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



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


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


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


Smell of rain
And I am there

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

Parapet bare
Carve it all
To us alone

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

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


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 or on Twitter @ThraxMaximilian.

Little birds by Claire Marsden


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, 


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

that someone could mean something by Holly Conant


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


Drifting into the Tape Machine & Rewound 


Has at half-mast/


            turned inward


not unlike the odor

unique to split pea



                        a violent drip,


            underneath sewing


bursts of applause.


                        men linking

                                                WRistS in

stubbornness               w/o

            enough                        potatoes to

                        invoke a stew.


To                     DANCE

            the                   dancing of

                        creased pants

legs                              &


            breath              which,

until just recently,

            had a twinge of the

tang so often un-


            in                     eyes of

sculpted                                   despondency.


                        ANOTHER     ringing of

a                                  bell


anthrax                        dream/


baroque in gesture

            tho                               broke


filled w/ the

            broken remnant













(listening to










this to a 



that again enough

to release bottoms

            & overtake

carnival merchants


            swim through

sludge/crude & rude

despise all that

floats like

            helium heads,


                        staggering loss






                        for a


                        of all 




            to them,

                        they shout:

                                    DOWN W/



For the blind sake of

chaotic glee,

            turned over/


            dripping like sugar


gross domestic product.


                        Deliver us from

                                    binge watching!


Devils to spurn,

seeds to fashion,

reject all authorities as



Technocrat disease,

bushes spilling

            from underpants.


                        Nothing to

            feel less secure about

than security.







lose control,











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



                        enough                        to



tho never longer than









                        Kicks that

                        come into

Play against

                        rock of

            ages                 splitting


                        also w/o                       a



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


                                                burp                 but


                                                            of course

                                    that                              is






                                    verses              squeezed

                        until                 all




            been removed



been removed


            then                 kept in

a                      box












paid back.






Impulsive thumb sketch


Must i be

the duck


lingers in




                        of a





NAIL              sketch 

depicting                     JUPITER

with a







            i don’t know

&                     i

won’t ever be able

to admit.





stampeD ouT the

beD buG charlatan



            hing     could

prepare you for the


spilled from Jupiter

above a treeTRUNK


            of invading



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




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



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.



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


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.