I See You By JPR

For the snake's proverbial tongue is always unmistakable to one such as I.

A predator hidden lacks the conviction of the wolf that stands within the open alone.

A drill bit bites into the knee; your confession matters nothing to me.

For I desire to witness you suffer.

As you walked in of your own volition.

But who said anything about leaving?

The deadbolt is merely to contain.

Never to prevent the unwanted witnesses’ momentary intrusion.

Never mistake, there is always someone willing to cross that invisible line.

Where one finds shackles of morality another equally views freedom in the rapture of murder’s power trip.

Cross the wicked and so will you suffer the consequences.

JPR, is a southern gothic writer his work has been published by.

Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Fixator Press, The Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir Magazine, It Takes All Kinds A Literary Zine, Spill The Words and Fearless Poetry Zine.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Brace by Susan Isla Tepper

— for Ukraine

You’ve seen the world

claim you paid the price

suffered:  Suffering 

is bombs falling

Years on end 

tanks down the streets

the queueing for food

and water shortages,

Collapsed buildings

corpses lining the roads

starving animals

eating other dead ones.

You haven’t suffered.

Brace yourself.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Ophidiophobia by Bruce Morton

The caduceus

Not withstanding

She is afraid,

Deathly afraid,

Forever fearful,

Limbic phobic,

Of snakes.

I am not

Sure why.

Perhaps it has

Something to do

With Eve.

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona.

ALL by Susan Isla Tepper

          for Simon Perchik (1923 – 2021)

All I can do is speak of love

your words and the color

of the sky

each breaking season—

Allow me to explain

my sadness at your leaving

so many felt that pain’s 

strange progression

in stops and starts.

All the while you knew

I still needed you.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Species by Susan Isla Tepper

Don’t be fooled.

We are now at the beginning.

I dare not say this out loud

for fear of being stoned.

Ridiculous, you would say,

Much more likely

you will be shot or raped.

But I know better.

The ants are back

in proliferation.

New species, much smaller, 

more deadly.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Jowl By Curtis Blazemore

 

I’ve seen the feeblest minds of my generation get in

the best MFA programs in the U.S. of A. I read the

finest minds pseudonymously blogging about

difficult ways to be naked in the dark. The motel in

Barstow was called The Half-Sack Motor Palace

and it was hard to know if this was fate or just gassy

bloat, or maybe it was a secret hot-tub hideout for

defrocked priests and remedial orphans… either way

I had to piss, write a poem about pissing, and nap,

so I checked in. Ginsberg was there, sitting on the bed

in my room. He puffed his hash pipe silently. I pulled

us a couple of beers from my bag and used the john,

then we split the beers and the rest of his Lebanese

Blonde space cake while comparing hungers and highs,

and Lo and Behold! We agreed that everyone is either

strange or familiar. We agreed the ex-Prez tweets like

a mean girl. We agreed this thing called the real world

is a bizarre place where pissed-off creatures say things

aimed at your face. Sunlight spilling in the window

made the smoky room iridescent. I remembered I’d

forgotten to write my poem about pissing, and heard

Buk calling me a lazy old excuse for a poet through

the floorboard. “Ginsberg,” I whispered through the

sunlit haze, “my poems got kicked off the joyride,

they’re just a rest stop headache with an occasional

glory hole— I lie in the dark naked and black out

and none of my angels come, not a one.” He looked

thoughtful for a few beats, then aimed words right at

my face. “Sounds to me like you’re fucked,” he said,

but I’ve got Kerouac’s carcass in my car trunk… I’ll

drag that in, leave him with you, so you can take him

on the road, see if that helps.” Ginsberg ambled out the

door. Like a sap I sat and waited until the sun went

down. My poetry chops were jowls. I had to piss beer.

Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.

As So Goes The Bear By John Patrick Robbins

Our words were short as time is but a moment ever fleeting upon this plain of existence.

My memories of you are as cloudy as a puddle's gray sky's reflection of something I rather forget.

But my friend you once told me.

"Our disease does not hide, we simply choose to ignore it until it's far too late."

I didn't want to face the solution, as I spoke to you beyond fucked up.
Lost in a storm of ego and ignorance that I could control a fucking tornado by pretending I was ultimately in control.

"You know you can always call me John, just make sure it's when you are ready to admit it's beyond your control."

My old friend said to me and as I said my goodbyes I played it off.
Mocking his spiel and doing what I do best.

Play the role others believe to be the fractured individual that is someone over time I truly do not understand myself.

I could always called you and like anyone not wanting to face the cancer that is their truth I never did.

And on the day an old friend told me of your passing I was numb fighting withdrawals, my heart pounding like a wounded animal yearning for escape.

I thought of you, a man who had battled a stroke, cancer and the same addiction as I.

It was never that I didn't call because I did not respect you.

It is the exact opposite my friend.
I admired you as many will speak of your words.
But as we are eternally brothers of the page.

It is the compassion you showed me as a friend knowing me no more than a stranger from a website.

You eternally are that bear, as that animal often stands alone in its strength and understanding.

That pillar has been removed only from sight never from heart or the dungeons of a darkened soul such as mine.

Rest well my friend.

Sincerely from the pains of my eternal regrets.

In memory of a great friend.

I do not explain art, I merely create it.