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.

If I Can Connect With Your Mind

Then most certainly I can embrace your heart.

To exist beyond these stereotypes for labels should be placed only upon bottles, my dear.

As much like in children's paper valentines and the sweetness that may lay beyond this façade's grip.

Let us embrace a private truth, share a perfection along with the wine.

In sunset’s embrace of an ever approaching night's drive.

The taste of passion and the sadness tinge of tomorrow's truth.

It's always downhill from here.

But paradise is often lost ever too soon from the bastard of bitter realities and times harsh caress.

Love is an ever cruel mistress.

Embrace the moment and nothing more.

I take comfort in knowing somewhere within those thoughts I shall eternally exist.

John Patrick Robbins, is a southern gothic writer.

His work has been published in. Fixator Press, FREGOLI, Spill The Words Press, Punk Noir Magazine,  Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe and Piker Press.

His current book is Midnight Masochism published by Black Circle Publishing and available on Amazon on the link below his work is always unfiltered.

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

Eddie’s Bodega by Susan Isla Tepper

We got burgled twice— in daytime, no less— I called in a carpenter to raise the counter and add plywood sides where Contralta sat up front behind the register.  I figured it would be a turn-off.  They’d have to squeeze in with her to demand the money.  Burglars like an open counter for the quick get away.  

Instead of being scared afterward, Contralta was pissed.  She has a mad-dog face.  Telling me You gotta go all plastic, Eddie.  Her reasoning being word would get around the street.  They’d target someplace else. I tried explaining that people use cash for small purchases.  I did not explain that cash is liquid.  It wasn’t her business to know how I ran my business.  This was not a woman you could reason with.  Her dentist told her to have her extra-long bicuspids shaved; but no go.

At any rate, it’s been a few weeks since the new carpentry.  So far, so good.  Personally, if it was me going to hold up a bodega, this particular one would no longer be at the top of my list.

But my problems were just beginning.  Not a small woman, Contralta hated the cubicle as she put it.  “It’s like working in a phone booth,” she said.

“Whaddya mean?  Your head’s not buried, you got a lotta space above your head.  Reach up and you’ll see what I’m talkin’ about, wiggle your fingers.”

She wanted no part of it.   

“Go on!  Reach up and wave your arms.  Lotsa space.  You’ll get used to it.  Trust me.”

She got off the stool and came out.  Mitzi was spooning hot food onto what used to be the salad bar.  

I waved Contralta toward the food.  “Go on— go on— grab a plate and have some lunch— on me.” 

She looked at the food, sniffed, then left the store.  

“I could do the register,” said Mitzi.  “It wouldn’t bother me being in there.”

She was a small woman with a small face.  How could I tell her I need a bulldog guarding my money.  

“Don’t worry,”  I said.  “You know, I like the way you put the food in there, how you place the wings, all nice and neat.”  I smiled at her.

“You’re fucking with me,” she said.  Her face turning mean and rat-like.  

I scratched my chin.  That might work.  It just might.

                                                           END

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.