What was it? Coonskin, wolf
or buffalo (with brain-pan
and horns), or a dewlap
flop of rabbit-skin, the ears
tied in a stone age bow
beneath a simian jaw?
Those bone-hard winters
had the hunters tugging tight
their skins and furs and
with the world beyond so cold
and wild, fire was conjured deep
inside the groins and gullies of
the family cave. Now we wear
cartwheels, space helmets,
baseball caps at daffy angles,
cheesecutters, county trim.
But when there’s a caustic wind
that carries flinty rain, we skim
the jaunty headgear back onto
its hook and reach down the
primal fur, the treated skins
and tug them round our faces,
peering into the peppery storm
like frightened prey.
Dick Jones has been published in a number of magazines, print and online, including Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, Poetry Ireland Review, Qarrtsiluni, Westwords, Mipoesias, Three Candles, Other Poetry, Rattlesnake and Ouroboros Review. In 2010 Dick received a Pushcart nomination for his poem Sea Of Stars and his first collection, Ancient Lights, is published by Phoenicia Publishing (www.phoeniciapublishing.com/ancient-lights.html) His translation of Blaise Cendrars’ influential epic poem ‘La Prose du Transsiberien…’ was published an illustrated collaborative edition with artist Natalie D’Arbeloff by Old Stile Press (www.oldstilepress.com/osp_book/trans-siberian-prosody-and-little-jeanne-from-france/) in 2014.
who will summon the beast Americana
a homeless woman with a loud voice
the hot dog man with a gun
a man knocking on the window
bad buskers
an untuned guitar
huge clouds
trembling with red
who will break the city open
and scream its name
which light is it
and which voice
who wrote the introduction
to the subway station
“you are now entering the subway station”
“this is your last life”
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles. In this picture he is holding his tiny chapbook MARY, from Rinky Dink Press.
Do i have your back?
There are no better ways,
To retain water, on the back of crabs:
So, i am making signature, of your word.
Stay on, I know you did say,
There is no giving up just yet.
I know I am somehow – a catastrophe.
Knowing how to fry an arse,
Put’s one over the burners.
At least, that’s one crazy way
To be mauled, after a graceless fall.
So, it’s been time, for a pound of flesh.
Eddie Awusi is a Nigerian writer of Isoko extraction. He graduated from the prestigious Delta state university, Abraka in 2007, where, he got a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Literature. He has been published in Dissident Voice, The Australian Times, Tuck Magazine and other numerous magazines and anthologies. The pen and paper; are his playmates.
lit, this cerebral water runs as fast as a one-night stand,
as quick as champignons popping out of my other brain,
the country of scientific soup I always want served
warm in my study while reading my 4-year old, newly
discovered piscine knowledge of statuesque catatonia,
such perfect softness I cannot hide from the world.
Secrets? They’re meant to catch the same rain flooding
the head, but not the heart overflowing with lyrical measure
poised between the pulsing night and fishing—
which is a heavenly option for both relationships
and creativity starting to set fire at four in the morning.
By creativity I mean I have never gone fishing
on that left brain pond by the hairy woods; I go hunting
perhaps chasing a numero uno animal counted out
and beaten down by the human mind’s logic,
a calculation of some sort, as if a wrestler smartly tapping
out to save ideas swimming through my right brain lake.
Lawdenmarc Decamora is a graduate student of literary and cultural studies at the Ateneo de Manila University (ADMU). He holds an MFA in creative writing and has been a fellow of prestigious regional and national creative writing and criticism workshops in the Philippines. His poems and short stories were published in Mad Swirl, TAYO Literary Magazine of California (Issue 5), WE ARE A WEBSITE Literary & Art Journal of Singapore, Cruising Magazine of Manila Bulletin, To Voice My Own, Paper Monster Press, and BUKAMBIBIG Issue One: “Crowds”, among others. His long poem “Dude” is forthcoming in the winter 2017 issue of TAYO. He also has presented papers in international and national conferences. He is currently a faculty member and a research fellow of the oldest existing university in Asia, the University of Santo Tomas (UST).
Thomas Fucaloro is an NYC poet. He has 2 books out by three rooms press, his latest one, “It Starts from the Belly and Blooms” has received rave reviews. He has graduated with an MFA at the New School for Creative Writing. He has been on 5 national slam teams. He is a co-founding editor of Great Weather for Media and NYSAI press. He is a writing coordinator at the Harlem Children’s Zone. He just recently won a performance grant from the Staten Island Council of the Arts and the NYC Dept. of Cultural Affairs.
She took hours
to gather herself
for the wedding;
infused a bottle
of L’Oreal Paris to rinse
away the gray
before styling
and curling her now
jet black hair;
pencilled in some eye liner,
applied carefully measured
brushstrokes of concealer & blush,
before completing the ritual
with watermelon pink lipstick
sealed in wet-n-wild lip gloss.
And even though
she is fully aware
of my preference
for au naturel.
she asked how she looked.
“Beautiful baby
just like always.
You look beautiful.”
Ben Rasnic is originally from Jonesville, Va (population <1000). His published poetry collections include: “Artifacts and Legends”, “Puppet”, “The Eleventh Month” and “Synchronicity”.
waterfall mist sprays
solar rainbow mirrors
pure uber love
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.
The women worked
silently in the dark
the soldiers were coming
leaving the snake
a reed boat on the river
stones were hiding the sun,
snakes grew closer,
the soldiers searched
the whole area,
a huge cloud of dust
no lights in the desert
crying is silent
the sacred mountain
wind grew stronger
snake was already in the wood
the stone statue
at the bottom of the ocean
a sign in the desert
The wind is stronger
Eternal death
In sacred mountain.
Milenko Županović was born in 1978 in Kotor (Montenegro). By profession he is a graduate marine engineer, but in his free time, he writes poetry and short stories. His stories and poems have been published by many magazines, blogs and websites, mostly in the Europe, U.S. and in Latin America. In 2010 he wrote and published his first book, a collection of stories, and he also written and published few collections of poems (ebooks). In 2015 he wrote and published his second book , a collection of stories and poetry. In 2016 he wrote his third book , a collection of poetry (published in USA, project ”Poems for all”) His book ”Martiri”was published in italian language. Milenko is an ethnic Croat and lives in the town of Kotor (Montenegro) with his wife and 3 sons.
Didn’t you find it remotely weird?
Slightly odd even, that there’s a wooden chair
all out of place and by its lonesome,
sitting with its back to the wall?
Whatcha mean, you just thought
that someone had momentarily left it there?
Gone off for a cup of Rosie Lee
and a fag-break, I suppose,
after carrying the one chair
halfway across a yard… who does that, eh?
Stop saying ‘Well, There Was No One About’
in that whiny fucking voice of yours.
Of course, there was no cunt about…
in between the sneaky little fucker
who placed it there
and the three ‘Lags’ who then bolted
full-pelt at it and used it as a springboard.
The dogs had better catch ‘em, son,
or the Guvnor’s gonna want your balls on a platter.
Use your brain, you fucking numpty,
I’ve seen them scrambling up
cracked and crumbling brickwork
like tattooed fucking monkey-rats.
Nothing rests against that wall… ever!
Not a broom handle or rubbish bin…
if there’s so much as an upturned bucket
unaccounted for in this bastard yard
I want to hear about it, Ok, sun-fucking-shine!
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/
He auditioned all the boys
and girls, personal, in his office,
one on one.
Spread the rumor that if his casting
couch had kept a diary it would
have made Casanova blush.
Would have revealed detailed
information The Hite Report,
Kinsey and Masters and Johnson
had missed.
Claimed all the behind the scenes
work had made him old before
his time, and that might have been true,
in a way, if all the communicable
diseases he had caught and the immunity
to the miracle drugs that were required
to cure them, counted as adding rings
to the tree.
Said he had an eye for talent and
a gift for nurturing it, with a straight
face , when everyone knew it was more
of a, “you do something for me and I’ll
do something for you,” kind of arrangement.
Liked to proclaim that his work was
essentially thankless, foreswearing
personal gain and glory, while compiling
the kind of portfolio that made Wall
Street players envious.
“It was all about the Art, the theater
and the people that made it happen,”
was his standard interview line which
meant, “As long as it benefits me in
the long run.”
Might even have convinced himself that
all the lies he told were the truth,
which it may have been, in a way,
the way good propaganda has an element
of reality, the way self congratulation may
be seen as modesty, to the recipient, but
seen as a mockery of the truth by everyone else.
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
In Between Hangovers 