Dark Familiarity

My suit still fits.
It hangs in the dark closet
next to an old white shirt
and tired gray silk tie.

Two hours past my bed time,
the wine bottle dribbles
a bit more than a sip
into the fingerprint stained glass.

Getting up slowly,
I open the squeaky cabinet door.
I take a vitamin B Plus and an Aleve
with that last sip of wine.

Turning off the lights,
I feel my way to the stairs.
This is a different darkness –
Now, it has no end.

R. Gerry Fabian is a published poet from Doylestown, PA. He has published five books of poetry: Parallels, 
Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts,  Wildflower Women as well as his poetry baseball book,
Ball On The Mound. 

Convocation mountain

The school of forest medicine has
a thing for strumpfhose & those
initiation rituals of the medieval
guilds such as a slew of bobble heads
or zany ukulele ephemera. Its origins
are unclear. Some scholars theorize
long-term synergistic relationships;
others hold up ink-riddled feeds that
brim with the hashtag #QTTR & claim
itinerant tattooers are the points of ori-
gin. The regents call for calm, adhering
to their belief that all will be revealed
when the time capsule tucked behind a
plaque in the Cathedral is opened in 73
years. Until then, the only diktat is that
any & all balloons are to be prohibited.

Mark Young was born in Aotearoa New Zealand but now lives in a small town on traditional Juru
land in North Queensland, Australia. His most recent book is One Hundred Titles From Tom
Beckett, with paintings by Thomas Fink, published by Otoliths in June, 2024. His The Magritte
Poems will be coming out from Sandy Press later this year.

Vagabond Blues

The peninsula strangles the neck of hope
believing nothing will remain unchanged.
Removed are the scattered triangular prisms.
Along with the blue tarps and poisoned refuse.
Ferns, crushed underfoot, leave a sad scent.

That immaculate squalor. Those parking lot swear
fests with the word still hanging in the empty air.
Invitations to the event are ripped into acrid confetti.
Tables of smoke are set. Utensils drown in the river.
So, what will be served for that going away party?

Philip Venzke grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin.  His poetry is widely published in magazines throughout the U.S. and Europe.  His chapbook “Chant to Save the World” was a winner of The James Tate International 2021 Poetry Prize (published July 2022 by SurVision Books, Ireland).  His second chapbook “Rules to Change the World” was published by Finishing Line Press in November 2023.  His poems also appear in “Contemporary Surrealist and Magical Realist Poetry (an International Anthology)” edited by Jonas Zdanys, Lamar University Press, 2022.

THE SUN STINGS MY EYES

I stumble from the sanctuary of
My room & out,
Out into the light that stings my
Eyes, hurting
Like a cigarette to my retina &
Forcing me
To hide behind a recently discovered
Pair of sunglasses
That turn everything a cool iridescent
Green just how
The smoke does to my mind.

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton, England.  Recent poems have appeared at Mad Swirl, Cacti Fur, Beatnik Cowboy, Dear Booze and in the new issue of the Horror Sleaze Trash Quarterly.

Feathering The Nest

To fish with lies,
to hunt through insincere smiles,
and to trap
with Sociopathic exactness.

The base of the nest
is all busted backbones.
The insides, I feather,
delicately, with broken hearts…
see how they stay
soft and pliable,
they retain an echo
of the tenderness
which once inhabited them.

I stick, cement, and paste
it all together
with scoops and dollops
of stolen pride,
and butchered dignity…
of course, not mine, silly,
for I was nothing
but an empty husk to start with.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. His novel ‘Crazy Like Emotion’ is now available by Close To The Bone Publishing.

One Life at a Time

Life provides a small space to fill
A space that stays open, until full
The prior open life, now closed
Begins as a new life, ready to fill
Life’s first few fillers, the smallest
Have the most to fill, and fit best
The following so many fillers fall
Somewhat less graded, but fall in.
Then come some big bulky ones
Finding loose lodging somehow
Leaving spaces for smaller fillers
Some enormous ones bounce off
Life gets shaken, jiggled thumped
The fillers settle and pack down
Then along comes that final filler,
The Closer.

Michael Theroux writes from Northern California. He is presently shifting from decades of developing and publishing science-based socio-political works toward publication of his deep cache of poetry and prose, a challenge indeed at 73 but much more satisfying.

Alice’s Dolls

She undressed the intruders down to their brittle alibis. Ultimately, they refused to confess to the silencing of the mute-color despair, the cries of the second hand dolls. One intruder stared down at Alice’s favorite doll, the one with the feather boa and a missing foot. When Alice questioned him, his eyes, tiny dark planets shifting away from light, remained obtuse. Was he a serial monster? she thought. Or a reborn one? The other man, perhaps blinded by drought and dead heat, complained of bee stings everywhere. Alice disappeared and returned with two glasses of ice water. They both reached but she stepped back. “Tell me, she said, “who tore off her foot.” The first man pleaded for clemency, begged to be hung in a noose made of feathers. That tickled Alice. Then, it made her cry.

Kyle Hemmings has had work in Otoliths, Ink in Thirds, and elsewhere. He loves garage bands of the 60s. 

Click

from the bottom of the bottle a
pair of eyes glared up, emanating
disappointment, judgment, sorrow. 
the tears were drowned
as the final sip was downed
and the cries were muffled
by the echoes of the night. 
nowhere else to run to.
under the sea of bourbon
they lay, forever, 
with no way ever to reach the surface. 
a pair of bright, green eyes shedding
tears intertwined with the final drops
of bourbon,
the stars above laughed and mocked,
endlessly, remorselessly.
one final sip, the
click came. 
the eyes remain at the bottom,
sadder than ever before.
no more tears for me. 
finally a good afternoon
despite the rain. 
only the endless river of
broken promises remains, and the
white powder on the moustache
burned the nostrils. 
the eyes were gone, 
I felt alone. 
once more, losing
fights to win the war, and as another
retreat was conducted, the heavy weight
crushing my shoulders brought me
close finally to giving up.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds(Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside(Anxiety Press), Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press) and The Omega Of Us All (Anxiety Press).

I’m Too Fucked Up

To speak, let alone reach out.
My eyes are red as the sunsets promise.
The bottle is a truth I cannot resist, no matter if it’s killing me.

And your memory too perfect to be real, so I cherish the truths of loves imperfection.
Sorry is an overused word, so I will spare us that bullshit.

Life is a rented room left behind for others to view and just as easily close the door with their
hearts.

Compassion is a beautiful theory, as so is some salvation from this hard-luck tale that we all
know cannot exist.

I was written off long before the ink did dry upon these last sad lines.

When it gets dark, so shall you forever remember me.

I was too much, for even myself.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer. His work has been published here at Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His current book is Midnight Masochism from Black Circle Publishing and is avaliable on Amazon.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Breakdown

Privation rives the centrality
of the self-image pivot.
Words are let on to pinch us
as if pain fills the caldera.
Haptic maneuvers don’t end 
the hollowness.
 
Indigence apart,
neediness is a condition.
Replenishment
of the catchall isn’t a cure.
Balsam lies in the brain.
Ministering emotions perfumes the perimeter.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. Published in over thirty-five countries, he is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. Highly commended inerbacce-prize 2024 for poetry, UK, with over 9000 submissions worldwide, Sethi lives in Mumbai, India.