Vient de paraître Là-bas, après et même plus loin de Jan Bardeau

 

Disponible sur demande à l'adresse urticalitblog at gmail point com éditeur Walter Ruhlmann

12€ (frais de port compris) Paiement par Paypal, chèque ou virement bancaire.

92  pages - format A5 - ISBN: 9781446669273

Brune Jaada se réveilla dans une sorte de sarcophage molletonné, elle leva la tête, se redressa sur un  coude, contempla l’endroit : ruines d’une cité en ruine, ruines et ruines, inutile donc de les décrire, une  ruine reste une ruine. Brune se hissa hors  du vaisseau où elle avait reposé. Quelque chose en elle  clochait, sans qu’elle parvînt à établir quoi. Elle se sentait gourde, maladroite, comme  gênée par son  propre corps.



Laissez-vous emporter dans une odyssée surréaliste, parée de science-fiction. Suivez les aventures de  Brune Jaada, le caporal Halle, Oscar, Beau Janard... dans  les méandres post-apocalyptiques d'un territoire, que vous reconnaîtrez peut-être, administré par les SOFIA.

A son habitude, Jan Bardeau, de sa plume experte, fine, délicieusement ironique, nous entraîne dans les  dédales d'une histoire fascinante autant que terrifiante parfois.

Must/Never by Matt Dennison

Oh-oh, the electricity is bending my face again,
trying to gather at
one point, relieve its ache in one valley of
sparking sweat. I must
open my eyes very wide, force it back and
away. Or…  Yes! I will
open my mouth, stretch the muscles and
squeeze it, keep it running all
over and under my head, my skin. It must
forever run beneath
my fat, my insulation, must maintain its
distance, never make
contact but maintain equal separation at all
times, never know of
its neighbor, never start to feel warm under any
particular spot
along the way, never raise the temperature of
my forehead, never
gather in my eyes, never form my mouth—must
be satisfied with
DANCE—tippy-toe no-go nowhere into any of
the valleys or folds
of my face. Must remain submerged, mindless,
open. For if it does
not do these things flames will laugh at me.

***

Matt Dennison is the author of Kind Surgery, from Urtica Press (Fr.) and Waiting for Better, from Main Street Rag Press. His work has appeared in Verse Daily, Rattle, Bayou Magazine, Redivider and Cider Press Review, among others. He has also made short films with Michael Dickes, Swoon, Marie Craven and Jutta Pryor.

Struck from afar by Giulio Maffii

 

© Friedrich Haag / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 4.0

Struck from afar in the wind that measures the ego
A crooked stitch seals the ventriloquist's mouth
Then it opens you and the drawers a lightning dash
Diamond eyes the purple of celebrations
The cat marks the spot then the actions -what subtle nerve ignites the pupils?-
If I were lumber house or ruin you would have said nothing about gold between the teeth
The breath is overwhelming the greeting the assassin a letter of insignificance
the fly's point of view
Bread in the ribs the silver eye heals in emptiness
-Who have you wronged so much?-
In the reinforced concrete room of patience the miser dwarf doesn't whirr and the hedge doesn't bounce
You've protected yourselves well from the scarred skin from the scent of sanctity just steps from the sea
Don't lose the distances the taste of cold sizzles in the clear air a climbing kiss

***

He was born in Florence (Italy). His studies are dedicated to poetry (linear-experimental-visual) and its diffusion; recently  he was featured in New York's magazine "Arteidolia" and in “Expanded field journal”(Amsterdam) . He collaborates with “Bubamara Teatro” Theater Company.

Breakfast by DS Maolalai

Full English Breakfast by Garry Knight from Flickr

 

a man in the corner
of the first open cafe.
halfbald. overheavy and pale.
eating ham and fried
sausages, two fried
eggs, a fried hashbrown,
cold butter and slices of toast.

daylight comes rolling
down long dusty alleys
like a man in a truck
with deliveries. light looks
in windows; I stop
for a coffee. watch while
I pay, while I wait.

his egg bursts, he cuts
things to glistening triangles;
stacks things and forks
them with ceremony, care,
just as immigrant workers
place fruit on a grocery shelf
in the aisle of a supermarket.
on the chair which sits opposite

a hi-viz is hanging. it is yellow
as egg-yolk, yellower
than the sun.

***

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has nominated twelve times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)

Therapy Session by Ben Nardolilli

Killarney Unicorn monument, Co. Kerry, Ireland

 

Previous attempts at being good

were a good fit that failed

by being overly mythical, thanks

to obsessing over unicorns.

Bridging the difference in reality

was ruined by attempts

to get to the top of the reins

and display cunning with control

***

 

http://mirrorsponge.blogspot.com/

Convict Chains by Strider Marcus Jones

rich man and peasant understand
coins change hand,
despite the Magna Carta
we must all barter
to live-
only communists give
nothing
something
sometimes-
same crimes.
so, when reason rains,
i drag my convict chains
to the barrow bog
and cut peat
in feral fog
where motives meet.
six feet down,
sucked back five thousand years
the old town
settlement appears
in full formation
of chattel,
cattle
and battle
still at station
preserved
to serve.
around
the round
late night fires,
power plays and lust desires
hearth home homogenous
in Mars and Venus
making love in animal skins
wearing the same sins.
on the long walk home,
some alone
and those together,
believe never
can be changed
and are called strange.

***

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. View his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ 

Benny Sat Alone by John Tustin

 

benny sat alone
as wind shook the frame of night
and benny drank his beer
by the light of the hallway
 
benny sat alone
and the children were knifing one another
in the neck beyond his walls
and benny drank his beer
and closed his eyes
 
benny sat alone
as the earth was plundered
and benny drank his beer
listening to the music
he has liked since high school
 
benny sat alone
as men moved mountains
as men murdered millions
and benny drank his beer
thinking of fucking his sister in law
 
benny sat alone
and benny drank his beer
 
his fingers and toes
were warm and numb
and he put down his book
went to lie next to one
he didn’t love
 
to sleep like he always did

***

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection from Cajun Mutt Press is now available at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP . fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Non-Causal Chains by Heikki Huotari

Abstract butterfly by Astew2323

Conceivable scenarios are everywhere but not one is reducible to an absurdity. Mistakes are made, ho hum. An applicant elaborates on esoteric matrices. A cantilever wants a counterweight. The bandages of languages are lost. The better half of symmetry is in the eye that looks my way. I know which side my butterfly is on. The zooming in has but begun. Some afternoon I may attend a late late show and be told how and when to laugh and play. I'm thinking of a spectrum. On that spectrum is a distribution that I'm dreaming of, a distribution only Santa Claus has access to. There's one chance in a million therefore there's a chance. The rest is entropy. The keepers of continua treat equally the quality of mercy ha-ha and the quality of mercy strange. The Mona Lisa is a comment on the moustache. If you like your prestidigitators you can keep them, it's the law.

i.Gesundheit Sarnatzky chimes in chipping away at Murphy bed disjunctions by Gerard Sarnat

 

 A black and white photo of a classroom full of children, Southington, Connecticut. Class instruction

 -- dedicated to Ms. Murphy, circa 1958 Hawthorne eighth-grade English teacher

Nada golden rule
yawning thru
The Scarlet Letter
you grokked
Nathaniel had same

name as school
but when raised hand
to ask if is true
crabby Catholic spinster
gave Jew an F-
after turned in term paper
claimed humans
evolved from chimpanzees.
Those who made
their beds must lie in them…

Often chippy
artsy fartsy boychicks
oy go batshit
if my science-y buddies
can’t explain
the differences between
Hamlet/Othello
although dudes do not give
a crap regards
what D/RNA’s exactly made of!

We all harness
our demons and-or they’ll control us:
As now chip in
am I trying to aim toward conjunctions
which are both

dramatic enough plus use grammatically
proper nouns
without being way too hasty while Gerard
Sarnat generates
very unpalatable waste products for his pals?

Subsection of "Wastrel Presents [ii]"

 

***

Poet and aphorist Gerard Sarnat is widely published internationally in print and online. He is a Harvard College and Medical School-trained physician who’s built and staffed clinics for the  disenfranchised  as well as a Stanford professor and healthcare CEO. Currently he is devoting energy/ resources to deal with climate justice, and serves on Climate Action Now’s board. Gerry’s been married since 1969 with progeny consisting of four collections (Homeless Chronicles: From Abraham To Burning Man, Disputes, 17s, Melting the Ice King) plus three kids/ six grandsons — and is looking forward to potential future granddaughters.

Little Liza by Jack D. Harvey

Vietnamese Girl by Vyacheslav Argenberg

That's your name?

Butter could never melt

your Thai mouth,

making English words

in far-off Bangkok,

where playgirls

looking for cock to bang,

what else,

zip along

on motor scooters,

looking for you, brother,

taking you

right, right, left, left,

right to Hotel Ecstasy,

right into your arms,

palsied with desire.

Two by two

or in a bunch,

like Brantôme's band

of jolly jumpers,

the black-maned cowgirls

of Soi Cowboy

stand at the doors,

the windows,

cruise the streets

wide-eyed and ready for

bumpy combat, a little

of the old in and out;

for a long moment

more than a thumb plugged

in the eternal hole in the dike.

The value of satisfaction

in the vales and dales

of loamy female loins;

your wild oats measured out

in the coin of any realm.

Leetle kid,

you fockee me?

Shy girl-lashed

paratroopers hem

and haw.

Beautiful, transporting as bhang

in this carnivorous market,

the boyhood dreams come true

and the boys dream,

dropping their pants and

Little Liza or

whatever your proper name,

your dark Asian eyes,

your furry doolittle

not wet with

tears of love for

me or Joe Bunkbuddy

or any little thing.

First published in DuanePoetree

***

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in in many venues.

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. 

The State of the Street by John Grey

 

On the street where you live by Donn Gunn from Flickr

A guy’s slumped in the doorway
of an abandoned five and dime,
fast asleep, under a blanket
of flattened cardboard box.
And two men head for the bar,
stumbling bleary-eyed
like they just got up.
And an old woman fumbles in her purse,
grabs all the change,
counting it twice, three times,
in her hand.
She shakes her head like
it’s not enough.
The sad thing is
it’s almost enough.

 

***

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, "Between Two Fires", “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

Miss Gunney’s Only Soup by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Sweet red wine soup by Richard Barley from Wikicommons

 

Little bits of arsenic added all the time,
trace amounts in Miss Gunney’s only soup,
that always has you on the mend;
straight chicken stock far as all the  
conscientious objectors can tell,
spitting up blood like a personal volcano,
getting sicker all the time
and the doctors kept at a distance,
Miss Gunney washes the blankets,
so protective of her favourite patient. 

A single deep kiss on the forehead  
each night. Something motivational  
from 1st Corinthians. 

Delusional moonlit  
through a midnight window  
propped open with the oar of a  
forgotten canoe  

that has sent so many  
down river.

***

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His personal website is: https://ryanquinnflanagan.yolasite.com/ 

Rainy Blue by Yuu Ikeda

 

Blue Rain by Sharon Mollerus from WikiCommons

Ashes of the past I used to live
is falling,
instead of rain.

Serenity is the evidence that
the past is angry with me.

Wind stops blowing,
only silent fragments of passion that I used to have
are soaring,
as if rain pierces me.

 

***

Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet and writer. She writes poetry on her website. https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/ You can find her on Twitter and Instagram : @yuunnnn77

Workshop by Thomas Zimmerman

Sun rays shining through trees in forest during sundown
Photo by Johannes Plenio from Pexels

 

The setting sun bleeds gold between the pines
that darken in the breeze, and I am not
the person that I was when I began this thought.
Here, sitting with me, Sandy–not the same
but someone new. And Sally, Mona, William,
and Diane: Are you still you? Right: no.
And yes. All vying for a space in my
small closet of a brain. Though not born sad,
I do believe that all things end in sadness.
Am I wrong? I suck my gut in, lift
my chins, heave out my chest–but I am melting
like a movie witch, and everything’s
all smashed together, morphing as it mashes.
This rough draft of a life: a poet’s hash.

***

Thomas Zimmerman teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His latest book is Dead Man's Quintet (Cyberwit, 2023).  https://thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/

Neither Reciprocation Nor Restitution Wanes by Colin James

This way to the pixie dust. Peter Pan outside The World of Vintage T-Shirts, Melrose Avenue Los Angeles, California by Lorie Shaull from Flickr

There is an entity living behind my couch.
Occasionally it will grab a neck hair
freaking out the vascalting stoners.
I went to the local witchdoctor for advice
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
A premium of shrunken heads
quintessentially lined a back shelf.
I excused myself from any logical involvement,
purchased a bag of pixie dust instead.
Spreading this along the baseboard
of my homogenous domicile,
I suddenly became engulfed in paperwork
floating precipiteously ad nauseam.

Urtica

 

You can now send your work (poems, short prose, opinions) or your illustrations @ urticalitblog at gmail dot com

See the link to the guidelines page on the right-hand side for more information.

***

Vous pouvez désormais proposer vos textes (poèmes, prose courte, courts billets d'humeur) ou vos illustrations urticalitblog à gmail point dom

Voir le lien sur la colonne de droite pour obtenir plus d'informations sur quoi envoyer.

RIEN... en substance, rien, avis de lectrice

 

La piscine au contenu épais s'est transformée en fleuve profond, dont les remous font remonter le limon.
La vie de "il" compressée, là sous nos yeux telle un César, en une journée de 24 h. Ses vécus, déductions, constatations, jugements, convictions, tout ça se jette dans un pogo des mots géant, sans vraiment queue ni tête. Vue directe sur un esprit en escalier ; labyrinthe des méandres de son cerveau qui a analysé, testé, congédié tous les mythes de la vie, les mensonges pieux, "ciment" de la vie en troupeau.
Tous?
Il lui reste accroché aux basques le mythe le plus coriace de "les gens". Ça rend à "il" un côté humain. Assez pour se laisser prendre dans les filets du mètre étalon de l'arnaque du mythe suprême.
Ou pas...
C'est puissant, dérangeant (ce con de "il" a réussi à me faire pleurer tant sa description est juste; du déluge de questions avec ou sans réponses, rebondissements, exploration de chaque hypothèse, tourbillon neuronal; la fatigue que ça provoque et le pansement que représente le sommeil, définitif ou non. Ça m'a un peu fait replonger, haha.) On ne quitte pas ce livre quand on le ferme; en tout cas pas moi...

Ifpalide

Vient de paraître Rien... en substance, rien de Necro Mongers

 

RIEN… en substance, rien

Essai sur l’incondition substantielle du presque vide ou 24h d’un sourd de la vie.

de Necro Mongers

Illustré par Pascal Dandois - Couverture par La Fausse Patte

L’homme est une espèce en voie de disparition. Il se pourrait même que ses ossements se visitent un jour sur les réseaux ! Il n’y a plus une minute à perdre ! Saisissez vos tablettes et vos engins modernes pour relayer la SEULE information que le monde attendait : l’homme seul n’est plus seul !Il est d’autant plus possible, selon des sources sûres arrivées dans la nuit, qu’il essaye désormais d’utiliser la conscience pour avancer dans la vie. C’est un terrain peu fiable et voué à un chemin friable qui s’entrouvre à lui.Il lui reste aussi peu de mémoire qu’un éléphant peut avaler d’eau, mais il saura sûrement déjouer les plans diaboliques de la vie dans son souterrain du bocal infernal. Suivez le seul homme qui risque de comprendre qu’il vit au milieu d’autres durant 24 heures de sa courte existence sans l’avoir voulu ! Vivez avec un dévolu désincarné, l’aventure simiesque d’un enragé de la merde en bâton doublé d’un sourd de la vie. Un gars qui dit, qu’y est, mais qui veut pas !Soyez les premiers à séjourner officiellement dans l’antre de l’absence d’une vie repérée, au milieu de la raison de ne pas être, du meilleur animal de compagnie que l’homme ait enfanté… lui-même un jour de temps maussade.

80 pages A5

12€ (frais de port inclus)

ISBN: 978-1-4467-6158-8

Pour commander, envoyer un mail à Urtica (urticalitblog à gmail point com).