Light Show

The six wheel
Pickup is black
Its high beams
Freeze crossing
Wildlife and
Turn off 
Light sensed
Streetlamps
Pre-dawn
Walkers and 
Runners know
Its heavy 
Duty tires
Embarrass
Nails tacks
Screws
Even nuts
And bolts
Spark 
Like hooves
On getaway
Asphalt

Thomas M. McDade resides in Fredericksburg, VA. He is a graduate of Fairfield University. McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). 

Gabapentin

Let me tell you something of what happens when the medication, an anticonvulsive also
prescribed for persistent pain, breaches the blood-brain barrier. My head fills with gray
mist. Suddenly face-chomping zombies aren’t the only ones in need of behavioral
therapy. Rain hisses like an acetylene torch. I have unwelcome encounters in
basements and back streets with women who torture their own bodies. One or another
of them saws off my head under the cover of helping. Just prior, the future passed in an
instant. Now flowers keep throwing themselves into the sea to get there.

Howie Good is a writer and artist living on Cape Cod. His new poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

 

The Rapture

Staying young,
pulsing in the vibe.

Color lights of heaven…
Orchestra above.

Flash
and shake,

filling of the moon into our hearts.
We soon fly on our own

remembering the first tickle of youth.
Death was a game we’d never lose.

Lifting our palms upward tilt,
faces beaming,

laughing at the speed of it all,
daring us to stand and dance in the dome!

Stephen Jarrell Williams can be found on (X) Twitter @papapoet…  Write what you have to write, while we still have the right.

It’s About Time

Time will never come full circle
like a broken wall clock

Time will never catch me
like the bad guys in Road Warrior

Time is hardly the past and the present
like your great-aunt’s fruitcake

Time is too handsy — just try
turning back its hands

Time was precious like a string of pearls
fenced on the black market

Time was like a dish served cold
in Revenge of the Alarm Clock

Time can have a stitch that saves 9
like 9 can’t save its confabulous self

Time will tell, or maybe tattletale,
on space as their relationship continuums

Time to quit while I’m behind
like the poetry police with handcuffs

Steven Croft lives on an island off the coast of Georgia.  His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, 2023).  His work has appeared in places like The Basilisk Tree, Misfit Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

 

Cold Outside

Feathers ruffle 
again these
days. Feathers
torn. I sleep
in. It is
cold outside.

Words fall like
cactus spines.
Light fades to 
nothing. My
hand dissolves.
I vanish.
Thorns in the
stove sizzle.

Luis was born in Mexico. He lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Fixator Press, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. He is the author of Raw Materials (Pygmy Forest Press).

snide

Isn’t that
what you really
came to see? The
penetration of
the unwilling
instrument of your
derision by any
sharp instrument
of choice. Or do I
need to phrase it
for you in a
different way?

Mark Young’s c. 650 paged, 20 years in the making, new book, The Magritte Poems, is due out
from Sandy Press later this year.

Fourth Time of Asking

skidding sluicing sometimes
flat-out tumbling
touching the sides for comfort
guide or guile
not to arrest the fall
but give it shape and sense,
even if its pattern
is a kaleidoscope of stained glass,
constantly reinventing its credo

until flush with success
our boy leaves the short slide
and dives not swims
into deeper brighter waters
where eels smile upon
each other to see a brother
so finned and flushed

haul himself from the brine
surmounting the steps
to try the open air,
with no guarantee that this time
the pool will be filled

– that the eels will enjoy
what he deep dives to tell them
and not only move in
for the kill

Ian Mullins ships out from Liverpool England. His movie-themed poetry collection NightWatchman (Alien Buddha Press) is now available, as is Fear Of Falling Backwards (Cajun Mutt Press), released in 2023.

Oscar

The feature is finis.
The dim lights come up.
The audience sloughs to the exits.
My movie, always ending,
skin and hair, all those cells that leaving,
make us new every seven years,
becomes part of an endless population
of scurrying crowd, swept up candy wrappers,
exiting coupes, of seats being refilled.

The sequels while technically
more sound, die quicker.
There is a smell of stale popcorn.
The crowd led now by orange floor lights,
seems tentative, lost, strangely morose,
as though this new feature,
including the edit on the cutting room floor,
is confusing with its hidden meaning,
will not be winning this year’s awards.

Craig loves the aesthetics of the paper and pen, has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Hamilton Stone Review and several dozen other journals.

Drowning In Circles Around You

There is simply a Cathedral of Possibilities.
Emotional undercurrents stalking the predator,
which urban fox dens
the shadowy-side of my palpitating soul.
There is a thrumming ‘Sense’
rather than a ‘Sound’ of orchestral music,
emanating from the magnificent friction
caused by you swishing the environment…
whilst barely even being conscious
of the havoc you’re weaving and aftermathing.

The arrogant ones could lesson-learn from you,
but they won’t, they’re too…………. yawn!
You’re a shining sixpence in the gutter
to dirty, starving, beggar eyes.
‘Pretty’ is such a ‘Cute’ little word
and you own Both heart-ribbon-tied together.
In your Presence, both disastrous and soothing…
there’s a tramline off into the sun-setting distance
where once there were only prison cells,
the backhand of monotony, and grey factory walls.

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.

Dissection

Glossemes of grief amalgamate  
on an ocean of opportunities
granting me a carbon copy
of my stated position.
 
I am ahead of the game
when I seek
rapprochement with self.
 
When I ignore
the delegation of denigrators
for sempiternal truce,
I am akin to a happy hashhead.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. Published in over thirty-five countries, he is the joint winnerof 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.