The Dark Conscience by Martina Reisz Newberry

The dark conscience shimmies its way back to
your house with a vengeance. You’ll spend some quality
time, get re-aquainted. It brings news of
your children, the things they do not/will not/cannot
share. You learn of their hearts lacerated
again and again by the blades of whatever
you neglected. You learn of their fears which
are hot wires from fallen telephone poles, hiding
in wet grass – oh, your children with bare feet.
Rubber-soled shoes are the answer and where were you
to hand them out? No matter that you tried
to combine the skills of a cobbler and a chef,
the failure is all that counts.

Martina Reisz Newberry
​Newberry’s books are NEVER COMPLETELY AWAKE (Deerbrook Editions), TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME (due out in late 2017 from Unsolicited Press), WHERE IT GOES (Deerbrook Editions), LEARNING BY ROTE (Deerbrook Editions), RUNNING LIKE A WOMAN WITH HER HAIR ON FIRE (Red Hen Press), LIMA BEANS AND CITY CHICKEN: MEMORIES OF THE OPEN HEARTH (E.P. Dutton &Co) Her work has been anthologized and widely published in the U.S. and abroad. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian Newberry, a Media Creative.

A Ferocious Kiss Of Night-Vision by Mike Zone

She came at me with her mouth
and nothing bloomed nor glistened
but the trees in sun, dull in despair
at the indifference of it all
she injected searing lava into my veins
the arch of the back
the crash of the ivory tower
would’ve sailed ships
through the stormy sea of her name
marooned on remnant’s way
what an awful night
an awe inspiring evening
where two souls become one
through hips and hot springs
coursing through the ferocious wasteland
in reality
isn’t that the passion play?
sensuality, misery, ecstasy and mystery
the almond tree blooms
only to wither away
not by natural rot
implanted by the botany of desire
but a quick nick to the roots
poison tipped- ashes of tomorrow
cooling those river springs
the course still flows
putrid acrid scent
the worst part is…
who wouldn’t want to sail through that name again?
clinging to denial and pale hope
collecting fallen lashes
each one a crucifixion from uncanny amber eyes

Michael Zone is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His work has been featured in Because Eileen, Dead Snakes, Horror Trash Sleaze, In Between Hangovers, Sick Lit Magazine, Three Line Poetry, Triadae Magazine and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI

Donna by Hanoch Guy

It’s  a  good  day
End of February, almost  winter end
sixty degrees.
My ashes in a green box.
The pastor’s Isaac sermon
is not wooden.
Almond blossom  woke him up

through the open window.

My daughters and  granddaughter  in white,
their friends in jeans.
Success with the caterer.
The  catered food is much better the

when my husband Peter  died.
I did order cheap.

My family strolls
Along my boulevard ‘s awakening trees.
They sold my scooter
And the climbing gear
But I’m already peak’s air

Hanoch Guy spent his childhood and youth in Israel surrounded by citrus orchards ,water melon fields and invading sand dunes. He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English,.
Hanoch is emeritus professor of Jewish and Hebrew literature  in Temple University
He has taught mentoring and poetry classes in the Musehouse center in Philly.
Hanoch has published poetry extensively the US,Israel and the UK in Genre,Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies Poetry Motel,Visions International,Voices Israel and several times in Poetica where he won an award
He has also won an award in the Mad Poets Society.

Baby Talk by G. Louis Heath

My parents had a party.
Got all gowed up. Got

het up and hauled little
incorporeal me out of a

nice fluffy cloud (where
I was a happy non-entity).

They stuck me with a cry-
ing, helpless baby body,

full of needs, wet and dry.
I cry a lot and soil my

diapers most copiously.
Passive aggressive they

call it. But I make a point:
You got stuck, too, folks.

Make the best of it.

G. Louis Heath
G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University. Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. His books include Leaves Of Maple, Long Dark River Casino, and Redbird Prof: Poems Of A Normal U, 1969-1981. He has published poems in a wide array of journals, including Eunoia, Episteme, Black Poppy Review, Lunaris Review, Indiana Voice Review, Whispers, Dead Snakes, Raw Dog Press, Weird Reader, Literary Yard, and Houseboat Literary Magazine.



The Great ‘Poetry Groupie Rebellion’ of 2014 by Paul Tristram

Seamless… yet, chaotic & psychotic
in their Cinzano and Martini bottle un-sobriety.
Amazon-thighed, with belt-sized skirts…
they noisily prepare to storm the battlements
of ‘Modern Day Literature’
via wailing promiscuity, drunkenness
and the trembling High Street.
‘Tis ‘Hunting Season’ most ridiculous,
Durex bullets, lipstick kissed & tossed as missiles
up & over into the un-delicate, sweating throng.
There’s a ‘Riot’ in the toilet stalls,
a ‘Witch-Hunt’ in the public bar
& a ‘Tournament Of Tears’ backstage…
crouched low & cowering
behind the Blake & Auden collections.
Boots the Chemist is out of Kleenex & Clap Lotion
for 3 Boroughs in each & every direction.
It’s simply not safe to be a Poet nowadays,
when broken fingers under ‘Clear Heels’
are your reward for composing free verse
for the Vultures, Hypocrites & Losers
then daring to publically preform your Filthy Art.

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) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

“One of my greatest weaknesses is getting lost” by Alan Catlin

After a long silence she said,
“You’re lost all right.  So lost even
Stanley couldn’t find you.”
“Stanley the plumber or Stanley the janitor?”
“The explorer, asshole.  You knew what I meant.”

I didn’t reply
There was nothing to say
Besides all we shared these days was silence

After awhile she said,
“You’d like everyone to think you suffer.
That you’re a lost soul.  But you know
what you are?”
She paused for effect, not really
expecting an answer,
“You’re nothing but a fuckup.”
“What would you know about souls?
Lost or otherwise. You have no soul.”
“It’s all a pose.  Your Romantic Poet
pose.  You could get lost in a  closet.”
“Like Patty Hearst.”
“That’s sick.  Really sick.  You’re totally
twisted, seriously demented.  Bent.”

I finished my beer
Went to the fridge
Took out a cold one
Thought, “What the hell?”
Took out two cold ones
Might as well save a few steps
It was going to be a long night
and  I was lost
so lost no one
would ever find me

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

Gone by Jon Bennett

The man with a dozen shamrocks
tattooed on his face
had photos of children
pasted to index cards
He’d flip through them
trying to remember
or perhaps trying
not to forget.

Jon Bennett
Jon Bennett writes and plays music in San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood. You can find more of his work on iTunes, Spotify and Pandora.