Plastic Chandeliers by Len Kuntz

That was the way I knew
How to fall, tuck and roll
When the fire reached
The ceiling
Melted the plastic chandelier
And every bold hope
Along with my
Brothers’ army portraits
Melted their stripes and tin
Until their smiles bubbled ichor
That was when I knew
Nothing was normal
That families who eat
Their own young
Are animals of
An entirely different kind
Tarnished beyond
belief

len-kuntz
Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com
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Outersphere by Gregg Dotoli

Something I missed?
I’m not a hunter
or bird watcher
deep focus on the locus
and long for the internal song

gregg-dotoli
Gregg Dotoli lives in New York City area and has studied English at Seton Hall University. He works as a white hat hacker, but his first love is the arts. His poems have been published in, Quail Bell Magazine, The Four Quarters Magazine, Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes, Halcyon Magazine, Allegro Magazine, the Mad Swirl, Voices Project, Writing Raw and Down in the Dirt.

 

Everyday Escapes At Fourteen by Rodney Wood

At fourteen I wanted to be
loaded, baked, rat-faced, oiled, locked, scattered, pasted, belted, spangled, bladdered, vapour locked, butt-wasted, bunnied, antifreezed, barrel housed, beyond salvage, making scallops, bit by a fox, wing heavy, tied on the bear, zonked, wrenched, wallied, wee-weed, waterlogged, varnished, blitzed, trashed, canned, chemically inconvenienced, pixalated, stoned, juiced, woggled, twisted, a toss pot, half seas over, a slot dog, unable to find a hole in a ladder, pie eyed.

At fourteen I wanted to be drunk like my heroes
W.C. Fields, Pablo Picasso, Winston Churchill, Alexander the Great, Frank Sinatra, Attila the Stockbroker, Jack Kerouac, Sid Vicious, Richard Burton, Frank Zappa, Sam Peckinpah, Richard Harris, Oliver Reed, Errol Flynn, Ernest Hemingway, Bill Hicks, Dean Martin, Douglas Adams, Keith Moon, Charles Hawtry, Mark Antony, Les Dawson, Vincent Van Gough, Raymond Chandler, James Joyce, Charles Bukowski, Dylan Thomas, Hunter S Thompson, Eric Clapton, Edgar Allen Poe and John Belushi.

At fourteen I tasted the stuff from the local off-licence.
Not Knob Creek, Fighting Cock, Redbreast, The Famous Grouse or Red Label but anything blended, branded “Highland”, or spelt correctly (not wiskyie for example).
It tasted like a mixture of brake fluid, Iron Bru, windscreen washer, bum juice and three week old piss. Plus I didn’t have the money, dedication or stamina to drink a couple of bottles everyday, and at fourteen every moment is shite. Something’s ended, I don’t understand what’s happening to me and the future has yet to begin.

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Rodney Wood is retired and lives in Farnborough. Currently jointly runs an open mic in Send His work has recently appeared in magazines such as Tears in the Fence, Envoi and Magma.His first pamphlet, Dante Called You Beatrice, was published by The Red Ceiling Press in September this year.

She Took On ‘The Tunnel Of Love’ by Paul Tristram

I fell for you, when I witnessed
you throwing that petrol bomb
deep into the snarling mouth
of ‘The Tunnel Of Love’
You slipped awkwardly
upon one of the several shit-parcels
littering the ground
after being lobbed from cell windows
somewhere up near the top.
You arose, gloriously,
tamping in righteous indignation
and shaking fury.
You’d pissed your ripped jeans
with the force of the fall,
and through gritted teeth you spat
“Fuck You And All You Stand For…
You Cunting Death Trap!”
Sticking two rigid fingers up
behind yourself,
as you half-circled
and staggered away, limping.
I followed,
keeping close to the shadows,
and at a safe distance…
like a stray, lost dog…
alone in my bleak sentiments no more.

anarchy-8
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Going Nowhere on a Monday Night by Alan Catlin

She wandered in from nowhere
with a request for rot gut
and a routine that eventually
requires cabbies to go some
places drivers never go.
I watched her lapse into sleep
around three in the morning,
dreaming the life of a homeless
person on addictive drugs, hoping,
somehow for the best, the best
being a cab driver who can deal
with the unknown, going nowhere
on a Monday Night.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

Culver’s Late Sunday Afternoon by James Babbs

it seems like I always have trouble
trying to get the lid for my drink
out of the goddamn dispenser
I don’t know what it is
but the lid always seems to get stuck and
I have to struggle with it and
then
when I finally do manage to get it out
more times than not
I end up with two lids stuck together
but I love their hamburgers and
the cheese curds are wonderful
I love eating them
with ranch dressing and
it seems like
every time I come here
I manage to write a decent poem

James Babbs-Author Photo
James Babbs is a writer, a dreamer, a three-time loser and an all-around nice guy who just wants to be left alone. James is the author of Disturbing The Light(2013) & The Weight of Invisible Things(2013) and has hundreds of poems and a few short stories scattered all over the internet.

 

 

Burning Justin Bieber by Russell Jones

We stack the fire pit high as your ego,
trek out for kindling, to find firelighters,
blowtorches and diesel. We say We’ll sing
your songs, or at least whistle
 
at your funeral. Bieliebers may, in ignorance,
interfere. Their placards will be glittering fuel
as you are consumed by their smoke.
We’ll record this for our children, hold back
any who hope to add themselves to your flame.

As your marrow and brain cooks
we’ll wipe your tunes from the charts
of history, your sizzle from our minds,
collect your congealed blood on our tissues

to sell online. We’ll write lyrics and headlines
with your charcoaled vocal chords. Justin –
we’ll whisper, pretending to look away –
The fire will burn, it will hurt. But it may help
us all to hit the high notes in the end.

Russell Jones
Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer and editor. He has published four collections of poetry, and has edited two writing anthologies. He is deputy editor of “Shoreline of Infinity”, a science fiction magazine. Russell also writes stories for Disney and YA novels. He has a PhD in Creative Writing.