Ego-Tripped Trigger Finger

People all offended by A.I. bullshit astounds me when in truth, it’s sad that a robot holds more
manners these days than a supposedly fully functional grown adult.

I view people who find excuses for being terrible individuals as pathetic.
They blame past traumas to justify their low character.

I hold no hope in humanity, and that is why I avoid it at all costs, for it’s better to die in isolation
than suffocate in mock praise.

I have zero friends I fully trust, as if they all come with a price tag. They are merely like a
convenience store, and a clerk is never your friend, but they do serve a purpose.

I’ve given until there is not even an ounce of hope within my soul.

But when I bid farewell to this planet, I will do so without an ounce of guilt, and I do not believe
most can say that, let alone believe it.

My ego was abandoned with my heart. I held onto compassion despite my almost arctic
demeanor.

I do not hate, for to hate, you first have to feel.
I am numb to hollow words and empty conversations.

I work while others socialize under the guise of empty importance, reading to toxic fools all in
love with the sound of their own voices.

We are not the same; we are no longer children, so let us not indulge in delusion.

There’s no need for lies; just give me my tab.
And kindly leave me the fuck alone.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been featured in Horror Sleaze Trash,  Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Disturb The Universe, The Dope Fiend Daily, Cold Rambler and Impspired Magazine.

His work is dark and always unfiltered.

RED SKY

i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self-defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.

do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?

black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-

like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford,
England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of
Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of
The Poetry Society, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Recusant, The Lampeter Review and Dissident Voice.

 

AS WINTER COMES I CRAVE THE SUN

When that sun comes up tomorrow
I’ll be out there wandering those streets,
Luxuriating in the glory of the heat
Which has yet to make it as far as my
Room this winter, just like the last 3
Or 4, but hey beneath my new duvet
Tonight I’ll sleep like a king and the
Warmth will keep me good through
The night until the morning when I’ll
Have to climb on out again & back to
The frozen box I call my room.

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton, England.  Recent poems appear in The Scumrag, Hiram Poetry Review, the Acid Bath anthology Night Terrors, Yellow Mama, The Candid Review, Razur Cuts, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Broken Teacup and the Mad Swirl.  He’s currently submitting his debut collection around the small presses.

Within the Confines of Speed

I was put to sleep in a moving car
as a tot
my ancestry evolved from cattle

imprisoned at a dental institution by a
stormtrooper of haberdashery

at the foot of a sadist I emasculated

my subversive streak developed
by contrast of movement,
by induced-labor shots of adrenaline against
tremulous space,
unmoving within the confines of the vehicle
I suckled vapid muzak, lips
engorged with earwax

soy milk spilt on oak leaves
Year of the Serpent pending,
exploded in smoke

at the base of diaspora I grovel

after several pratfalls, before a priapic courtship,
after wrestling with the empyrean and
sweaty union with statistics,
I birth a luxurious distrust

delivered by freight to the Warden
who reappears in memory as imperious as rainfall

The poetry and prose of Jay Passer has appeared in print and online
periodicals, magazines and anthologies, in subterranean basements and
restroom stalls, cave walls and space shuttles, since 1988. He is the
author of 15 collections of words, symbols, scrawls, diatribes, missives,
isms, schisms, rain drizzles and blood fizzles. A cook by trade, he’s also
dabbled in daubs, photo-montage, reverse feng shui; while flailing at
mortician’s apprentice, news butcher, and criminal savant. Passer’s most
recent chap, Son of Alcatraz, released in February of 2024 by Alien
Buddha Press, is available from Amazon.

Choppy-Fixer

Treble the ‘Tremors’
she gives me…
the gift of Medusa
with the easiest
of sharp Rejections.
Where’s the fun
in Welcome Mats
and Invitations?
I want to feel
Adored not Secure
… once more
across the Tight
-Rope to tempt Fate.
Your ‘Options’
make you look ugly
and desperate…
cut ‘em loose
and rise HigHER
… ‘Stars’…
don’t belong
Crawling in the Dirt.

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”, collection of shorter fiction “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves”, and full-length poetry book “The Dark Side Of British Poetry: Book 1 of Urban, Cinematic, Degeneration” are all now available by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Oboe

Ombre of orts cast their flavors
to pulsations.
Souvenirs of session,
lint, odd bead or button,
nevi of nightcap, crumbs,
scrunched contour sheets
and crud,
grip harmonies in woodwinds
gliding ‘tween words
and wordlessness.
Semiosis is open to surmises.
By parol
fixed by intuit.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato Without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprintof Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poetry has been published in over thirty-five countries and has appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Dilemmas

My earplugs irritate my ears.
What’s worse, I wonder,
three-fourths asleep,
the screaming on the street below
or the whispering on the road
to my brain?

Doug Sylver’s writing can be found in Drifting Sands, The Sun Magazine, The New York Times and Fixator Press, among other publications. He is a recently retired public high school teacher in Seattle.

 

Behind and in Front of the Fence

Three forty-two, cells, stirring

Five twenty and cells, slinking through the slits

Cells on cells, seven ten and seeping so,

The slits and the squares, feeling at the close and opening.

Cupping at the curves and the caveats, kissing indentations, incisions burrowed in the
soles,

Cells on cells, body double. Coursing through the sheaf, the layers on the layers on the
layers,

Humming bristle in a trickle chorus

Over cells and cells and peeling peat, the petrichor

Eight fifty-six and still never still, heather still abrasive and bending to another bend

Brushed upon and brushing back, daypack, stickleback, sticking to that raw moan, sticking to cells on cells, humid, hollow, nine and eleven, twelve, one, two, three forty-
two

Flo Fitzpatrick is an amateur writer from the North of England, whose work has been published in Bending Genres Journal and Hot Pot Magazine.

A line from Youssou N’Dour

My nose runs, eventually syn-
chronizes with the nearby Alle-
gheny River & the cable cars of
memory — the funicular railway

in Wellington, the Perugia People
Mover. I am enamored of carriages
that pass in the day, especially
those that pause at the same station,

pointing in different directions be-
cause it means the observation time
will be longer. My eyes run across
the passengers in the carriage beside

me, hoping to see aspects of myself
among them since it is often said we
recognize ourselves in others. & if I
do, I slide down the window & say to

them “Please accept these biscuits as a
small token of recognition, along with
a metal bookmark & a TOAD attack,
fresh from the Cambridge Dictionary.”

Mark Young’s most recent books are Alkaline Pageantry, published by Serious Publications in
September, 2024; & The Magritte Poems which came out from Sandy Press in October.

New Year’s Eve

If velleities have their way, I will  
conquer a country. Citizenship is
only for devotees of liberty and letters.
 
Prerequisites: Be yourself.
You’re beautiful with your ivories.
You’re beautiful without them.
 
We rubberneck only the rictus.
If dentures matter to you,
you will manage them.

Pablum? Reification?
Let me be.
I’m lit up.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato Without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprintof Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poetry has been published in over thirty-five countries andhas appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.
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