Sometimes I wonder why do I bother ? You can’t seem to please anyone, any of the time. Why not just say ” Fuck ’em all “ and live for yourself. Never worry about anybody else at all. But, it’s not in my nature, I can’t be that selfish. You have to share this world with other people, and I can’t help but care. Sometimes I wish that I could, but it’s just not in me. I’m too much of a softie to turn my back on them all.
Private places, privet hedges green lawns, and total, total boredom. Grey skies, identical houses, hidden secrets, and desires. The suburbs are terrifying, nothing is out in the open. Not upsetting the neighbours is the most important thing in life. I hate the suburbs, and I love them. They are the only thing I’ve ever known. I truly believe that there’s more evil, more lurid tales, and more sick crimes happening in the suburbs than in the inner city. The suburbs are where the criminals move to when they’ve made a bit of money. Nobody looks over their hedges so no one sees a bloody thing.
You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I.
Come with me, then, And we’ll leave it far and far away — (Only you and I, understand!)
You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and — Just tired. So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight, And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart — Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows, And, if you like, The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me! I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon, That floats forever and a day; I’ll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream, Until I find the Only Flower, Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of seventeen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Crow Carriage (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Golden Ticket from Roaring Junior Press. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com
The world seems like a horrible, harsh place when you’ve only just received two weeks worth of benefits, and already you are broke. All I get is £10 per day, if you’re from a country where you don’t receive a thing, this may seem like a lot of money. But, when it’s all you’ve got to feed, clothe yourself, keep yourself warm. Buy deodorant, shaving foam, razors, shower gel, shoes, and all the other little things that you don’t think of. Then you realise, it’s nothing at all. I’ve paid at least, thirty years of income tax, so I reckon that they must owe me something. I never asked them to spend it on nuclear weapons, or illegal wars. So, the way I see it, they owe me a lot more than £10 per day. At least enough to reasonably live on.
putting my brain inside his painted hollow artist rendered mind
tracing my own long lost newly found universal journey, it’s a time of play and wonderment
maybe the best thing to ever happen, was
when we jumped into the fire together
letting the waves of the past wash over consciousness
as skin and innards burned into floating ashen seedlings of living myths and holy images upon mundane sacred trails…
and good golly how fun it is to decipher it all.
Mike Zone is the author of One Hell of a Muse, A Farewell to Big Ideas and Void Beneath the Skin and coauthor of The Grind. Editor in Chief at Rogue Wolf Press and a managing editor at Concrete Mist Press, a frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.
I’m walking past the local Minimart, about six feet in front of me is a car with loud, but cheesy hip hop blaring out. Dope smoke is pouring out of the windows. In the driver’s seat, I see a real, fucking dickhead. He only looks like a teenager, but he gives me a filthy look. He’s trying to stare me out. I see a very young, dyed blonde girl in the shotgun seat, and two teenage lads in the back. I think, ” There’s three of them, only one of me. “ So I avert my stare from his. Three, or four steps on, I begin to feel shame, or guilt. Whatever it is, so I turn, stare him straight in the eye until he looks away. But, we both know that he won. I was the first one to look away. Not only did I look away first, but I’m nearly 50 I bet he isn’t even 20. So I’ve lost in every way that I possibly can. Oh well, it’ll happen to him too. No one escapes