Before I sleep and slip, Into a deep coma of dreams, I place my feelings into a bottle, And throw that bottle in the ocean blue, To cast out negativity, And to reach some form of life, In my dreams.
I send out thousands of words, But no words are strong enough, To express how I really feel.
There are some stunning humans, On this planet, Yet when I look in the mirror, I see a dark creature, Not worthy to walk this land. When the night comes, It covers my imperfections, When the sun rises, I slither back, Into the shadows.
I don’t feel like a human being, Maybe because, Deep down, I don’t speak human.
In mercado cages dull peach-faced love birds lack the sunshine they need The carcasses of dead animals are more vibrant than the live ones
A poster shows two female boxers One is Elena Menendez They are both heavily muscled and know that they will be hit as hard as they hit and that it will hurt them in the day and damage them in the night and in the weeks and months to come until the next fight which will be worse and the next worse yet until they can no longer raise their fists to defend themselves
I look in Elena’s eyes and see her thoughts: Why did I have to be a fighter? I love the sweet sounds of the violin Why couldn’t I have been a violinist?
A peach-faced love bird escapes its cage flies up and perches on a dead electric wire next to Elena’s photo posed with her fists up dangerous despite her fear
My wife is having a manic episode and has convinced herself that she is invulnerable that it is safe for her to drink the local water I leave the bathroom give the attendant ten pesos return to my wife standing under Elena’s poster just as she is finishing a big dirty glass full
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published by Pski’s Porch Publications in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face, He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
i still remember the look in her eyes the first time i heard that song blasting between the neon at the club
i had dreams of forever
and she just needed another free drink
neither of us left satisfied that night
for the rest of our lives
i stopped believing in love when the woman of my dreams decided she’d rather have a life without my dick in it
of course, we were going to remain friends for the rest of our lives
until three weeks later
she called with the news of a new boyfriend
i was out two thousand dollars and had a broken heart that never would be repaired
that was twenty years ago
time doesn’t heal shit
an old lover whistling in a graveyard
embrace the pain
an old lover whistling in a graveyard
that haunting laughter in the distance is god
she doesn’t necessarily expect and wish for your failure
but success is as likely as the souls in this graveyard ever seeing the sun
again
my therapist
the empty page eventually becomes my therapist
i only wish it would ask better questions
pressing my lips
the rain touches her lips like tears from a god we all stopped believing in years ago
i remember unbuttoning her shirt and pressing my lips to a nipple
she started to pull down my jeans and i was thankful i lived a quarter mile off of the road
and none of my neighbours could see this part of the property
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads
Octopuses hand them tools as they work to right the Costa Concordia laying ruined on its starboard side
After work the divers drink in bars and recount their undersea exploits to avid women
while the octopuses slither back into their holes where some of them fondle large wrenches or pieces of steel cable
There is something so strangely tactile about these objects The octopuses embrace them with their entire bodies and have multiple orgasms far more orgasms than the divers who have gone to bed early to be ready for another day at work under the surface
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. His new poetry collection was published in 2019, The Arrest of Mr Kissy Face, He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
you have to wonder at the flavour, and savour the smell, accept taste the bitterness of it; gooseberries and fresh appleflesh. you have to get sunlight pouring over windowsills and spilling into ditches onto drunks going home. that’s wine, see? this: going home. a skip in the road and light which shines in a bottle. a kiss from your friend returned again after too long gone off at sea.
D.S. Maolalai is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin and has been nominated for Best of the Web, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).
In our chapel at Golden Pines, Amber light through stained glass, Across the burgundy cushions, Greying heads, hip and knee replacements, A new organ fills the room: Bach, Widor’s toccata, Three manuals, hundreds of stops. Digital, no pipes, which means to some It is not real. Oh, but is it— The swells, crescendos, The noble trumpet of the Prince of Denmark’s March. It replaces the kind of organ You used to hear in cafeterias, Playing for the Civitans. Our friend explains, improvises for us; Keys change. How many would be so bold As to put on display the skills Of a life’s work, now Compromised by time. It is marvellous, we think, in every way. At last we have at Golden Pines An instrument fit for a sanctuary, For a service of last rites.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
Must be my lucky day. Look what I found on the sidewalk in a small Midwestern town at the turn of the 21st century. It’s almost midnight. The one street light is swinging like a pendulum. I saw it gleaming through the cracks. I just had to kneel down and pick it up.
Well so what. My find is not helping my car any. It’s as dead as a pair of twos in a poker game. And a mile back there on the road some place. And I can’t afford to pay for a roof over my head. But that’s my worry, not yours.
Have you guessed it yet? Red roses in a white wine bottle? Iron Maiden CD in a medicine cabinet? Scheherazade on a shingle? Shakespeare, vestal virgins or leopards? Take my advice and forget about it.
Is it a gleam, a glitter, in an otherwise dead block of cement? Does it remind me of someone? Do I break into a little song? And dance with my own shadow?
And now it’s starting to rain. It dribbles down my chin. The wind is brisk and repulsive. The people are all indoors, in bed, with the lights out.
So I’m under an awning, with my coat wrapped around me, head on a stoop. body curled up like a snail’s.
Have you guessed it yet? It’s nothing really. But you knew that all along.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
A roller of fat cigars, the hefty guy whose arms are inked with devils and angels, short-skirted women showing enough leg to start the dogs barking, and an old lady selling flowers – I have ignored them all just to be with you.
A shop window advertising 47 ice-cream flavors, a pig with two heads or maybe two pigs with a head apiece, blind kids playing baseball, a construction site, a barbershop quartet – I was in such a hurry, I noticed none of these.
Then you have to ask me how my never-wavering concentration on the matter in hand enabled me to include, for poetic purposes, all these things I bypassed, took no notice of.
That’s a good question. Luckily, on my journey, I avoided all good questions. That’s why I’m here.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
The first two arrows that pierce my orbs through fluttering lashes, too loath to unfold, are cerulean fragments that, unhampered, probe my naked window every cloudless morn.
My wavelengths, attuned, respond with a flow of rippling images that W. James had called the stream of consciousness, but in a non-literary world: a bluebell basking in the shade of a blade, a petal floating on the sapphire of a lake, a ripple or two agitating my boat, whose oars are drunk with foam and salt, a cyan mist inhabiting a myth, a pair of eyes whose blueness persists to compete with skies’, bluebells’, and mists’
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
The light has gone out in your heart. It’s not the bulb. It is still steady with kisses and hugs.
After years of constant use. the wiring is frayed at the source. Wire nuts of romance have been loosened.
It’s time for an overhaul.
This is to be done carefully. The electricity shut down. A new love cord installed. Secured with masking tape. Retighten the nuts and slowly connect the lost circuit.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.
