Monday, May 25, 2015

Kurt Nimmo- Two Poems


as I
sit here
with a broken typewriter
a battleship
a barricade.

no thing
not anything

Christ, the lack of talent
and the blue eye stupidity of the moment.

or very little.

a glass of water
carelessly knocked over
and a folded pack of matches
straightening this old table
a plumb line

I write nothing.

socially retarded

I was
the crazy kid.
I saw things other kids
didn’t see.

I saw a flying saucer.

the one I saw
didn’t look like a saucer or a pie tin.
it looked like a cigar
with lights spinning around.

I saw it. nobody else did.

I spent
a lot of time alone
out in the backyard

adults and other kids made me nervous.

when I told them about it
they did not believe me.

I was that crazy kid

who was in therapy. they flunked me
at the grade school because it was determined

I was socially retarded.

which meant
I didn’t like the teachers or the other kids.
it was said I would probably
benefit from therapy.

I didn’t.

I saw a flying saucer
and when I talked about it
they started in on the therapy thing again
but I wasn’t forced to see a shrink
because my old man
was sick and tired of paying for
something that
did not work.

so it was decided
the best thing was to leave me alone
out there in the backyard under the stars

which was fine by me.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Donal Mahoney- A Poem & Photo

                                                      Photo by Brian Mahoney

Nature Boy

His parents bought a special lock
to keep Nature Boy inside 
but he’s mechanically inclined
and loves to go outside.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Ramona Thompson- Two Poems

Hiss Fight
No, I won't be pulled in
Dragged down
To your level
Fangs won't be barred
In fury and drama
I will not live
When all I've ever sought
In my life is peace
Get behind me, devil
This angel won't fall
I'll raise above
No venom
In my veins
I resist your poison
I flick away your bite
To your false and fatal charms
No prey will I be
I am strong
In my faith
These angel wings
Beat every time
Satan's claws
You can crawl
Low down as always
On your belly
I'll do as I have always
Stand tall
Free from you and your games
So pitiful
You hide in human flesh
A spirit of vile and spit
Choosing to hate
Instead of love
You are a monster
But not one I'll ever fear
Creature of darkness
Get outta my light
Darken not my day
With your cruel night
You can play
All you want
Just know
This endless and bitter game
You will play
Forever alone
2015 RamonaThompson
Ramona Anaconda
Get back
I'm dangerous
Fangs drawn
Angry venom spitting
Back me into a corner
I'll fight back
No going down
My rights are mine
And I'll stand for them
Swallow whole
Your every argument
Watch for me
I'm slippery
Slick and fast
I take no bullshit
I'm lean and I'm mean
Bite me
I'll bite right back
No ifs ands or buts
To beat me
Honey, you better
Be made of steel
I don't crawl
I don't slink
I'm a beast
Attack and I'll attack too
Rough skin
Monster of an attitude
Don't wanna dare
Mess with mine
Cause I'm s-s-s-scary
My hissy fit
Like none other you've ever seen before
Tougher then tough
I strike hard
Deadly weapon
Call me a bitch
I don't care
I don't give a ....
I'll eat you alive
No coward here
Come into my jungle
And player
You gonna get played
Cause ain't no one
Plays the game
Quite like Ramona Anaconda
2015 Ramona Thompson

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems


At night
no one
lies here.

My room
holds one
small bed.

I sleep
and dream.

The sea
with stars.

My thoughts
move like
the waves.

My sheets
are drenched
with sweat.

I die
a bit
each day.

I am
poised to
take flight.

call out
my name.

I doubt
that they
are real.

I do
not feel
so old.

My bed
needs more
than a

She is
long gone.


In a day
I might go
to sleep and
not wake up.

I would not
worry at
all about
life’s struggles.

I will find
peace at last
and not blink.

I want to
go there soon.
I can’t wait
one more day.


Get off the high horse.
It will only hurt more
when you fall down.

Give your pupils a
break and go to sleep
and rest your eyes.

Get off the high horse.
Don’t ride it anymore.
Get off the high

and get to the center.
You need to help yourself
and don’t look back.

I see you heading for
the mighty fall of all
falls. Can’t you see?

Get off the high horse.
Walk on solid ground on
your own two feet.


Randall Rogers- A Poem

Nothing Is Unknowable

During the decline of
all life dreamed by me,
and the evaporation of,
well, all.  And the cyclical
rebirth that makes one
want to think:
"look at us all drowning."
It's barely possible I may
survive, but if not,
please kill me.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Bradley Williams- Cartoon

                                      See more cartoons at

Friday, May 22, 2015

Richard Schnap- Three Poems


It will make you hear
A symphony in the traffic
Passing on the street

It will make you see
The moon wear faces
That keep on changing

It will make you believe
That the machines of the world
Are really succubi

It will make you think
That mirrors are all
The gateways to Hell

It will make you feel
Like you are a character
In the Book of Revelations

And it will make you cry
At a song’s secret meaning
Knowing it will fade


She wanted a child
But couldn’t conceive
As if her body
Conspired against her

Like a terrorist planting
A bomb in her womb
To be detonated
By remote control

And the harder she tried
The more she failed
Like she was fighting
A losing battle

Against a foe
That knew her flaws
Better than she
Knew them herself


When the man she loved
Stripped off his mask
Revealing the skull

She cut off all ties
With the outside world
And fell into the arms
Of sleep

Where she stained the walls
With tapestries of smoke
While collecting trinkets
And toys

Till there was nothing left
But an empty dream
As she woke up in time
To die

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Unique As Ever And Very Clever

I watched the way her fingers
worked magic and perfection
into completely
controlled craftsmanship.
I was in absolute awe
just like everyone else watching.
When she finished
and the spell broke,
she glanced at us applauding,
blushed a ‘thank you’
and beautifully smiled,
before humbly walking away.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Hell Cometh Closer

They dragged her in backwards
by the wrist restraints.
Lifted her long, soiled skirts
(She always wore two of them,
one to protect herself from temptation
and the other to keep out The Devil!)
and stuck the needle into her right arse cheek.
As she thrashed her long, unkempt, black hair
around in a whipping motion
screeching a dragged out “N-N-N-O-O-O!”
and hissing and spitting like a deranged wildcat.
One of the arresting officers present
stepped to one side, avoiding a flying splash
of saliva just in the nick of time
and shouted impatiently and with disgust
“Marion, every single drop of that dirty shit
that touches me, my co officers
or any of the nurses present
who are doing their job and trying to help you,
will be classed as an individual assault.
You should have kept up with your medication,
you can’t keep running into Gloucester Cathedral,
flashing your tits to the horrified tourists
and attacking the priests whilst yelling
‘Hell Cometh Closer’ as if it’s their fault.
Now calm the fuck down and go to sleep, please!”

© Paul Tristram 2015

Shivering Under The Sun/Melting Under The Moon

Disjointed and out of place for weeks now,
everywhere a rose patch except right here.
Echoes and hiccups of false prosperity
will not breadcrumb a crooked path
back to anywhere but unhelpful nostalgia.
The reckless gamble was only disguised as a game,
the arms of the Almshouse remain invisible to winners.
The ‘bargain section’ does not inspire confidence,
the ‘broken and damaged corner’ far less so.
The lessons there are easily won but far harder to swallow
and reinforce themselves daily
like toothache and six am roadwork’s grinding forever
outside the window of your sleepless quarters,
long after you have received the message and choked
a thousand times upon the brutal, stark point of it all.
Night time is just another colour,
for darkness is a feeling
and no stars pierce or brighten
that inward, brooding stretch of sky. 
The wealth of experience is oftentimes bought
with chunks of innocence and miles of childhood smiles.
Life is sometimes Victory, often times Defeat
but mostly the swirling, unsure currents that River the In Between.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at
And also read his poems and stories here!

Noel Negele- Two Poems


This is why our existence
is so sad in essence
because we cannot comprehend
a beginning or an end
but both take place

and our mind wonders
sometimes more than what is wise
but the state of life
has the decency and kindness
to distract us from the perpetual affliction
with senses 

but the wonder
cannot cease to happen 
inside your skull-
roots sown from the confusion -
and give away to a more
easy living,
it comes when we’re alone-
loneliness is when the gates open
and it comes out to our minds-
elbows on ledge
staring down and contemplating of falling

as animals tear each other apart
for food
men tear each other apart
for profit

as banks sponsor armies
children with bulged guts
stagger among a debris of 
left overs

and when the sun gives away to darkness
they like to hold tight on each other
it makes them immune 
to the nothingness that is everything
they like to tell tales of love
as the new days begin
but the same mistakes occur
they like to tell lies of love
so they can stall the hurt.

They turn to god
because they are afraid and desperate
they turn to many gods
because one lie is not enough
and then they fight each other for their lies
because love is not enough religion for them

what we need now
is a wonderful illusion
to dive in head first

a blanket from the agony
a deluded sense of purpose
a conviction of self importance

repeat after me

we are good and jolly people
we are good and jolly people.

Spring Rejection.

Stumbling away from a sleep
you don’t want to loosen your grasp on
and its 6:30 in the morning
and it always happens at pretty much 6:30 in the morning
when the girls in the dreams push you away
tauntingly and cheerfully
to face the ceiling
and the mocking twittering of the birds

to stroll around in an empty apartment
as the first shops open
as the first coffees are poured 

watching the news
the minimal truths occasionally thrown
between the cyclical lies
smoking a cigarette on the window
peeling an egg and devouring it without salt

opened up to a worthlessness 
like a chess board missing 7 pawns
like a predator without the sharpness on the teeth

it has flashes of a genius
she said
but it doesn’t quite stretch out to a whole.

Marcus Bales- A Poem

Thin Blue Lie

In Carolina's coastal plain
are black men by the hundreds, slain
unjustly by white cops who've cried
each murder can be justified
because armed white cops live in fear
of unarmed black civilians here.
The bad cops kill, and we can't trust
the good cops not to be unjust
and join the cover-up campaign.
But, as that video makes plain,
of black men who've unjustly died
and afterwards the cops have lied,
none died -- hanged, choked, stabbed, clubbed, or shot --
unjustly as did Walter Scott.