Zeros by Gary Glauber

Cold beyond feeling,
a dampening of sensate ways
toward surprisingly soothing
glacial numb comfort
that adds up on this icy plane
where crampons tread carefully,
creakily advancing where
heartbeats ride addled blows
of slow arctic perambulation,
hard breath writing cloud messages,
your gloved hand in mine
tethered for safety together,
insulated beyond simple touch,
climbing to heights unknown.

Gary Glauber
Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His two collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) and Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press) are available through Amazon, as is a chapbook, Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press). This past summer he read selections from his most recent collection at the 2017 NYC Poetry Festival.
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The Suicidal Asteroid by Richard Livermore

Beyond the cobalt
in the sky

there is the goblin
asking why

just because
a passing rock

had thrown itself
upon a reef

the dinosaurs
had come to grief.

richard-livermore
• Biography: Richard Livermore was born in Sussex in 1944. He went to various boarding-schools and left at 15. He joined the Army, but was discharged 6 months later. He went from job to job and in 1974 to Newbattle Abbey College in Scotland. He has lived in Scotland ever since, except for 5 years in Spain. He has had numerous poems published in magazine and webzines in Britain and the USA, plus books by Lothlorien, Diehard and Chanticleer Press. He is presently retired.

I Don’t Even Give ‘Em Chance To Kiss Their St. Christopher’s Goodbye… BOOM! by Paul Tristram

There just ain’t no fucking about when I’m on the hunt.
As soon as that ‘Blood Money’ is safely in me bin,
they’re as good as fucking brown bread.
Knives, shooters, axes… I’m a walking/stalking nightmare.
No questions, no conversation, no pleading…
makes me sick anyway, pathetic, whimpering cunts!
Have ‘That’ & shut the fuck up & hurry up and die
so I can get back to me roast beef & horseradish sandwich.
Leave no witnesses behind, ever…
if they’ve got relations visiting, fucked mate…
Nosey neighbours stupid enough to come out for a butchers
then a-fucking-butchering they’re getting.
Even the pets are having it… dogs, cats, rabbits, gold-fucking-fish…
I even throttled a bashful pair ‘o lovebirds once.
Whatcha mean, cruel? I’m a fucking ‘Killer’, you muppet!
Anyways, I ain’t taking any chances, know what I mean,
you’ve seen ‘em futuristic films, scientology an all that crap,
soon enough they’ll be able to nick ya
from the last image that those animals eyes saw, fuck that, mate!
I shave & wax beforehand, absolutely everything,
I find it quite calming & pleasurable… even the eyelashes.
Then I take off me kit completely before leaving said crime scene,
after throwing petrol everywhere and torching the gaff,
I stroll out bollock-naked like The Terminator to me getaway car.
There’s no trace of me any-fucking-where, truth be told, like…
Eh? oh well, they caught me coz I can’t keep me fucking trap shut
about how brilliant I am afterwards… it’s a-kinda pride.
But, then what’s the point of being so fucking good & clever
if your not then able to brag ‘bout it… am I right or am I right!

note: no animals were harmed during the making of this poem.

skull-bones-red-black
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/

The Passenger by Alan Catlin

They looked like a couple who’d spent
a weekend that was supposed to be
like “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”  but ended up
as “Last Tango in Paris.” Driving down
narrow roads like wide lane thoroughfares
in top down rental paid for with stolen ID
credit cards with no place in mind as good
as a destination with a double bed in it.
His arms dealer eyes are affixed on nothing,
hers on what can only be seen in rear view
mirrors.  Nothing is certain where they are
headed, where they have been like Alphaville
in white, gun slits and turrets in the walls
instead of windows.  Instead of a bouquet
of red roses, he supplies sticks of butter,
destination maps with no co-ordinates,
and a false keys to mislead even the most
intrepid seekers after truth.  The moving
pictures of their lives diverge even where
they intersect. The one who dies is a figment
of someone’s fever dream, the other is a
passenger in a car.

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

Physiognomy by John Grochalski

in the face
of the loud, fat child
in the got freedom? t-shirt
the old man trying to spray me
with his garden hose
the lady trimming flowers
and pulling weeds
with her wide ass farting saturday morning
in the teenagers on the train
playing rap full blast
and the prick blowing smoke in my face
the cop on the corner
watching me cross against the light
on dogs and cats
bending in tall weeds to shit
in the glare of old women
past their prime
and men still trying to relieve their youths
the slothful in restaurants
drinking gravy boats of fat
as the big game plays on infinitely
the bored and stuck on the bus to work
waiting on death or retirement to come first
in patients watching bad television
in waiting rooms of the damned
the men killing the sun in dark bars
on the liquor store kid
as he takes another one
of my hard-earned twenties
in the look of contempt
on the deli man’s face
another lost afternoon in america
as we standoff over lunch
right before he asks me what i want
and still
all i can see around me
all i’ve ever seen around me
are miles and miles
of dead meat.

John Grochalski 3
John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Under The Stars, Despair by Steven Storrie

I ride through the night with
Nothing on my back seat but
A copy of James Truslow Adams’
‘Epic of America’ and
A loaded 44. Calibre pistol
The one was for attack
The other, defence
But I was ready to use either
At a moment’s notice
If needed.

Steven Storrie 2
Steven Storrie is the author of two poetry collections, Working With The Negatives and Taking Back The Underground, as well as a collection of short stories entitled 4PM In Los Angeles, available through DevilHouse Press.