Sunday, 17 June 2018

Scarred Face in a Mirror by John Grey

Fight Club 1 by Milos Milosevic


Ugly zigzag lines
slide down the glass like mercury,
a recurring wave
that stumbles the sound of confidence.

Flares fly off wherever skin is visible,
May as well point out horror with a cue stick.
And the mirror being cruelly convex,
a face bulges toward its source.

Promised some grafting,
you’re restless as the raindrops on the pane,
longing to be have it done
no matter the cost, the consequence.

Without new cheeks, new chin, new brow,
there is no tenderness, no amusement, just regret.
A mirror cannot keep a secret.
This is the face that belies description.

It looks much better in dreams.
This view, even in the waning light,
can’t protect you going forward.
It is a life with visible scars.

It has no dimension other than
what someone did to you
or what you did to yourself.
There is no honor

in any attempt to conceal it.
And indifference is a lie.
You are scarred for life.
You are scarred for living.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Saturday, 26 May 2018

A Sonnet to the Siren Annabelle-Leigh Eyeglasses, short silver hair, edgy by Lenore S. Beadsman

Image credit: NASA/JPL/Space Science Institute


Eligible for the waiting which it might take to result in the feverish zone
Which might have to saunter along the perpendicular and convinced
Of the range should it be silent along the musty grey and standard grip
Of her fingers which will stand to corrupt the lonely side of the mere clone
Which was how she would stand alongside the meekest memory was rinsed
Away with the model painted aside from the killing spray was a verge to sip

This is how she can be pathetic over the lambasted configuration is a gag
Permitted to stain all in its way of the marching predicament would she prepare
The modest pedigree is the future of what is with the hampered told never again
To sprain the exercise with the mostly faintly harbored serious is the lie drag
To fill the emptiness with another gutsy repeated is the sure side of the care
That is emphatic to lisp away at the meekest sounds are a nary the rude ascend

Thursday, 24 May 2018

Vient de paraître Necro manigances Dandois saisissantes

Illustration Pascal Dandois
Ça gratte, ça écorche, ça grignote aux écornures
Boniments, élégances, radiothérapie des ligaments.
Fleur de sel et autre pigmentation vénérienne
Ribambelle et flagellation des cordes vocables.
Particules, poussières, rhume des soins
Sauvetage assidu d’endorphines faméliques.
Médecine légale des sentiments à nu
Voyeurisme amateur déporté par transparence.

On palpe, on pince, on tâte les arrières faussetés
Véhémences, torsions, foulures des condiments.
Sauce naguère et assortiment des passés
Élongation des nuances de farces et matraques.
Atmosphère, oxydation, grippe inestimable
Émasculation des niveaux de gris tempête.
Doctrine sédimentaire des couches émotionnelles
Tabloïd grandeur mature dégorgé sans souffrance.

Le corps est un autre homme qui tente de survivre à l’extérieur.
L’homme est un autre décor qui se serpente de l’intérieur.

Necromongers, Les tentacules de l'esprit

Les auteurs:


Necromongers: Ma courte carrière, déjà enrobée de quelques mythiques navets (précédemment acceptés chez Revue Métèque, Corbeau, Absynthe, La Matière Noire, Gorezine), sent la patate chaude à des kilomètres à la ronde. Fort de quelques années d’écriture (une vingtaine dans l’ombre environ) et de quelques kilos en trop, je m’efforce d’améliorer les deux avec une hargne sans précédent.
Mon histoire commence là où mes contrées de volutes se sont égarées, en direction d’une brume épaisse. Je suis né un jour où la Simca 1000 trônait encore comme une représentation perfide de l’adultère mécanique. Un temps névralgiquement (si si) condensé comme une utopie galopante, d’une naïveté addictive. J’ai tué ce rêve jusqu’à l’insomnie, lui faisant l’ombre nécessaire à son oubli.

Pascal Dandois: Artiste béquillard et multidisciplinaire ayant publié des textes, nouvelles et poèmes, dans divers revues et fanzines (Violences, Le Bateau, 17secondes, Bloganozart, etc.), ayant participé à l’anthologie Dimension Violences chez Rivière Blanche, et La folie chez Jacques Flament, a illustré les nouvelles de Patrick Boutin dans les recueils La fin des haricots, A la folie, pas du tout et Corps et âme chez Z4 éditions, et La cité des brumes de Sylvain René de La Verdière chez le Garage L. 

Poésie et arts -- 26 pages
A commander auprès de l'éditeur urticalitblog@gmail.com
Prix 6€ port compris

You Wouldn't Have Known Me Then by John Grey



Far from the quotidian rhythm
of sleep and waking,
the reinvention of thought
into dream,
of perception
into detail and desire -

or maybe not so much far
as at its core,
like the stone dropped in the pool
that keeps the ripples coming -

the first truth,
the initial discipline
of embryogenesis -

ancestral legacy,
dark energy,
ordinary matter,
hastening in the womb.

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Saturday, 19 May 2018

gangsta rap made me write a poem by Sudeep Adhikari


it was the same old morning. my kid
making my world go round,
despite the historic rocket-launch
 by mr. mike hughes, somewhere in a
california’s desert-strip ,
to prove mother earth is a humble pancake.

sipping a cup of tea, i was
listening to ice cube and reading

steven pinker’s new book,
that looks like a fat juicy pulp-fiction
by its cover. dude started a chapter
with a quote by barack obama, which

was just about to throw me into an
inaudible swearing-fit; and my wife said,
at least listen to some god-hymns in the 
morning for god’s sake!

i said, i would dear, if gangsta rap made me do it.

*****

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal.  His recent publications were with Beatnik Cowboys, Chiron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, Occulum, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia Review, Utt Poetry and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis. Also a Pushcart Prize nominee for the year 2018, Sudeep is currently working on his 4th poetry-book Hyper-Real Reboots, which is scheduled for publication in September 2018 through Weasel Press, Texas, USA.

Thursday, 17 May 2018

Omaha by Matt Dennison

Basement Pantry by Susy Morris

When fathers stopped wearing fedoras at ballgames
unity and chaos wrestled in the mud.
                                      •
When fathers stopped telling the old jokes
quills grew on the tongues of their children.
                                      •
When fathers stopped strangling ice picks
cars sank in a traveling darkness.
                                      •
When fathers stopped building bad-weather traps
fish split themselves open for fun.
                                      •
When fathers stopped wiping the sky with red handkerchiefs
marbles settled the war.
                                      •
When fathers stopped chasing parachute-suicides
lawns carved the traveling salesmen.
                                      •
When fathers stopped leaning on enormous flap-wings
history snuck under the fence.
                                      •
When fathers stopped counting jars in the basement
hyenas licked cardboard hyenas.
                                      •
When fathers stopped carving urinals with ivy
cakes nibbled once-trusting palms.
                                      •
When fathers stopped stuffing clowns into suitcases
birds sang falderal! in the sun.
                                      •
When fathers stopped lassoing pig parts for war vets
cats drowned the horizon's bathtub.
                                      •
When fathers stopped stealing cartographer headlamps
newspapers taped their own wounds.
                                      •

When fathers stopped practicing hand-shadow puppetry
 brooms had a faint holiday.
                                      •
When fathers stopped riding banshees in goulash
clocks turned on ugly balloons.
                                      •
When fathers stopped hoarding soup soap and quarantine
ropes signed The Treaty of Knot.
                                      •   
When fathers stopped hollering ravens! 
When fathers stopped drumming cathedrals
When fathers stopped practicing bird dreams 
When fathers stopped shouldering trinkets 
When fathers stopped tripping on mufflers 
When fathers stopped breathing in cisterns
When fathers stopped spitting out wrenches
When fathers stopped pondering cheeses 
When fathers stopped bathing in coal bins 

cliffs healed themselves to the top
fence posts unzipped the sky
Aspnum gave birth to Charrsid
worms laughed themselves into consorts
garage doors snagged their own eyelids
shoe boxes climbed all the poles
hellgrammites danced in the cupboard
tug boats shrugged their conceits
cowslips died of anemia
                                      •
When fathers stopped measuring castrate battalions
trampolines called it a day.

previously published in A Cappella Zoo

*****

After a rather extended and varied second childhood in New Orleans, Matt Dennison’s
work has appeared in Rattle, Bayou Magazine, Redivider, Natural Bridge, The Spoon
River Poetry Review and Cider Press Review, among others. He has also made short
films with Michael Dickes, Swoon, and Marie Craven.

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

Panorama by Sanjeev Sethi



For the parched
semblance
of shower is enough.
Unruliness
of our union
is song
to saplessness.
Bias is built-in
the human chip.
This is an offshoot
of the temporal run.
It is not in the texture
of alluvial soil
to understand
ruth and rue
of the scorched.

first published in Futures Trading

*****

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world: The Broadkill Review, After the Pause, Chicago Record Magazine, Former People, Unlikely Stories Mark V, London Grip,  Postcolonial Text, Communion Arts Journal, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.