Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Bradley Williams- A Cartoon

See website at http://machocomics.com

Stefanie Bennett- Two Poems

GLIMPSES OF ICE, Syria 2015    
... They will have us yet –, hanging
Like the last citadel.
Crude and un-gamely, our resonance
Will sit amid dust motes and flax.
Behind un-lettered doors only
The rats must pay us mind and
The caretaker, quixotically imagine
Ghosts and uprisings.
Come back and into a lost design
                                         The lyric
Will lead the transmutation:
How the walls must fall to our final
Filial ear –, and adjudicate
That stylographs should have
Seen us
Arsenal bearers... not
Oh! Christ, it screamed. Someone’s
Can’t you hear?
‘But for you, I could,’
The scream
Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry and worked with Arts Action for Peace. Her poems appear in Mad Swirl, Shot Glass Journal, Bijou, Jellyfish Whispers, Ink, Sweat and Tears etc. Of mixed heritage [Italian/ Irish/ Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia, in 1945. Stefanie’s latest poetry book ‘The Vanishing’ 2015 is published by Walleah Press and is available at Walleah Press, Amazon and Fishpond.

J. D. Heskin- Three Poems


Thank goodness they're locked up in there;
imagine the fuss should they be let out.
I am sure we all have them: those private
thoughts of the one next to us, upholding
what is to him, or her, an undeniable truth.
While we may mildly disagree, joke about it,
should it be of a significant subject that we
cannot help but feel decidedly contrary to,
there will always be a chasm we cannot leap:
an abyss of acrimony we will always keep
well within our private thoughts.

Were I to have one, a friend, that is,  he would have to be better than me.
That's easy, you say, for I can hear you thinking, I sound rather snobbish.
Yes, it is true, my opinion of myself is, specifically, of a superlative one.
I find myself comfortable, entertaining, and capable of being up-to-date.
I admit to having vices, even to the point of admitting to all of the seven.
That said, I believe honesty is the essence of a enabling true conscience.
You call me fat. Yes, just a few pounds. You say I am self-centered. A bit.
See. I accept the reality of being what I am. Can a friend stand such heat.
Perhaps, but I think not. If he could, maybe he would be better than me.
Then I would have a friend.
I now take this time to extend an apology for calling you a loser yesterday. After an agonizing, sleepless night, I have realized my sudden anger came not from what  you did, but failure on my part to realize what you have been through lately. I am deeply sorry for what I said and I hope you will forgive me. Conceivably, when time has passed for you to reconsider my remorse and my inexplicable action, you will write or call, and we can get together again as friends.
This drivel that I am resigned to write is not only humiliating, but pure fiction. You are a crass and annoying person who I have never liked or respected and I find you a pathetic SOB. Because you are my superior at the job site does not make you my superior de facto. You can bitch about being pressured by the executives, but truth be known, you are a fuck up, and they are beginning to realize it. It's just a matter of time and I'll have your job. Keep on trucking, bubblehead.

Janne Karlsson- A Cartoon

"Janne Karlsson is a crazy Swede. Upcoming books are Embracing the Flames (Leaf Garden Press) and "Wide Asleep, fast Awake (Bottle of Smoke Press), in collaboration with Adrian Manning. Other books are available on Amazon and/or Epic Rites Press. Website: www.svenskapache.se

Robin Pinkman- Two Poems

You Win 
Oakland is eternal
oakland shines in
the sun today

two lips two eye-
brows two eyes 
and two nostrils.

Hollywood 9/24/15

On After Another Failed Apocalypse
The captain's on television saying how 
he's sick of saying the same shit on
TV about how we need not shoot each
other over nothing but still do anyhow.

Hollywood 10/1/15 

Tempest Brew- Three Poems


she put the rags
dishwasher girl

and was transformed
into a princess
of pain

spikes and all


I slipped me on
then me off
then put a new me

never finding
to wear


does it matter
if it is true
when they are
saying it

how do they not
know that in hurting
the ones you love

they hurt you too

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

the foolish king

i won't kiss your feet
not after you
kicked me,
and you can stop acting like
you're a saint in your
imaginary throne;
no matter what anyone does it will never
be enough to please you
for you are a cruel and foolish king
tearing hearts apart in a lust
you mistake for
i only could be myself,
but that wasn't good enough for you
always trying to make me
something i wasn't
to fit some sordid fantasy;
you are false and insincere and the only
thing you know are charm and wit
but in the end being kind
is more important than being right—
you could never be kind
so i will show you
the bitterness of an angry ocean that erodes
just as you threw my heart into the
salted agony of rocks,
and i know two wrongs don't make a
but the idea of you receiving your karma
makes me fall in love with the idea
we're not together

the angry raven psalm

i don't know
you're so egotistical
because you
are no adonis
just a foolish man that my heart
fell for,
and i loved you with all of me
simply so you could
push me aside and chastise me for
everything i was;
the more i loved you it seemed the
more you hated me—
you always locked the garden gate
kept me outside waiting
insisted one day
we would be together forever
i believed you,
but it was just another lie
of the insincere knave to the dreamer;
you were always good at being
charming but charisma
wasn't going to save me maybe that's why
you insisted upon setting me free—
ravens are meant to fly
not sing in gilded cages,
and so i will never sing to you again of love
only fury, wrath, and the revenge of
the universe.

a love unrequited

i guess i never needed you
you were just another
trying to shake me from my
and you always spit on the face
of my love;
i really truly did care for you
a lot,
but i guess that was my mistake because
you never loved me
in the least—
dreamers sometimes falter with the best of
perhaps you were just some
drunken hallucination
of what i thought love should be,
and when i stumbled into your arms you didn't
disagree the idea of love;
simply so you could get me to stay
laying in the
sunshine of your golden hair and ivory
winter arms—
but you were never love only lust and you shattered
my pretty little red heart in two
one day i hope love
shatters you.

Grant Tarbard- Three Poems

The Boy I Had Never Seen

He pointed me out one day
the boy I had never seen

in a class made of painted cardboard 
and sticky glue that wove strangers together.

The boy was pallid, without conviction,
wispy haired waif, quivering lip, inaudible.

The headmistress held his arm, 
her look could melt wedding bands,

the boy’s wavering finger was a death ray 
to whom it touched, an eye for an eye

but I didn’t know my crime. He pointed 
at three of us, the headmistress’s corrugated look 

was enough to make us move down to her stuffed bird office, 
papers spiralling into a concertina of work ringed by coffee cups.

We three mistaken felons stepped slowly over the threshold
knowing if we did so that pleading would elect no leniency.

I sniffled in fear in the office of the Cromwell of the school,
warts and all, and was punished for an unnamed trespass. 

How to Resurrect the Dead 

I mend you with the brushstrokes of my words,
a womb of royal jelly ink gasping 
with the suddenness of resurrection. 
Tipp-Ex covers my eyes so I can see 

in these shadows ahead, a balloon tied 
to my waist so I can lift you from the 
page. I find you hidden amongst the leaves 
of sleep, your eyes are sealed with trampled roots.

I prize them open with a lobster fork, 
soothe them with a balm of blood. When open 
they skinned me, those ravishing blues, full of 
sparrows. You use my mouth to whisper at 

the ghosts you leave behind as we skim the 
treetops with acorns in our breast pockets 
wrapped in paper aeroplanes. Up above 
the page I dress you in milk and palm wine

for the restoration of your sanguine 
petticoat flesh. I surrender the tapes 
of your voice to set alight your briar 
silence with stitched breath and the songs you sang.

Linger in the Doubled Up Darkness

I remember ampules of morphine that
made me hunch shouldered, bones on a heavy
chain longing to wrap themselves in flowers,
my muscles are scraps picked apart by birds.
When I sleep my bloated heart stops beating 
so not to disturb me. The first moment 
when I awake is the first beat of the 
new day. Old morphine made time stand still and
hold its breath, vapour faced and crimson lipped.
The whole of space and time is in my grasp, 
all I have to do is reach out and touch 
the emerald pillbox, but I linger.
On the back of my hand I write your name,
alchemic, brought down from the sparrows nest.

Grant Tarbard is internationally published. His chapbook Yellow Wolf, published by WK Press, is available now.

Kushal Poddar- Three Poems

Once A Red Moon

Before the eclipse
moon sniffs
crotch of the tree.

The sea of roof.
Your shoulder against mine.

Chair Between Occupations

The chair in its 
between occupations

It doesn't belong
to me. I see silence 
sheds leaves

from its nearby
bough that mimics a man
with cold shoulders.

The chair begins
to rock the balcony.

The Hiss Of The Line

water on my palm

serpent of lifeline hisses
back at my eyes

sunlight granules rubbed

I can say, my eyes reddened 
because of fever

fervor becomes 
the word of the day 

I amble from here to the blur 

my hand seeks support 
from those long sunlit walls 

city fences with its shade

from the dive board leaps

something and when I turn my head 
there is nothing to see.

There is nothing to see

so I can scratch off my eyes
You can stop hissing

Gregg Dotoli- Three Poems

That Rain

crushing rain woke me
hours after midnight
each drop a flat note
pinged off this leaf or that stone
earth's white noise
caused a natural claustrophobia
shrinking my mind space
inducing fear and inner tremble
knowing I can't escape
until the dark storm wanes

Do the Moon

youth's prelove peace
had a lightspeed exit
to a heroic happiness
sizzling my heart as summer sand
on bare-feet
love became my life emperor
and drove the me I became


late winter silver sun
falls on the high oaks and land
gently awakens its children
green baby buds wake and stretch
to the soft notes of a SpringSong
nature's unbroken promise
warming our cooled hearts
chilled by mercurial winter days
leafspring zing
the annual élan