Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Janne Karlsson- Cartoon

                                                     The Hanky Panky


Janne Karlsson (1973) is a ridiculously productive artist from Sweden. Buy his fanzines on www.svenskapache.se or his books through Epic Rites Press.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

The Ferguson Apocalypse 

Missouri, U.S.A. 2014

From shimmering oil
of ebony still

will come flailing of limbs
will come hacking

quick slashing
of hands now untied

tattooing no pattern
not even a maze

depriving gray walls
of their stone

will come spittle
wild churning rivers

agush from slack jaws
of blanching gray hounds

till one day at dawn 
will come quiet


Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems


DIMINUTION
 
On a tree
by a narrow street
upon an bending bough
I perch in a dream
unseen
over people in a field
hovering about
an empty hole
obstructed by a box
with contents
of what use to be me.
Some are sobbing,
most are somber
and few hide
a reluctant obligatory glint.
All see the hyphen
between random dates
engraved upon granite,
transform my toil
to a trophy abbreviation
for living.
 
 
 
A DEPICTION OF LOVE LOST
 
He could only recall her first name,
and did not remember
exactly when and how
they met, but the memory
of her presence
floated in his brain
like a recurring dream,
except she wasn’t a dream.
Daytime law intern,
nighttime model,
lecture halls,
and alluring moves
on various catwalks
in different cities,
she led a flamboyant,
exciting existence,
like a rainbow
arresting the sky
following a tumultuous storm,
and then she disappeared.
Many years passed the row
of numerical stations
until he saw a picture
in yellowed newspaper
buried in the attic
and his brain screamed
acknowledgement.
Anxious as he was,
the rainbow did not sparkle
in the setting sky that day,
nor any of the following,
behind the rails of the stop
time had long ago abandoned.
 
 
 
THE CORNER PUB
 
Sometimes, upon a discontented day,
I take a walk around midnight
to the corner pub,
stopping in front of the unlocked door
to view the dim light
that illuminates the bar,
a single subdued bulb,
reflecting off the mirrors behind,
light like a hobo might see
at the end of a train tunnel
from the vantage
of  an open cargo car.
Dirty aprons hang in the corner
upon a rack, smeared with
beverage and booze in lines
that resemble a treasure map,
treasures of forgetting and
a sympathetic ear.
The glass bottles sparkle
as if placed upon an altar
where, once the confessions begin,
those inflicted begin to heal.
There is a wooden stool,
now polished, still empty,
where my heart bled upon its grain
a fortnight ago
as the barkeep listened,
where after enough drinks,
I’ll mostly likely again
pour my troubles into
one of his glasses.

J.J. Campbell- Three Poems


regret always finds a way

i close my eyes
and can still
see you slowly
dropping your
panties as i
finish off a
glass of wine

on this rainy
night in my
bed alone

regret always
finds a way
to tap you on
the shoulder
and remind
you that some
mistakes will
never be

forgotten

the wine has
turned into
whiskey

soon i'll
convince
myself that
it is ok to
die alone
 
 
 
there is no point

racing the
demons of
sadness to
see who
can get to
the bottom
of this bottle
the quickest

there is no
point to
winning 
this race

the object 
is to simply
not be able 
to
remember
the why,
the reason

the anything

and trust me

if i could erase
more than just
a few hours

i absolutely
would
 
 
 
tears in a lonely place

i always
wanted to
be able to
laugh all
my worries
and fears
away

but all the
attempts
to laugh
ended up
as tears in
a lonely
place

wrapped
up like
a little
ball

ready to
be kicked
once again

it was
years
before i
gained the
courage to
stand up
for myself

too bad i
waited
until the
world had
already 
passed
me by
 
 
 
bio

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) lives and writes on a farm in Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Camel Saloon, Pink Litter, Pyrokinection, ZYX, and Nerve Cowboy. Check out his YouTube channel for the latest videos for poems from his book, Sofisticated White Trash. You can find the book wherever you happen to buy books these days. You can find him most days bitching about something only he cares about on his blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Paul Tristram- Three Poems


Engulf Me

…with your
perfect passion,
the tender artistry
of your compassion,
and your empathy
to my reciprocal
touch.
Engulf Me
with your sex,
your smile,
charismatic soul
and those
deep living eyes
like
dancing miracles.
With your
13 different ways
of kissing
and full silken
tongue
of deliberate
control.
Let your entire
heart, body
and essence
come
washing over
my aching,
anticipating
being.

© Paul Tristram 2014



Cracked Sentiments

She kneeled staring
at the many
different shaped
shards
bleeding
within her slender
porcelain white hands,
with triumph and wonder
dancing
within her liberated eyes.
Then threw them down
into the bowel shaped hole
she had dug with her tears
all those yesterdays ago.
Squatted capriciously
over the relics of naivety,
hissing in glorious relief
through slowly
un-clenching teeth.
Wiped herself
upon a bouquet of
forget-me-lots,
leaving the entire
aborted nonsense
with a final
‘Good Riddance’
shake of her
whitening soul.


© Paul Tristram 2014



Foxglove

It was beneath
a small, colourful,
scent-heavy patch of them
they had found her
partially decomposed body.
Close to the Kissing Gate
at the bottom
of Courting Lane.
“I wanted her to lay
somewhere pretty!”
He had stated firmly
on police interview.
“After all,
I had once loved her,
she was my sweetheart,
you knows?”


© Paul Tristram 2014



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.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

The Islamic State and The Third Reich:
A Contrast in Efficiency

As any capitalist knows,
you must spend less 
to make a profit,
which is why I admire those 
running The Islamic State. 
They're efficient
compared with those
who ran The Third Reich.

Who can forget the Nazis,
a terrorist group other nations 
observed for years before 
anyone did anything.
The Nazis gobbled up 
land and people until 
other countries stepped in.
Millions died, most 
of them not Nazis.

The term "terrorist" wasn't used
when the Nazis herded Jews, 
Gypsies and Gays into camps 
and then into gas chambers.
The Nazi way cost money.
The Islamists know better.  

Islamists take no prisoners,
have no concentration camps,
spend no money to gas victims.
Islamists chop off heads 
or shoot infidels in the back
Heads, torsos, bodies bake  
and return to dust in the sun

Once they're finished in Iraq
the Islamists may go to Gaza
and show Hamas how to win
without buying rockets.  

Islamists get the same results
the Nazis did for less money.
They may not be capitalists but
they know how to cut expenses. 

 
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

Only Lies

reality written,
only lies,
history told by the winners,
distorted through bias eyes,
numbers and statistics,
only tools to support a view,
reality seen out of the corner of the eye,
ignored,
or overlooked,
too many times,
reality,
an end which justifies the means,
but in true,
only lies.

 
 
Pope John XXIII

Pope John XXIII,
an old time Catholic,
and defender of the faith,
when God's love inspired a soul to attempt to attain perfection,
though the dream impossible,
and the struggle endless,
the desire remained to justify God's love,
the fault with man,
not with God,

in today's age,
God's love inspires souls to demand proof of His love,
through his blessed mercy,
word games,
and philosophical arguments used to trap a God,
who spoke of love,
the fault with God,
not with man,
creating us the way we are,
creatures trapped in bodies,
overwhelmed by needs,
Pope John XXIII,
please pray for me.



Ghosts

in the darkness of night,
listen to the corn grow,
ghosts walk the cornrows outside my bedroom window,
reminding the living,
we are not alone,
the land is not ours,
but we are the land's,
eternal,
ghosts walking the cornrows.

Richard Schnap- A Poem

REFINEMENTS

In version one he was programmed
To adapt to whatever environment
That helped him forget his flawed heart

In version two he learned to speak
The languages of advanced species
Almost as if he was one of them

In version three he began to read
The features in an adversary’s face
So he could move ahead of him in line

And in version four he grew to embrace
The beauty of an on-demand world
And bury forever his outdated past

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Janne Karlsson- Cartoon



The "dear j├Ąger producers" has previously been published in the print fanzine "Janne Karlsson Graphic Poems."


Janne Karlsson (1973) is a ridiculously productive artist from Sweden. Buy his fanzines on www.svenskapache.se or his books through Epic Rites Press.

Christopher Mulrooney- Two Poems

fixation

one could hardly tell me hardly us at the time
we were hardly so at this time hardly so and us tell me
did we hardly us tell we us hardly all our troubles hardly


grot

in shafted caverns
of mineral light
the water disposes
there is the sound of water
and its echo
tantalizing response
through the system


Christopher Mulrooney is the author of symphony (The Moon Publishing & Printing), flotilla (Ood Press), viceroy (Kind of a Hurricane Press), and jamboree (Turf Lane Press, forthcoming). His work has recently appeared in California Quarterly, The Southampton Review, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, J Journal, Homestead Review, Offcourse, Kalyna Review, and Lantern Magazine.