Summer evening, 1947 by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry


A quiet evening with you, on the veranda,
Light illuminating your golden hair.
You in that tube top and gazing down
Smoldering flame. Smoldering out,
Til all that remained were dark skies
To keep company with memories of you.

A quiet evening with you, hot air waltzing,
stale look in your dirt brown eyes.
And in your mouth, words you no longer mean.
The burning light of longing having slowly
tarnished, a flicker growing ever faint,
Since that first morning, after.


Poems by Max Thrax

Poetry

HAMMETT

Thunder of consonants
Rolling out line
By line

Fifteen cigarettes
Before you roll
Out of bed

Throw the typewriter
Down the stairs

Broken keys
Lines staggered

She smiles
And says
Too soft


RIMBAUD IN AULIS

Provincial boy
Communion medal
Your poems scrawled
On your mother’s skirts

Her eyes
The eyes
Of a horse

Her hooves legion
And her punishments

Gare du Nord boy
Reading Faust
With a bullet in your wrist
Beware family men

No longer a boy
Not a man
A thing
Exchanged by weathered hands
Around the Cape and Horn

Rotting bone
A long, immense, rational
Derangement of the cells

From common bonds
You fly
Boy with sticky hair
And blue eyes reflecting
Holes in the sky


AMOR FATI

Because I am drawn
To worldly things
I am drawn
Drawn out
And shot down the drain


TARTU

Smell of rain
And I am there
Tartu

On Devil’s Bridge
I taste your hair
Fingers touch
Then disappear
Tartu

Parapet bare
Carve it all
To us alone
Tartu

Evening comes in winds
Breeze from Annelinn calls
Just to hear
I am here
With you

Back again to village life
Taking in the country air
All it took
For me to fall
Was you

Dropping my reflector
A tiny light
Dies second by second
Off Devil’s Bridge
Tartu


ROOM 306

When they laid her
On the table
She cried because
She swore she bore
A bomb inside

Strapped down
She screamed
To all the saints

Her face
Turned to ash
And blew away


BOA

At dawn
The walls turn to scales
Two yellow eyes
Stare back at me

I never ask
Why they stare
Only why
They never blink

And why the tail
Rising from the floor
Never coils
Or catches me
To squeeze


Max Thrax lives in Boston. His novella God Is A Killer (Close To The Bone) will be published in May 2022. Find him at www.maxthrax.com or on Twitter @ThraxMaximilian.

Little birds by Claire Marsden

Poetry

You are my little bird, 

caught in a net. Broken, 

yet beautifully whole. 

On whispered wings I’ll show you

how to carry your suffering. 

I’ll place a saucer of stars 

upon your brow, 

and my devotion to the sky 

will be your anchor. 

The sun will never claim you. 

I’ll make you sovereign of your universe, 

knowing, 

all the while, 

that behind my smile, 

I’m a shelter of bones.


Surfer Hair And Shaved Legs by Erich von Hungen

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

(Warning: Attempted Suicide)

            

White sky.

Cold wind.

Everybody inside.

 

He was young then,

            but still.

Too young, his mother’d said,

            but still.

Two weeks before the day, 

it came back in the same velvet lined box,

            the ring, 

            minus two major stones

            that would make such great earrings.

 

White sky.

Cold wind.

 

He’d worked for his father’s shoe company,

but his father’d lost touch,

wasn’t considered hip — not any more,

drank, went broke,

and he, of course, with him.

 

White sky.

Cold wind. 

 

His only sister died of drugs.

His brother of AIDS.

There were no nephews, no grandchildren,

no new family spreading.

 

White sky.

Cold wind.

 

And when he’d finally met The One,

it was worse still.

In the service,

they’d always looked and whispered,

sometimes even winked,

as he’d left the showers.

But when it mattered, 

when he’d finally found The One,

she’d said it was too big,

and besides,

she liked surfer hair and shaved legs.

 

White sky.

Cold wind.

 

That was finally it.  

He’d held the revolver, 

like a mirror up to himself,

and pulled the trigger for what he’d seen.

The hammer jammed,

and it blew up instead of firing.

He’d been left scarred out of recognition

but was not dead.

 

White sky.

Cold wind.

 

So now, no one would ever look.

He’s in a little room with a monthly relief check,

and the wind no longer matters.

Is that what they mean by peace?

 

White sky.

Cold wind.

 

He never thought,

            even to this day,

to shave his legs.

 

White sky.

Cold wind.

 

 


Erich von Hungen currently lives in San Francisco, California.  His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Write Launch, The RavensPerch,  From Whispers To Roars, The Closed Eye Open, Bombfire, and others.He has recently launched  three collections of poems “In Spite Of Contagion: 65 COVID-19 Poems”, “Kisses: 87 Love Poems”, and “Witness: 100 Poems For Change”. Find him at https://twitter.com/PoetryForce

that someone could mean something by Holly Conant

Poetry

and yet you hang the words

friend   respect   empathy

on a washing line of noose rope

alongside your towels and bedding

 

how the birds flock

beaking their sweetness

words falling to the ground

worms gathering to a bed

 

you said they weren’t towels

they were white flags

we’ll never know

now the moths have come

 

they hungered for the moon

couldn’t reach it

but they saw your sheets

gave off no light


Holly is a new writer and mature student currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems have been published since January 2021 by Ink, Sweat & Tears, Anti-Heroin Chic, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Dreich and more, as well as appearing in a number of anthologies.

5 poems by Joshua Martin

Poetry

Drifting into the Tape Machine & Rewound 

 

Has at half-mast/

                        assed

            turned inward

                                    CORNERS

not unlike the odor

unique to split pea

            SOUP—

 

                        a violent drip,

hands

            underneath sewing

                        machine

bursts of applause.

                                    Mad-

                        men linking

                                                WRistS in

stubbornness               w/o

            enough                        potatoes to

                        invoke a stew.

 

To                     DANCE

            the                   dancing of

                        creased pants

legs                              &

                                                insect

            breath              which,

until just recently,

            had a twinge of the

tang so often un-

                        fathomable

            in                     eyes of

sculpted                                   despondency.

                                                            Like

                        ANOTHER     ringing of

a                                  bell

                                                            like

anthrax                        dream/

                                    seemingly

baroque in gesture

            tho                               broke

                        &

filled w/ the

            broken remnant

                        of

                        the

                        holy

                        ghost

                        trained

                                    to 

                                    inject

ink

                                    into

            PRISMS/

                        VEINS/

                                    STAINS

(listening to

 

                        radio

                        mummies

 

                                    mis-

                        trustful

 

                                    staining,

 

this to a 

            hand)(&

 

that again enough

to release bottoms

            & overtake

carnival merchants

            who

            swim through

sludge/crude & rude

despise all that

floats like

            helium heads,

 

                        staggering loss

of         

            joy—

                        here

                        they

                        call

                        for a

                        banishment

                        of all 

                        serious

                                    LITERATURE!

&

            to them,

                        they shout:

                                    DOWN W/

                                                REALISM!!

 

For the blind sake of

chaotic glee,

            turned over/

                        pumping/

            dripping like sugar

                                    cube

gross domestic product.

 

                        Deliver us from

                                    binge watching!

 

Devils to spurn,

seeds to fashion,

reject all authorities as

                        useless!

 

Technocrat disease,

bushes spilling

            from underpants.

 

                        Nothing to

            feel less secure about

than security.

 

                                    Needless,

            wantless,

                        sputtering 

            against

                        mobs,

lose control,

            lose

                        yourself,

lose!

            lose!

                        lose!

 

 

 

 


 

Forbidden Light Socket Drama Club Afterparty

 

I wandered through the leaping fish expo hall drunk on myopic logic while tying strings around my tender middle until there was no song left to spill from the vines strewn about willfully ignoring milk yarn & curdled infant tigers. A burial at dawn interrupted by the sounds of endless construction. I pressed a thorough example to my hairline so as to tattoo the endless Spam. There wasn’t even need for a methodology to the counting of bones of the hands as they ripped another scrambled egg out of the dance hall music lamentable & studious. Piecing together romantic stone age monuments. Tho a ring blew from the tips of my kneecap robots I couldn’t help but turn just in time to meet gazeless metamorphosis less varied than an icepick though the ear or a nostril stuffed into a jar of marmalade. Into flapping laundry on drooping clothesline. Damned to repeat algebraic symphonies for all holiday weekends. And not 9. Nor a smirk. W/o metaphor there still remain kites swinging sultry & mistaken in an engulfed kind of zoological principle tho not one that ever presents itself as a scale model. I lack mobile home. I spill missions. I clean cleaving close to hot air balloon disasters. A game of cards or two later.

 

 

 


 

 

Against Skunk Eyes

 

Lost again the maze of pear trees

crawling spine upward posing look

of the many varieties of shrieking

of the laurels given out in drives

to shake the seldom avenged night sweats

against skunk eyes

overwhelmed by loins

                                    clothed

                                                just

                        enough                        to

            offer

                                                                        preferences

tho never longer than

                                    a

                        YARD

            s

            t

            i

            c          

            k

 

                        Kicks that

                        come into

Play against

                        rock of

            ages                 splitting

headcase

                        also w/o                       a

            helmet

 

also grabbing my suspender toes

until seaweed mist evaporates

in ringing bells lie sirens blaring

or a dumpster sounding operatic

then crazy in the realm of flinching

                                                to burp!

                                    or                     not

                        to

                                                burp                 but

 

                                                            of course

                                    that                              is

                        not

                                    a

                                                question

                        

                                                the

                                    verses              squeezed

                        until                 all

                                                            the

                                    pus

                                                has

            been removed

                        &

                                    has

been removed

                        &

            then                 kept in

a                      box

                                                of

PROMISES

 

                                    made

                                                but

                        NOT

                                                Kept

Spent

                                                            BUT

                        NOT

                                    even

paid back.

 

 

 

 

 

Impulsive thumb sketch

 

Must i be

the duck

            that

lingers in

            the

toe

            truck

                        of a

simple

meandering

impulsive

            thumb

NAIL              sketch 

depicting                     JUPITER

with a

            HEAD

c

o

l

d

?

            i don’t know

&                     i

won’t ever be able

to admit.


 

 

charlatan

 

stampeD ouT the

beD buG charlatan

                        tho

Not

            hing     could

prepare you for the

                        VOICE

spilled from Jupiter

above a treeTRUNK

carload

            of invading

MICROchips.

 


Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the book Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in E-ratio, Nauseated Drive, Fixator Press, The Vital Sparks, and Breakwater Review among others. 

2 poems by Megan Hamilton

Poetry

Calamity

 

There’s catastrophe

all wrapped up inside me.

I’m not lightning striking once,

I’m an electrical storm

on your skin.

 


 

 


Resting place

 

You took me to the sea to hunt for oysters,

ripped something precious from their mouths.

You took me to the sea and I dived for pearls,

the waves less pressure than your tongue.

 

You took me to the sea to snatch my words in your fist

as yours flew like spittle, more than salt spray on my face.

You took me to the sea and I laid on her bed

as she distorted your orders, your commands.

 

You took me to the sea and drowned me,

choked me with your pearls of wisdom.


Megan Hamilton (she/her) is a School Librarian from Bognor Regis, currently studying for her MA in Creative Writing with The Open University. Her poems have been accepted by The Dawntreader, Sledgehammer, Visual Verse and Up! Magazine. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @meganann1310

Warriors by Anne Rouse

Poetry

Belfast

They drive hell-bent as smoked-out bees;

slouch, backs to the wall, in The Rock or Lena’s;

make their U-turns tight like V’s.

Rip stories out of pin drop silence.

If a man pixillates in light, these nights,

it’s a Catherine wheel; a PR blitz, a migraine. .

They snatch at chances–cocaine, robbery, vice–

like matrons overturning jumble.

They survive the peace.


Anne Rouse lives in East Sussex. Her collection, Ox Eye, will be out with Bloodaxe Books in the spring of 2022. She can be found on Twitter at @rouseanne.

MANSON’S WORLD by Manson

Poetry

I buy a Mega Millions ticket
From an angry liquor store clerk
Says he doesn’t play the game
The odds are against him, he says
On the tinfoil covering the security bars
Over my bedroom window, I see crawling
A little itty-bitty spider and I think
What are the odds?
I’d rather have the fucking money.


Manson loves and hates everyone equitably. She’ll read just about anything, but she
especially likes weird shit like Hunter S
. Thompson. She also likes crime fiction, the occult,
horror, transgressive, science fiction, and dark fantasy.

Sorrow by James Lilley and B F Jones

Poetry

My faith left when the streets emptied 
Roller-coasters running with no riders 
Town full of ghosts 
Something no longer there 
Not known by name 
Innumerable dread. 

My faith left  
When I stumbled upon discarded 
Party balloons and love corals 
Remnants of a life that no longer is 
Swept away by plastic waves 
Of toxic sludge.