Sunday, 9 December 2018

23 to be an other another by Edward Wells II


outside night languid wanting









languid
wanting
her
fingers





wanting
her
fingers
tickled





fingers
tickled
to
tremors





to tremors red rims









red
rims
remembered
lids





rims
remembered
lids
canyons





remembered
lids
canyons
eyes





inside 23 is us









is
us
learned
lineage





us
learned
lineage
felt





lineage
felt
connection
the





felt connection the hope









the
hope
of
language





hope
of
language
passing





of
language
passing
in





of language passing in and passing





language
passing
in
and
passing
among



passing
in
and
passing
among
and
passing


in
and
passing
among
and
passing
and
passing

and passing among and passing and passing and out
to
be
metabolized
by





metabolized
by
an
other





by
another
outside
night





Sunday, 14 October 2018

Where Alexander Drowned by John Grey



Waves spiral into shore
spurred on by waves behind.
They roll over my toes.
The correct retort eludes me.

For I wish to respond
to the headlong desperation.
But sorrow has no orator,
just foam and sinking bodies.

All before me is transient,
cannot be restrained,
is rolled under by the sea
to cry out then to vanish.

So I paddle among waters
where the dead return
in the guise of an echo
of salt and shell and driftwood.

But the sun’s too warm,
the breeze too salty.
And people only have memories.
Oceans, though, have their reasons.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly. 

Tuesday, 9 October 2018

Il se peut que ce soit l'inverse par Florence Andoka

Photographie de Jeanne Menjoulet


Il a démissionné_ C’est un russe et un américain qui ont créé Google
Il a commencé à pleurer_ La guerre froide s’est soldée par un moteur de recherche

A ne plus pouvoir sortir dans la rue _ Où l’on apprend que le thé vert à haute dose est mortel
A voir le vide comme un ennemi intime_ Où l’on peut choisir d’en commander pour Noël

Il a décidé de changer de ville_ La politesse étant le garant essentiel de la paix sociale
Il a décidé de s’enfoncer plus loin_ Il faut de ce fait saluer ses voisins comme il se doit

Là où personne ne le verrait_ Seuls, deux pigeons se sont rencontrés   
Là où personne ne le saurait_ Sur les toits comme un contrat sexuel à ciel ouvert

Mais il se peut que ce soit l’inverse en termes chronologiques

Saturday, 25 August 2018

ain't no leader like the one you can hang by John Sweet

from A Bastard Child in the Kingdom of Nil, Analog Press Submission, 2018
Art cover by Gregarious Bitch
born in the
kingdom of nil, in
the season of dying

born during the war
your children will inherit and
will you teach them
god is a lie?

that every tyrant's days
are numbered?

the only road that leads
to the future
will be paved
with their corpses

*****

John Sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His work has been appearing globally in both electronic and prehistoric mediums for the last 30 years. His latest collections include BASTARD FAITH (Scars Publications) and the limited edition HEATHEN TONGUE (Kendra Steiner Editions). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing. 

Monday, 20 August 2018

Fandango by Walter Ruhlmann is Out Today


FANDANGO by Walter Ruhlmann is out today through Urtica Press. With a foreword by Steve Klepetar

Order your copy
$10/£10/€8 (shipping included).

ISBN: 978-0-244-10516-7 - 54 pages

contact urticalitblog at gmail dot com

"Love is illusion, and even lust is stripped of its romantic, erotic charm. Inside, hidden from the lover, lives the wolf, an embodiment of appetite as dangerous as it is energetic and wild. These poems lay themselves bare, rejecting the false comforts of easy and joyous connection." Steve Klepetar



Excerpt:

Sapiens Sucks

To disconnect oneself,
to unwire from all the mass movements,
hysterical people made more hysterical
by the atrocities, the blood-filled images
spilling over from the boxes, the overloaded screens.

To enter blunt dumbness,
no matter what happens.
To unplug from the sound, the noise rather;
razor-like screams of children being torn apart,
women raped and men beheaded
by pigs whose silvery, sharp teeth penetrate
the human mind, the fandango.

To switch off the wide eye,
any blinking eyes blinded by purple lids,
liquid hums, snow flakes melting
on the carpet stained with tea,
semen maybe, an orgasmic mayhem.

To cherish these moments:
sofa crouching,
bed burrowing,
cat purring on the laps,
laptop off, folded back to its lair.

To forget existence, others' work or worries,
only mooning over the Earth,
the large crust ball formed then deformed,
through the geological epochs.

To feel the blows of a comet,
another gamma ray outburst,
the billion miles, the trillion stars
out of reach, under this bruised skin,
concealed deep in these tar-coated lungs.


First published in Nude Bruce Review #5, August 2015

Tuesday, 14 August 2018

Fandango Release Date 20 August

Fandango by Walter Ruhlmann is out in 6 days through Urtica Press. With a foreword by Steve Klepetar
$10 (shipping included). £10/€8
ISBN: 978-0-244-10516-7 - 54 pages
contact urticalitblog at gmail dot com

"Love is illusion, and even lust is stripped of its romantic, erotic charm. Inside, hidden from the lover, lives the wolf, an embodiment of appetite as dangerous as it is energetic and wild. These poems lay themselves bare, rejecting the false comforts of easy and joyous connection." Steve Klepetar

Excerpt:

Poem

You say you want me inside you
but you don’t know what’s inside me.
The roguery, the erratic wolf craving for
more
meat.

What’s happening inside ourselves
always erupts and bursts outside,
in the shades of some unfathomable shelters
where we cherish the sheer moments of calm.

Now you're there, looking for me,
absolutely nothing could reassure you;
humming like I used to in the time
when we blossomed.

The mountains encircle neuralgia,
clear water is springing from their flanks
like dark blood is spurting from a corpse.

Nostalgia are at peace with themselves
but they will never leave us unharmed.
Let's collapse in the deep corridors of mercy
and burrow through a chemical shroud,
or a shredded duvet.


http://urticalitblog.blogspot.fr/
urticalitblog@gmail.com

Sunday, 5 August 2018

Not So Much Staycation by Alyssa Trivett

I was a dried out prune
in the sun
enjoying my alcohol soaked time
with Summer brightness
and car tires whirring by.
I sniff newspaper delivery
java scents
and chainsaw rev up
my coffeemaker in the kitchen.
Begin.

*****

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. Her work has recently appeared at In Between Hangovers, Apricity Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review. She can be reached at facebook.com/alyssalovestowrite