Astronomics by William C. Blome

Unable to get the mammoth-breasted girl
at the outside mall lifted out of sight
or out of mind—her after-dinner-mint taste
and a bra strap so royally wide
I’m putting together a coronation later on
for all such nighttime queens of astronomics—
yet she’s not so drop-dead delicious
as to keep me from saying “Hi, hi, hi”
to pal Orion and his big red head overhead,
and from viewing the many female constellations
who have had a go at loosening the great
and bright-notched belt and pulling every which
way imaginable on the private stars within.

William C. Blome
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such wondrous places as In Between Hangovers, Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Phenomenal Literature, and The California Quarterly.


Stewed Prunes by Ricky Garni

It’s another modifier of life that I love.
Like ‘Sweet’ Corn, ‘Jacket’ Potatoes
and ‘Cabin’ biscuits on
The Third Class
Breakfast Menu

April 14, 1912

Ricky Garni
Ricky Garni was born in Miami and grew up in Florida and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins, stamps and feathers, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.

Break by Brenton Booth

It’s after midnight
and everybody in
Sydney is asleep
but me
whiskey and coke
by my side
dreaming about
beautiful girls
I will never
wondering if
Socrates got
something better
than the ‘ prison
cell’ he called
the body
when he happily
drank down
the poison and
said goodbye:
was his soul
finally free to
truly exist
I guess I will
find out one
day for myself
but for now
the whiskey
and coke and
2 weeks off
work are
and hopefully
stay that way.

Brenton Booth
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. If you want to read more of his work check out his book ” Punching The Teeth From The Sky” with the following link

We Think It Is Safer by Eddie Awusi

We think it is safer
To look the other way
When it is our neighbour’s gate
Pestilence has invaded.
We think it is safer
Not to give a helping hand
When it is our neighbour’s roof
Fire has gutted.
We think it is safer
To borrow more distance
To add up to the yards
We already enjoyed
When it is our neighbour’s barn
The yam beetles has invaded.
We think it is safer
To treat our poor neighbours
Like sub-humans
Worse than leprosy
By shutting them out
With fences
As high as the heavens
And curtains
As deadly as the razor teeth
Of a hungry crocodile.
We forget to remember
That neither the angry pestilence
Nor the starving crocodile
Is a kin to man.
We forget to remember
That the inferno
Which eats an acre
Can likewise devour a thousand acres.
When hunger hits our neighbour’s door step
We think it is safer
To be passive
And we throw our abundance to his face.
When it is our neighbour’s house
The tumor of despair has besieged
We take our delight and beg our pardon.
When it is our neighbour’s abode
The first cries and screams and shrieks
Are ringing from
We proud ourselves of a safe Haven.
But happiness is a no man’s land
And civil war is nobody’s first name
And your peace might be the next in line
To be scuttled.

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.

Change by Ananya S Guha

I wither with passing of day
not in shape or size
but in mind.
That anatomy lessens
mitigates  disbelief, or is it
outside things change.
Shops sprout and whimper
of dogs, adds to cacaphony
Too many things at a time.
This is change, progress.
The weather too changes,
moody, spellbound, otiose.

Flippant observations.

We wait for final metamorphosis.

Ananya S Guha ( 1957) lives in Shillong, in North East India. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems over thirty years.

Over The Hill, Under The Bridge, Across The Meadow & Into Her Knickers! by Paul Tristram

Fucking Hell! I almost kicked an 8 year old kid in the face
as I hurdled the country lane stile at a gallop.
You need to stop text messaging me, it’s driving me crazy,
I’m a man, for fuck sake, I can’t multitask…
I have to keep slowing down or stopping to read them.
Oh yeah, the photos are different, keep ‘em coming.
Of course this is a nice surprize, I’m only half-dressed,
I’m wearing one Dr. Marten and a skate trainer…
but, I’m on my way, honey… like shit off a shovel.
Christ Alive!… it’s ok… that was fucking close…
I nearly punched a cow but it moved out of the way.
I haven’t had chance for a wank yet… oh well…
we’re just gonna have to do it at least twice,
the first like a machinegun, all hard-core & messy.
What’s that? where are your fingers?
Fuck this! You gorgeous bastard! I’m getting off the phone
so I can get across this blurry terrain faster… yee-fucking-ha!

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!

Quartet by Alan Catlin

“’Way I see it,” she said, glass in one hand,
lit cigarette in the other, ”’girls are tied to beds
for two reasons, sex and exorcisms.  So which
was it for you?’”  Emma Jane Unsworth, Animals

After leaving Mr. Mackenzie, she sits
at open air café table under unfurled
beach umbrella that says CINZANO,
sipping sweet vermouth one day, dry
vermouth the next.  Is paralyzed by
the heat, her poverty, a complete lack of
will. Sits smoking Gauloises as far
down as they will go without burning
her nicotine stained fingers; wanting
nothing, needing everything, the two
cancelling each other out.  The day waiters
mostly ignore the woman in fading
sundresses who only moves to recede
further into shadows on blue note
afternoons, slowly fading to dusk,
as if she were the lone passenger
with a one way ticket for a tramp
steamer voyage in the dark across a
wide Sargasso Sea.

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