Bandages By Alex Z. Salinas

Alex z Salinas, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

alex salinas

Bandages

By Alex Z. Salinas

 

Food for thought: if you disappear Harry Houdini, you earn Loki’s adoration for eternity. If you reinvent the wheel of passion, you twist romance poems into horror memoirs. If you cast the laws of brotherhood into fires of deconstruction, you marinate your conscience in ponds of resurrection. If you read every book in the world but don’t publish one, you are the Eyes of Big Brother, a creaking shelf in the Library of Babel. If you’re a poet without a pen or phone, scratch your verse into your palms. Larry Rios has four boxes of bandages stored in his medicine cabinet.

Bio:
Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, WARBLES (2019) and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox (2020), both published by Hekate Publishing. His poems, short fiction and op-eds have appeared in various print and electronic publications. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University

A Community by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
PhotoFunia-1590565538A Community

I really enjoy feeling like
I’m part of a community,
I know all the workers in the local shops,
and of course, they all know me.

It’s such a big, yet such a little thing,
it doesn’t cost you a penny.
When you’re depressed and lonely
it’s advantages are many.

Just someone to say  ” Hello”
and  “How are you doing, Ian ?”
Let’s you know you’re not alone
and you ARE a human being.

Of course, it’s really obvious,
people need to be connected
But modern life makes you nervous,
and you lose all your perspective.

Back when I was younger,
with an underdeveloped brain
I automatically thought others wouldn’t understand my existential pain.

I thank God that I’ve grown up,
and somehow matured.
I deserved to be hung up,
and covered in manure.

Thinking I was somehow better
than my fellow man.
Thank God I learned that lesson,
that I finally understand.

That we each have our own different gifts,

all individual, yet all alike.
Unique snowflakes, blown into a snowdrift.
Trying to cope with this thing called “life .”

Tango By Alex Z. Salinas

Alex z Salinas, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

alex salinas

Tango

By Alex Z. Salinas

 

Larry Rios once tangoed with Fate and Fortune, stunning creatures from opposite ends of the ether. But since tango’s designed for two dancers—it takes two to tango—the logic of Larry’s quasi-mythical poem was busted. However, Larry, a poet of quick solutions, titled his poem, “Tango For Three.” Boom. Conundrum solved. The thing about Chicano poetry is it giggles in the face of guidelines. Mocks the house of order and harmony. Chicano poetry’s queendom: acknowledgement then disregard; straight lines then buried stanzas; catacombs and sword-swallowing frogs. Larry considered getting a replacement pet toad. Decided his Betta fish was plenty sufficient.

Bio:
Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, WARBLES (2019) and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox (2020), both published by Hekate Publishing. His poems, short fiction and op-eds have appeared in various print and electronic publications. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.

Adventuress by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

IMG_0728

Adventuress 

 

You will awake in your very own bed

a fuzzy blue caterpillar still in

your head. Aloft upon a speckled red

mushroom above, he asks you two questions:

who are you? What do you love? You mutter

but buttercups bloom from your lips. The words

you would utter all gibberish.  Putter

with buttons until you are bare, bluebirds

beside you, mums in your hair like they were

in the meadow where you wandered one day—

ever inside though you can’t stay. Adventures

remembered with fingertips, you trace

their touches—  monarchs, mad men, memoirists

who educated an adventuress.

Six Poems by Mark McConville

Brit Grit, Mark McConville, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590832754Strange Times Indeed.

Battlegrounds everywhere

In a city smothered by hypocrisy and a death toll

The thin try to eat and the overweight become thin

Strange times indeed.

 

The slender arms of a child

Become weightless as she sleeps on her mother’s belly

This is unity in the most heartbreaking fashion

This is a mother crying as her baby begins to flinch

Nightmares burst into the mind.

 

Shredding the world into pieces

Might be the best way to eradicate the desolation

Burning it into scraps of charcoal as the animals scream

No one deserves this depravity, these aren’t degenerate people,

Shadows or rigid silhouettes, they’re breathing the same smoke as you,

Their hearts beat for a comforting smile and graceful hand from someone,

Not carrying burdens.

 

One dies, two cough and sputter,

Fear attacks the senses

Heaps of energy sapped from breaking bodies

The city’s teeth discolored by nicotine and its abdomen

Hungry for economy and a rebuild.

 

Disease roams like cattle,

Flowers decide to die, their vibrancy,

A figment of the imagination,

Color trapped in grey, houses crumbling,

Woodworm eating through the work of a carpenter,

Who gave his all too building beauty when beauty gleamed in

The eyes of strong people.

 

A Bell Rings In My Head.

A bell rings in my head

A realization that dreams are for the hungry

The driven, the artists, the readers,

And the weaver of words.

 

Emotions are high

I wish my name was in the sky

A banner of authority and truth

People would see it and cheer

For my disenchanted self.

 

The pavements laced in chewing gum

Offer me a route to the dark underworld

Where emotions are high

And people die of unnatural causes

They’re bound to each-other

Like they’re strapped to a leash

Dogs of winter, dogs of war.

 

The snowflakes are colossal reminders,

Of an incoming force

Winter beckons and these unruly children,

Become like wolves, scavengers.

 

Covered in a blanket of snow

A bell rings in my head

A realization that dreams are for the noble.

Die Loudly.

Broken glass reflects bloodied faces

Prayers are needed here

Hope trips the lights and is now engulfed in darkness

Dreamers disregard their chances of swapping this life for days in paradise.

 

Angels talk up this place, this land which has conformity,

They have sprinkled white magic all over books of truth

Books that explain to us why violence is fundamental

To staying alive in a world inconclusive.

 

There are people lost in disposition

Their love songs only play out in shoddy bars

Those angels come and go

Switching on the lights may let them in

At a blink of an eye, they’ll truthfully tell you if,

This is the end.

 

She’s next to you, flapping her hands,

You’re in her line of sight

Dropping glasses of dispirit all over the wooden floor

Speaking to the walls, wishing they’d tell that you’re allowed to,

Die loudly.

 

Mystified by your response to these paper-thin walls

She drags you aside, peppering you with optimistic monologues,

Of why you should live peacefully, aborting all poisons and,

All these memories which you conceal under the dome in your head.

 

The theater of wingless drunks

Is on its last order

You quickly consume with all your repose,

The last drink of the night.

 

Tear Drops On Cheeks As Pale As A Winter’s Day.

She’s stretching out for her mother

But her mother is caught up, tangled in a drunken daze,

Profoundly stuck in a loop of mundanity.

 

Oh God, she wishes, to stick to her mother again,

Wrapped up in the umbilical cord

A warming embrace when she’s born again

But we can’t be born again, we can’t relive the tender moments,

We grow up and try to make sense of the world.

 

She feels suffocated when her mother seems free

Singing karaoke in a local bar

Drinking spirits when her daughter is out of spirit

Drinking hops and barley, when a starving girl is,

Wasting away, barely hanging onto the teddy bear her late father,

Gave her.

‘Honey this is yours, hug it when you feel uninspired and when your mother is

Disconnected from you and the world’

 

The home is colder than a day in the snow

The electric blanket doesn’t heat the bones

The young girl splashes water on the face of her hungover mother

There’s no response, no anger or repent.

 

Flicking the switches in the kitchen

There’s no electricity surging through

Just a feeling of tension at the pit of a hungry stomach

A swollen cloud of black rain hovering over her

She wishes to tower over all of this

Create sparks and wishes, but magic isn’t,

Real?

 

The tap leaks dirty water,

The milk is sour in the fridge

The emptiness is gathering space

And hopelessness seems to darken the room

She’s powerless and her mother is shadow of her former self.

 

A ticking watch is all she has

Temptation to walk away is a potent feeling

In a young mind, pushed to grow up,

But she loves the woman sleeping away the haze.

 

Hazy Nights.

Screaming for solace

Inside a cage we call home

The lucky and free

Walk the streets with their heads held high

And their wallets bursting from the seams.

 

The room is a reminder of hazy nights

Grasping onto the t shirt of a lover

Who quickly departed with the aromas of sex?

Swirling around the stench of the ashtray.

 

The thick smoke of cigarettes

Shrouds beautiful faces

They’re there writing down tales

Of yesterday

While out of mind.

 

It’s exhausting

Looking at drunken eyes

Which flicker a hundred times

There’s no answers from the mouth of this,

Rebel who wishes for a better life.

 

And we sit amongst the disenchanted

In a small compartment in an apartment block

Someone is singing hopeful lyrics

From a song as sickening as a restless heartbeat.

 

This night is longer than most

The clock has stopped

People urge me to sleep

I can’t,

I can’t count sheep.

 

The Flicker Of Lighters.

Freedom seems miles off

As the rumbling of thunder in my mind

Becomes frequent.

 

I walk the streets

Trying to curve the strain of mixed emotions

Homeless women come to me

Asking for miracles when I need a miracle

They’re hungry, and desperate,

I have nothing to offer but memories

Of a bashful crash into a state of disrepair.

 

They leave me to walk

They rummage for thoughts

Taking drags of cigarette ends

And the dregs of a bottom of a bottle

Drunk unsophisticatedly.

 

Why should they stray into darkened voids?

And alleyways, undesirable territories,

Where masked strangers steal innocence,

And everything they’ve ever fought for.

 

I observe mass gatherings of people in despair

Drawn to the flicker of lighters

They’re certain to meet the end

No bright lights to guide them homeward.

Wanderland by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

IMG_0728

Wanderland

 

Sanguine she stands before the silver coifed queen.

Shrugs off some unbuttoned lace.  Shakes hair

agleam, ribboned, examined, chin raised to glean

sheen of an offering fingers prepare —

sudor to slickness where she’s prohibited

hair.  Pink kitty cat coy peeks at subjects there,

oversized wing chairs, uninhibited

stares.  What says this stray, wandered their way, Voltaire

in French in college, now learns to obey?

Pink lips already spread won’t promise, pray.

In chasms of earth, she shall beg to stay.

This hole a kingdom where fealty’s paid

before mad, suited suitors, tea, clotted cream,

to sounds of surrender, sometimes a scream.

Three Overly Sentimental Love Poems for The Recently Departed by Stephen J Golds

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Stephen J. Golds

Three Overly Sentimental Love Poems for The Recently Departed 

 

Questions Over an Empty Grave

 

The woman who called me on my cellphone

to wish me a happy day before

I pushed myself into the rush hour subway

wasn’t the one

I hoped it would be.

You, I mean. You.

 

The woman who knocked on my door at 1am

with a wicked smile &

a gift of something she thought

I wanted, needed, no,

she wasn’t you either.

 

And that’s the way I’ve been thinking…

I’d like to think

you’re painfully thinking

of me

this painful way I’m thinking

of you.

 

But, I know. I know

you’ve already washed me away with

last night’s date &

this morning’s shampoo.

 

What is this bloody mess

I’m grasping with in my stained hands,

this septic wound coined Love when

I’m the only one left

holding the damned, poisoned thing?

 

You said you’d go with me

into that dark place, but

the dark always scared you and

I let go of your hand

somewhere months back.

I didn’t even realize you were gone.

Were you even really here to begin with?

 

You said I need to change but tell me

where is the success, the victory

in changes made and problems fixed,

when they’re improvements made alone &

birthed from a death like this?

 

What are the true weight of

a lover’s kisses

in the humidity of the

rain drenched night

when they aren’t yours

on my sensitive flesh?

 

What is the meaning of sex if

I’m no longer moving inside you?

It’s something boiled down to

a self congratulatory act

of malice that leaves me

spinning records with ghosts

isn’t it?

 

And finally,

finally, what good is being happy

if it’s being happy

without you now that

you’re another dull ache that

I carry around in my guts?

 

All The Unanswered Things

 

Love is subway stations

out of the town you grew up in

and love is the dials on the washing machine in the laundromat

when you’ve used the last of your change on the coke machine.

 

Love is the rabid spotted dog

that refuses to sit

and love is the black alley cat

after you’ve trodden in its shit.

 

Love is the silver pocket watch

from the flea market in London that stopped at 12:06

and love is the paper airplane

in the classroom waste paper basket.

 

Love is the moisture on your face

when you’re without tissues

and love is trying to smile at yourself in the

mirror on a Monday morning before work.

 

Love is the movie bank heist gone wrong

with a crew full of psychopaths and bad acting

and love is the overweight librarian

without her reading glasses.

 

Love is going to sleep

not dreading tomorrow

and love is something that

I am thinking about now

that it’s apparently too late.

 

 

For C.

 

It’s hard for me to sleep knowing

you’re in someone else’s bed tonight,

 

being all too painfully aware we share

the same night, the same darkness

 

but that’s

all now.

 

Beget By Alex Z. Salinas

Alex z Salinas, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

alex salinas

Beget

By Alex Z. Salinas

This is an almost true story. This is an almost untrue story. Money makes miracles. Miracles make money, ocean, the stars. Larvae and straight white teeth. Larry Rios takes off work, works from home. One foot in front of the other. One word after another, description of a face—The Snake-Haired Lady’s: forehead long as the desert. Skin pale like wolf-trodden snow. Tongue black as rot in the forest. He sometimes thinks he’ll escape the nightmare. Sometimes thinks he’ll avoid hell’s lash. I forgot to mention something earlier, dear reader: miracles beget miracles, but they don’t resolve the consequence of time.

Bio:
Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, WARBLES (2019) and DREAMT, or The Lingering Phantoms of Equinox (2020), both published by Hekate Publishing. His poems, short fiction and op-eds have appeared in various print and electronic publications. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.

 

My Lady Rests by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine
PhotoFunia-1591000525My lady rests beside me,
breathing in a two tome,
forlorn argument before
we wore our masters,
gently engaging in a foreplay;
so say….
the poets, those who write it,
who do it, justice, do it
just, do the, do the love
dance, and I’d rather
no other partner, Carol,
fair Carol, lie with me, take
me there, here as I fear it
calmed by a night’s cruel
shiver, shimmering I hand back
to you the blanket top..
unclothed and derobed, I pose
myself by side, as I hide wet
from the breasts that touch me
touch me, could they touch me, vouch
on a pillow, lade bare, I kiss goodnight
to the lady bare, bear breasted and sleeping.

Folk Music by Ian Lewis Copestick

Ian Copestick, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

PhotoFunia-1590565538Folk Music

I’ve been listening to a lot of old folk music
recently. The well known ones like the
Carter family, and Jimmie Rodgers.
Also the more obscure, Dock Boggs, Eck
Robertson, or the Carolina Tar Heels.
This music was made less than a
hundred years ago, but it seems so
strange. It feels more like it was made
in another universe than in the early
20th century. The songs are about
life, not too different from how we know
it now. Love, loss, death all still going on
today, but there’s an other worldly
vibe about them. The rural lives these
people lived are now forever gone. All that remains are these ghostly
songs, originally released on 78s,
now being heard in an online world.
I wonder if they ever thought that
someone would be listening to them
sing a hundred years, and thousands
of miles away, thinking it’s some of
the best music he’s ever heard.