Tag: Poetry

“HOME AT LAST” by John Grey

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to a dark pleasure hole,
a kind of low mass,
labor-saving devices,
dismal yellow wallpaper –
no wonder a man drinks
from boiling hell,
a kitchen table will have to do,
a series of apposite deluding
sermons on the pleasures
of the self-
beliefs balance so precariously
and here’s me praising them,
refusing to leave the building,
as solitude stares out at the universe
and then some –
where the stars cheer
at whatever Duchamp is painting these days,
as booze reclaims its place in religion,
colorless morphine for the masses
turning the world away from me –
what is it like out there anyhow?
baritone voice through megaphone,
boutique balustrades, psychotic rainbows,
bums pissing in the gutter –
can’t clean myself up for
if I shave I leave blood in traces,
can’t ask the light::
causality has never been so clean-shaven –
heady days of the early nineties,
don’t wait for formal burial,
enlist in a war with even electric shavers
and foam licking bloody chins –
a laugh riot for all who believe
in the rotting worth of bodies.

 

—

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Muse, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming
in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes
Review.

2 Poems by Rickey Rivers Jr.

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Hotel Room Floor

Crying
on the hotel room floor,
not knowing where I’m going.
Where is my life at this moment?
Do I even deserve it?
My tears soak the carpet.
I belong on the floor.
It is the only thing that would have me,
welcome me
with open arms.
I lay here.
The rough bristles caress my face
as I ponder my future.
Do I even deserve it?
Nothing I have now means anything.
I am at peace.
Let me sink
and merge
into the carpentry.
This is indeed a place for me.

 

♦◊♦

 

Sorry for Breaking It

 

I switch; a dumb move precedes catastrophe.

Amazon in a printed dress, her neck fragile,

shatter ceramic, apologies are like glue,

fixing mistakes. I feel terrible, still.

Accidents forgiven, not forgotten,

mistakes make or break creatives.

Things were fine seconds ago.

Let this not become a “remember when you-” moment.

I apologize. Please, let the glue do its job.

 

—

 

“Never Wednesdays” by Donald Ryan

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It was 1994 and he was working
at this restaurant outside Shreveport,
Pearl Jam on the box
and a broken wrist.
It was his day off, a day of rest.
Yet he was standing in the kitchen.
Glove stretched over his fat palm.
He should have said no, I’ve got plans,
and the joints he smoked agreed.
It was the extra pain pill popped said yes.
So he dropped baskets and burnt toast
when walked in

Streamers.

Bright painted fucking joy, fucking hi-yuck
rictus kiddies, here’s a balloon twisted gimmick
as if the free kid for every adult meal didn’t bring
the families in in hordes (it didn’t).
There was Streamers.
In all her fearfulness cheerfulness.
In all her fuckery. 

Just get a drink and don’t look up
Just get a drink and don’t look up
Just get a drink and don’t look fuck.
“How are we today?”  We?
Words of terror from a Chelsea grimace
between cheeks painted rum red.
Just forget the drink and don’t piss self.
“Do we know how Kathy’s doing?”
Kathy had cancer.
Streamers came claiming Kathy.
“Kathy.  Fucking fan-tastic.”

The line dead, wag dragon fired,
the fool kept focus on death’s swinging doors.
Fear held no bound as long as he
was on the safest side.
He went home early, on account of
his hand and all—right—
fucked stasis fakes
bravery in composure.

She chose to paint her face;
The sweet southern belle.
“A dissident is here,” he said.

Never Wednesdays.

 

—

Donald Ryan’s words have appeared, or are forthcoming in, Cleaver, Fiction Southeast, Hobart, Soft Cartel, Owl Canyon Press’s hackathon anthology, Short Edition’s international story dispensers, and elsewhere. He’s a full-time part-time librarian in the GA Pines. donaldryanswords.com and/or @dryanswords because, you know…

“i’ll ask the shower walls one more time” by Jared Povanda

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do you know what the tooth fairy does with all those teeth?
do you know how heavy her sack must be after a single night?
incisors
molars
bicuspids, i think,
but i don’t really know
because the dentist never sits and
explains which teeth are which teeth instead
she just points
to the generalized moderate bleeding of
my gums with a sharp tip
and tsks jared i know you know
but do you know what the tooth fairy does with all those teeth?
i imagine she builds bridges and paves roads with
fairy tale taxpayer dollars going to the coins left under pillows
and all those workers in their pink vests
patch potholes with polly’s baby
teeth clicking and pissy because the easter bunny’s egg shells
collected last april just wouldn’t cut it

—

Jared Povanda is a writer who just started dabbling in poetry recently. His prose has been published in Back Patio Press, and also in Cheap Pop, Riggwelter Press, Maudlin House, and Lammergeier, among others. Follow him @JaredPovanda 

“cello needles” by Aqeel Parvez

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senseless and real

illogical death of hours.

a beheaded dumbbell death,

a cat creeping sideways

a cat leaping over fences.

cello needles nearing,

ravished concertos of pain

thrown to barbaric knife,

drowning with the angels

drowning with the hours,

drowning in yourself.

we tremble and shake

when the lights come on,

staggering out into a world

that starves a man of strength

like a raw pig with no meat

on its bones.

 

—

Aqeel Parvez is a poet who lives in Leeds, UK. He is the author of the chapbook The Streetlights Are Beckoning Nirvana (Analog Submission Press). His work has been published in 16 Pages Press, Sludge Lit, Horror Sleaze Trash, Back Patio Press, Saturday Night Bombers. Find him on instagram @ap.writer, & twitter @aqeelparvez

“CATFIGHT” by Valium Hippy

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i’m taking selfies with valium under my tongue
we’ll be fucking at your house at night

all the boys that i kiss look the same
i’m longing for a life with meaning, but leaving my future for a graceless party

i want cash money, and also golden jewlery
mama is on tranquilizers so i put on my best saturday shoes real tight
and get to your house to eat your butt

wish i could stay the night
sleep over with my head on your chest
my dick is on fire, so i’d like to touch you if you let me

next morning you’re acting like i didn’t eat you good
i was high, i’m clueless, i’m dumb, babe
but what a beautiful song i sing
when i know i’m young and terribly obsessed with you

i hate crocodile tears, but i get obsessed with yours
but i can also go “whatever” in a minute like i’m warhol

for minor inconveniences i’m willing to end me
your words cut like razors on my thighs
i hate going nuts, but you’re asking for it

i’m drawing your face in a canvas
and sending you the moon emoji
don’t laugh at me, i drank a little bit
and i think i fucking love you
despite the shade, despite disgrace

to be fair, deep inside i’m aware
the only reason you’re rejecting me is because
your lips are ugly and your ass is small
mine’s not, so it’s fine

 

—

Valium Hippy (birth name Rogério Berardo Filho) is a writer and poet born and living in Recife, in northeastern Brazil. He is currently 20 years old, LGBT, a dog dad, loves tranquilizer medication and writes to cope with mental health complications.

3 Poems by Deirdre Cardona

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How’s Therapy?

 

It’s like I’m two different people.

I make Jekyll and Hyde
look like children.

I drink until I drown.
I smoke until I burn.

I can’t come—
to bed I’ll get cemented in.

I’m a monster because I have said so,
a rusty truck stop where lovers go to die

or shoot up in the bathroom.

Or did you mean to ask
“What’s wrong with you?”

Ask the stars.
Ask what they’ve heard.

 

One Day:

 

Lover, I will leave you in the same sluggish way
a fly leaves a swollen, oozing, stinking carcass.

In the same way golden clouds gradually pull
from a snow-capped mountain.

In the same way a half-assed breath hacks phlegm
from the lungs of a smoker,
like a machete against envy-green jungle leaves.

I will leave you
just as you’ve left God,

as you’ve left the dust to collect
on your writers’ desk.

I will not be the one
to hold your drunken frame,

your tar filled heart, your

promises like empty water
bottles at the bottom of the ocean,

 

your impossible smile,
your impossible smile,
your impossible smile.

 

 

Ghosts:
after Anne Sexton

 

Some ghosts are my fathers
neither selfish nor selfless
their guitars wahwahwahing
through the neighborhood.
Not artists, but ghosts
who frowned and shook their heads
at the Billboard top 100.

Not all ghosts are fathers.
I observe them at the music store,
thumbing through records with a high brow,
like they could ever come close.
Not pretentious, but ghostly.
This one’s playing Stairway.
But that isn’t all.

Some of my ghosts are lovers.
Not all there. Not too stable.
Like a swimmer in a glimmering lake
moments before jaws grip onto my ankle
and drag me down, down, down.

 

—

Deirdre Cardona is a turtleneck aficionado who often fantasizes about owning a really big chair so she can greet guests with a slow spin while petting a lop-eared bunny. She’s worked as a poetry editor for Cypress Dome Literary Magazine and her work has appeared in Roseblood Magazine. Send her love letters at twitter.com/queengizard. 

 

2 Poems by Susie Fought

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Liquid Gold

 

If I had to describe her skin it would be deep gold liquid
spilling fire
spilling danger like a super nova
an explosion of arrows aimed to maim
but when she slept next to me I could almost cry with the weight of her anchoring my life into a snug corner
as long as she slept in my bed she was mine
my own wild horse
tethered
if only in sleep if only in my imagination
because all these years later it is so obvious
I would never be hers
not like I wanted
the truth is she slept in my bed simply because it was there
halfway through her day and her night
she stumbled in and flopped here beside me
not mine
not belonging to anyone
liquid gold
warming my bed for a while

 

 

♦◊♦

 

“When You Left”

 

When you left you took the floor with you

The cross beams. The concrete. And even the dirt underneath
I was floating on fear
I nearly drowned in anxiety

My father brought houseplants
When the dark got too thick to breathe

When you left you took my frame of reference
My mirror
My who I am
My why I am here

I painted myself onto you and then you left

—

Susie Fought’s words have been published in various small collections put together by friends including three volumes of BREW, available on Lulu Press. Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, she now lives with too many dogs in Berkeley, California.

website: http://www.susiefought.com

2 Poems by Frank Karioris

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Sometimes, life is really good

 

Sometimes, life is really good.
A warm and sunny late spring early evening.

The roof is the perfect place to have a beer. Overlooking
the neighborhood, all its peoples,
                                                     buildings, places.

The massive tree at the edge of the parking lot looks fuller
from up here, two red birds flirt
                                                     among its branches.

The church bell’s ring, across the railroad, rings a little clearer
from this height. Street noise a faint but intermittent hum.

The fire truck’s siren echoes on all sides; two of them.
converging towards an unknown point;

yet the echo still trembles through the air, song birds
sing for each other, awaiting their meeting.

 

 

♦◊♦

 

Awning

 

Tiny tears in the awning look like stars
raining down.

Shedding cloth and cloak for heaven’s
lights.

Even the rain falls through it like angelic
drops of joy

that is the way that the tears in the awning
remind me

of the tears in my self that need to be mended,
rain washes it all away.

 

—

Frank G. Karioris (he/they/him/them) is a writer and educator based in Pittsburgh whose writing addresses issues of friendship, masculinity, sexuality, and gender. Their work has appeared in wide ranging publications, including the Hong Kong Review of Books, Burning House Press, Truth-Out, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Maudlin House, and the Berlin Review of Books.

“$200 Super Sandwich” by Christine Alexander

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“I’m a newlywed and an insurance secretary and I live

in San Fernando Valley.”

If I were a different girl, with a different face, in a different time

that might’ve been me

Nestled happily into obscurity, my fifteen minutes in matching sweatshirts

on Supermarket Sweep.

I am yanking hairs from my face in the Star Market parking lot

I am meeting a man who’ll give me some money

I am untethered by motherhood,

plumes of venomous smoke swirling around the front seat

But you want a woman you can take care of things.

I can pose prettily, I can arch my back willingly

I say to you “fill me,” and I mean it.

She is inside filling up the cart

She is making you a $200 Super Sandwich

But I know you’ll still be hungry.

 

—

Christine Alexander is a writer from Gloucester, MA. Her work has appeared in Barren Magazine, The Penmen Review, and High Shelf Press. 
twitter: @d0llypop