New Faces by Marc Carver

I had an idea
for making love to the same woman
less boring
I would put a screen over their face
and you could pick anybody you wanted
I wouldn’t pick a supermodel though
I would go for the lowest dirtiest slut
I could think off
loads of makeup
the lower the better
I have never found a woman
low enough yet
but there is still time

Marc Carver
I have had ten collections of poetry published and over two thousand poems posted on the web but the main thing that gives me pleasure is that i am able to write in a way in which i want to and now and again i get an email from someone i don’t know saying they like my work.



Disgruntled Coffee Clerk by Alyssa Trivett

They chip change
on sugar coated counters
with coffee creamer
and milk stained blood spots
like a basketball off a cracked garage backboard
and sniffs in java scents
as the shaky hands
take orders and direct traffic
of plastic mugs waiting for
their new owner to
take ’em home,
or anywhere else,
for that matter.

Alyssa Trivett
Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, Peeking Cat, on, Walking Is Still Honest Press online, and Duane’s PoeTree site. She has fifteen poems in a poetry anthology entitled Ambrosia, released by OWS Ink, LLC. All proceeds from the anthology are being donated to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention ( Digital link: Amazon Kindle link:

Inner Demon by Daginne Aignend

A guileful little serpent
wants to infect my thoughts,
sneak into my brain, indoctrinating
Demanding to metamorphose
into its puppet.
The serpent tries to dictate
my actions, laughs at my protests.
Little by little, it tries to asphyxiate me
by its venomous manipulative fumes.
Is this an alleged inner demon?
I won’t allow this viper
to take control over my life
I will give the darling a treat
of one of my special cocktails:
stubborn perseverance , common sense
and of course, a shot of bourbon

Daginne Aignend 2
Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, fantasy books, is a vegetarian who loves her animals. She’s the Poetry Editor of Whispers and has been published in many poetry journals, magazines and anthologies, in the ‘Tears’ Anthology of the NY Literary Magazine to name one. She has a fun project website


A Single Touch & You Would Know Me With Your Skin by Lana Bella

A single touch, and you would know
me with your skin. Moving half
a step back, awareness slid across
you like a river, a floating crown of
black rope to wound. Starlings tune
turned inside my head, so sweetly
inching downward around the throat’s
undersides, kicked up bourbon
from my tumbler quarter full, cruel
to my tongue that had tasted you
a thousand perfect times. Skin alive,
my love you invented smitten,
where I spiced with the telling blood
of you, fixed to be the fjords of
viola on your fingers, wrung and
felled to where we started through air.

Lana Bella Black & White
A four-time Pushcart Prize, five-time Best of the Net, & Bettering American Poetry nominee, Lana Bella is an author of three chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear Suki: Letters (Platypus 2412 Mini Chapbook Series, 2016), has had poetry and fiction featured with over 430 journals, Acentos Review, Comstock Review, EVENT, Ilanot Review, Notre Dame Review, Rock & Sling & The Lampeter Review, among others, and work to appear in Aeolian Harp Anthology, Volume 3. Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps.

Days Gone By by Mike Zone

in poverty
all you have
is space and fixation
compounded with isolation
furthering sexual desolation
giving rise to savage and unyielding frustration
even in the most primal and immediate form of fulfillment
can mean many things
without ever getting anywhere
could be prose or statement of momentary inspiration
funny how with time and insomnia…
set on edge by rapid stomping, trampling
above, near midnight
and the howling retard mother
causes her child to weep
so she may be entertained
tired in despair
vessel on high alert
push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups
berries and hopefully shit
before sunrise
before the bus arrives

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

Lost by Ivan Peledov

A time to sleep peacefully when the weeds
in the nearby towns have reached the
fringes of the sun, a time to
when all the birds in the woods have been lost in the foliage
to compose a lullaby for the
when all the prairie dogs have been lost underground
for the first hangwoman in the world long dead
when all the waves in the nearby oceans have been counted

Ivan Peledov
Ivan Peledov is a poet now living in Colorado. He likes to travel and later forget the places he has visited. He doesn’t have any recent publications, mainly due to his idleness, but he had been published some years ago, among other magazines, in Ditch, Eunoia, Red Fez, Bear Creek Haiku, Unlikely Stories, and Lost and Found Times.

Accounting by Irene Cunningham

Jobs, people, faces hidden in pockets;
mounting years flicker, ticker-tape back when.

’69, flashes purple flares, dresses
ride up thighs fall down legs skirt floors. Music

sparks flames, names, oxtail soup and hot roast beef
in the Starlight Room. Songs are dates. Pixels

dance, bordered…disordered geometry
gyrates. It’s life, Jim – not as we know though

stages lose plots and minds are hot to trot
running scared, framed in film with mixed reviews;

out-takes fascinate and halt the process.
Understanding is language suddenly

learned, a code reduced to numbers
and the what-ifs slap at every wheel-turn.

Irene Cunningham
Irene Cunningham has had many poems published in lit mags across the years, including London Review of Books (as Maggie York), New Welsh Review, New Writing Scotland, Stand, Iron, Writing Women, and others. Now she’s preparing for old age before the scythe lands. Her new blog, still a work in progress, is here: