Godot

In the wrong station
that bleeds away
the railway profits,

on an iron bench
painted dim,
and although its
colourants have been
peeling away
you can tell it is green,

sits Mr Godot,
and the time frozen in
one John Smith & Sons Midland
grieves for the late sun.

I have a sign breathing his name
in my molten hands
in the mirror-station to his,
and I yawn, it is quite late.

The Behaviour Pattern of The Illusions

Midnight shakes me awake
just before I fall asleep,
and I move the window’s curtain a bit,
see five of our neighbours
sitting in our front yard looking at my house.

I have a gun by my imagination.
I keep it locked in my conscience.
The summer whistles as the dark
reaches the boiling point.

And then, in the same night
I open the curtain with all my might;
my muscles ache and ring;
I find nothing but the darkness outside.
No one faces me when I feel
the strength to face them.

An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored seven volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’. His works have been translated in ten languages.  

Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoetAuthor Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

the old butchery 

my father and i waited on a red light when i noticed 

a building being demolished 

“i bet lots of hobos slept there” i said 

“that’s the old butchery” he said 

“i never knew that. what happened to it?” 

“they found severed dog heads in their barrels” 

“no shit” 

“it was all over the news. dog heads mixed with pig heads” 

“so that means…” 

“yeah, they used dog and pig meat to make their sausages” 

i glanced at the building again and heard him laugh. i turned. 

“your nonno bought sausages there” he said 

“no way. he liked that shit?” 

“well, he didn’t know. we didn’t know” 

“you ate them too?” 

“yeah. no idea how many dogs we must have eaten those days” 

the lights turned green and we left the building behind. 

i turned my head to see it one final time. 

i said a silent prayer for all the stray dogs butchered in there. 

many of them had owners waiting to no avail for them to return. 

hell, and why not a prayer for the damn pigs? 

i said one for them too. 

the building was now long gone from my view, 

and the next one i saw had a big sign that read 

“CARE FOR THE ENVIRONMENT. DO NOT LITTER” 

i pulled my phone out and opened the notepad 

“dear god” i wrote “i don’t know what the fuck to tell you” 

and slipped it down my pocket again. 

Giovanni Mangiante is a poet from Lima, Peru. His work appears in various journals such as Three Rooms Press, As It Ought to Be, FEARLESS, Synchronized Chaos, and more. He has upcoming poems in The Piker Press and Studi Irlandesi. He lives with his dog, Lucy. In writing, he found a way to cope with BPD.

Where broken objects gather.

walking through a house
where nobody has visited
in three years or more
and finding not much
very special at all: just things
which remind you
of things. books
on bookshelves, glasses
and dusty cups – something in the fridge
which may have been cheese
or an animal, trapped
and choked on hunger. posters
put up when you were 12
with thumbtacks
and a ziplock on a rabbit
still stuffed with secret pennies. the beds
all mildew, radios
which play cassettes. our place in leitrim
where broken objects gathered,
like a bend in the river
lodged with shells and rocks. you open doors
and remember how they opened, open windows
and remember
how they stick.

Scales.

sunlight in fog,
just sheets
on a washing-line.
I walk to work, shoes on,
hand
in a pocket
and hand
on the strap of my bag.
my face turns steadily
like a shadow in sunlight,
turns
toward the pavement.
the grey
strikes up and curls
and goes forward;
my steps making scales
like dead fish
in a marketplace
stall.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).

A DISTURBING DAY

The phone rings
Waking me,
It’s half-8 Saturday morning
Another lost in all-consuming hangover oblivion
And once I answer I’m back off to bed minutes later
Only to be roused by a loud LOUD banging
Just a few moments later.

What the fuck is that noise I beg to the sky as
Drums march through my destroyed mind
As outside its carnival time and I know the
Misery will not stop until it’s all gone
And the promise comes that it will last hours.

Back here though the sound is dimmed
And today I’d rather just hole up
Ignoring the party outside where no doubt
The beautiful will be posing and the
Crazies will be dancing and I’ll be sat here
Reading some outlaw poetry.

Bradford Middleton was born in London in 1971 but didn’t begin writing poetry until he moved to Brighton during 2007.  He knew no-one and had no money so it helped fill his nights.  Now widely published in small press circles if you like go be his friend on Facebook @bradfordmiddleton1. 

expand

expand its pointed little head
let’s see what fits
and if we have enough
particles at our disposal
we may find blessings
stretched like rocks along
the removable shorelines
but a buttered
sculpture may
do the trick to
wary our skeleton
keys turned out
so as to be all
rendered glories
& removed
in our
far
and final swiping
toward a fluttering cape
of spun flaxen delights
a sightless ringless toneless
stop sign painted RED
for the vowel that displaced
a million squabbles grilled
to charred perfection

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library.
He is the author of the book Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in The Vital Sparks, Breakwater Review, Ink & Voices, The Free Library of the Internet Void, and Paragraph Line. His films have screened at various film festivals including The Pineapple Underground Film Festival, New Filmmakers, Film Al Fresco, Views from the Underground, and The Shooting Wall Film Festival.

The Way to Go Out

–and I walk away
without applause.

Just a nod, a quick wave…
Heroic in nobody’s
stature…

Bemoan a purpose
and you end up ecstatic,

in solitude—

This might not be the worst
case scenario for all
involved.

Withdrawing to
a single voice—

transient, with the
music from a thousand
different voices

available to transform
from here
to
there.

Dan Provost’s poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  He is the author of thirteen books/chapbooks, including in 2021: The Green Room, released by Analog Submission Press and December 22, 2020, published by Alien Buddha Press.  He is a two-time nominee for the Best of the Web and has read his works across the United States.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.