stood us a drink—

surely some are still living, somewhere.

For every despot, 

there must be thousands 

of kind-faced nurses

 waiting in tents  

bandages in hand, 

and a mother will kiss

every child’s bloodied knee. 

Listen to that wind 

trying to find a way in here.

Anticipatory anxiety, it's called. 

Your fingers give mine a squeeze.  

I'll take that for reassurance, 

for calm just before.

Strange, how the street outside has gone quiet.

Want more tonic in your cocktail?

Raise your hand, the flower-sellers

will approach, a smile at the ready. 

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, formerly Honolulu, formerly Snohomish, a small town on a big river in Washington state. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, The Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen, Open Arts, and the late, lamented Fat Damsel Press. 

Sound Bites By Susan Isla Tepper

Who are we, 

all of us— who

gaze across oceans

and vast desert lands

that pop up 

on the constant news

Who are we 

to cast aspersions,

wave flags and signs

screaming our opinions 

while never inhabiting

those places—

Comfortable 

in our elected Chambers,

drinking wine on the deck

with friends while debating 

the cost of lives vs lives

Who the hell are we

— never shelled or tortured.

We are billions of sound bites

lost to the moment.

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.

Nice Shot, Jimmy By John Doyle

1975

Janus stayed a long long year down by Marseilles,

his sunlight surged on nubile sirens playing volleyball sea-side,

his Id painted piece by piece that side-street Hades, grey, his choice of visage,

most fires choose the latter for their tryst,

the filth oozing on the former, avoiding earthly judgment;

it was here I heard them say "Nice shot Jimmy", 

Monsieur Charnier drowning in sanguine penance,

Marseilles' face turned no brighter that day, 

no freer of its boiled-egg acne, its mud-veined mysteries -

"Nice shot, Jimmy" they said back home, 

his lone and single face taken suddenly by a shade of brittle stone

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.

Review Of Zero Evidence Of Life By Tracey Sivek

 

To pen any book is a daunting process in itself as we, as artists, question everything, struggling to create something that stands out while also bleeding our truths only to have them laid bare for others to criticize. 

It is said that looking at our past work and deciding to revise it is a task I do not envy any writer attempting to do.

That said, in Zero Evidence of Life author Tracey Sivek has not only attempted to do this but masterfully outdone herself in what I viewed as an already solid book of poetry.

These writings take you on a dark journey that doesn't stray from laying every poem bare yet in this revision there are also hints of humor laced in these lines such is the case in the prose-esque write Street Love:

I yelled.

“I like you better high.”

You yelled back.

“So do I.”

As that is my case in point this book has a great contrast. It's not your typical bleeding heart scenester poetry, this is work that pushes the author and the reader as well.

With further examples in the exquisite poem My Empty:

“My empty comes from a place of high yield and low resolution.

A sacred place where one wish of a hello lands on a thousand screaming goodbyes.”

This is a masterfully crafted book in all senses of the word for people looking for something darker that still maintains soul without compromising in an attempt to pander to a manufactured certain style to bore someone half to death at some open mic.

This is a book that demands to be read alone and savored in its beauty and dedication to its craft. I have known the author for many years and I have to say I am blown away by her edge with continued progression and refinement.

As I said before I do not envy anyone attempting to revise a past project but in many senses this feels like a completely new book altogether.

And it only makes me look forward to reading more work from this author.

If you want something dark and a hundred percent real this is the book for you. I could not recommend this book more.

Zero Evidence Of Life is an exquisite masterwork from an author whose voice has only just begun to demonstrate her truly best work.

This book will not disappoint I promise you that!

John Patrick Robbins, editor-in-chief of The Rye Whiskey Review.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/tracey-sivek/zero-evidence-of-life/paperback/product-22836091.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Come morning By Susan Isla Tepper

will you remember me

or will you dress quickly,

Grab the garbage bag

for the hall chute, 

brush my cheek

with lips that were 

so fierce

I thought for sure

come morning 

they’d be deformed.

 

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.

LIFE IS FLAMENCO By Strider Marcus Jones

why can't i walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

or play my Spanish guitar

like Paco,

putting rhythms and feelings

without old ceilings

you've never heard

before in a word.

life is flamenco,

to come and go

high and low

fast and slow-

she loves him,

he loves her

and their shades within

caress and spur

in a ride and dance

of tempestuous romance.

outback, in Andalusian ease,

i embrace you, like melted breeze

amongst ripe olive trees-

dark and different,

all manly scent

and mind unkempt.

like i do,

Picasso knew

everything about you

when he drew

your elongated arms and legs

around me, in this perpetual bed

of emotion

and motion

for these soft geometric angles

in my finger strokes

and exhaled smokes 

of rhythmic bangles

to circle colour your Celtic skin

with primitive phthalo blue

pigment in wiccan tattoo

before entering

vibrating wings

through thrumming strings

of wild lucid moments

in eternal components.

i can walk as far

and smoke more tobacco,

and play my Spanish guitar

like Paco.

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.

Things That Go ping! in the Night by B. Lynne Zika

Do you know what neuropathy is? How about peripheral neuropathy? Me, neither. But mine has a Napoleon complex. The brat.

I finally order the Muses to shut up at 3:00 a.m. and jitterbug my way to bed. There I lie, not thinking about the 47 things I’m thinking about, and ping! he’s at it again. Napoleon, I mean. I have a feeling this is going to be good.

Four days ago it was a bee sting to the hip. Then the usual 30 fine needles peppering my hands and feet. I sit down to dinner and the knees start aching. Fiercely. I ignore them. Three bites of tortellini later, Bludgeoning crash! and I get a hatchet to the left knee. All right, already. I get it! Now, mon général, what do you want me to do about it? Silence.

But tonight, he’s King. This is a full-frontal attack. He’s skirmishing with hands, feet, shins, quadriceps, chest, right nipple — Hold on a damn minute. My nipple?

There is always a subplot. Mine is tiny spiders. Which my residence houses in abundance. And they only bite me when I sleep. Last week, not only did their work crew find (beneath my long-sleeved robe and long-sleeved gown) the inside of my elbow, but Jack yelled out to Alex, “Yo! Tasty morsel coming up! Hit the nipple!” Just rude.

Therefore, on said nipple I have one spider bite plus Napoleon starts in on it.

The weird thing is: I cannot always distinguish between the two. So as I’m lying in bed with the pings! and the whacks!, I start slapping. Just in case the thing chomping on me has fangs, not muzzle-loading, smoothbore muskets. I’m slapping the feet, I’m slapping the thighs, I’m slapping the chest. (Slapping actually does help the neuropathy. A tad. Try it. I fancy you’ll be prone to insomnia, too.) 

I slap until I have an impressive Dave Grohl riff going. Then I realize:

Napoleon has crowned himself emperor.

I’m not going to take this lying down! Oh, really? You’re in bed, ma chère. (Sigh.)

Then he starts on my ears. Not the auricle. The ear canal. His Imperial Majesty attaches a TENS unit. zip. Zip. ZZZIPPP! Buzz, buzz, buzz. ZZZIPPP!

And, despite my desire to slap the bejesus out of His Little Majesty, I am NOT slapping my ear. White flag of surrender.

Oui, monsieur, you win.

B. Lynne Zika is a poet, essayist, photographer, and fiction writer currently living in Los Angeles. Her books The Strange Case of Eddy Whitfield, The Longing, and Letters to Sappho: Putting Out the Fire are available on Amazon and through other booksellers. In addition to editing poetry and nonfiction, she worked as a closed-captioning editor for the deaf and hard-of-hearing. She has received awards in short fiction, poetry, and photography. Her father, Yewell C. Lybrand, Jr., was a writer himself. Before his death at 36, he bequeathed her this wisdom and mission for a lifetime: Make every word count.