beneath the frosted full moon glow

One man, with a dying name,
walks along a dead end street.
He watches as dried autumn
leaves drift across his path.
He listens to their music, to
their fleeting fallen song. And
as the wind drags them across
cold concrete, they disintegrate
into broken pieces, tiny splinters
that can never be whole again.
He thinks of his own life, once
so young, once so whole, now
just fragments of yesterdays and
yesteryears where ghosts pass
through like a revolving door.
And tonight, beneath the frosted
full moon glow, walking around
alone has never felt so all alone.

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have been printed widely in journals, zines, and online publications all over the world.  He has authored twenty-five chapbooks and several collections of poetry, including Cleaning the Gutters of Hell (Zeitgeist Press, 2023).  As editor of Between Shadows Press, he’s curated two editions of the notorious journal, “Haikus, Nearkus, Fauxkus, Fuckyous.”  

Rebuilding the Submarine

I replace the
periscope
with a bottle of
sweet & sour
sauce. The conning-
tower becomes
a library, an un-
subtle homage 
to Borges. I turn
the engineroom
into an aviary—
the hovering of
hummingbirds
provides propulsion—
& the ballast tanks
are given over 
to travelling 
exhibitions of Persian 
miniatures. I shall 
fill the torpedo 
tubes with large 
cigars once the 
embargo against 
Cuba is lifted. Radar & 
sonar will become 
just dolphins’ names.

Mark Young’s most recent books are with the slow-paced turtle replaced by a fast fish,
published by Sandy Press in May, 2023, & a free downloadable chapbook of visuals &
poems, Mercator Projected, published by Half Day Moon Press in August 2023.

GO FOR IT

The monster pulls my hair out
by the roots.

He abandons me in the desert
where it’s so hot,
my eye-bulbs burst.

And he turns the night on me,
makes it so dark,
I disappear.

He has tied me to a tree more than once.
And jabbed my body with spears,
just above the heart.

Opposites.
Opposites.
Opposites.

They say we attract
but, more likely,
we learn from one another.

If I were a monster,
I would do all this to him.

If he were me,
he would take it.

Andrej Bilovsky (he/him) is a queer poet and performance artist. Former editor of  Masculine-Feminine and Kapesnik. His poetry can be found at the Quiver and Down In The Dirt.

TEN-YEAR-OLD KILLERS

They were two young boys
down by the river’s edge,
tossing rocks at birds, at squirrels.

From the high ledge I saw them,
shouted down “Stop that!”
but my voice was lost in the heavy foliage,
the mix of white and gray cloud above.

The chickadees darted out of harm’s way.
A crow flew up to the highest branch,
loudly cawed its horror at the newest generation.

But one squirrel, half-way up a tree,
was not so lucky.
From the cheers down below,
I knew the one with the tousled blonde hair
had made a direct hit.

I was too far away to make a difference.
A scramble down to where they were
would have taken a half hour or more.
By the time I arrived,
that same crow could be pecking away
at its latest, unexpected meal.

I find hell in strange places these days.
In wilderness.
In children.
In unnecessary death.
In my inability to act.
Even my high vantage point has no true claim to heaven.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Sheepshead Review. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and California Quarterly.

Now!

I should have seen this coming
years ago during the age of hippies
and UFOs and toxic wars.

I step now with sand in my shoes,
squinting up into a sullen sky.
Birds disappearing into the clouds.

The bone-dry desert
seemingly endless as if a dream.

Age has taken in some ways much,
but it has given an eternity quest
much more than I ever thought.

The moon a signal
of an upward way to escape,
a staircase to the the bowing of stars.

Hurry now!
The evil ones have much power,
but less than they think.

Keep your composure in your belief.
The deserts here are more
than we see.

Birds now landing in the clouds,
waiting for us to take a deep breath
and fly.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and paint and can be found on Twitter @papapoet.

Our Generation

Each generation includes a melody
For the few to safeguard accounts.
Moreover, medallions fade from the
Looks that impede a note from nary a
Shield of allocators. Over currencies,
Seasons use space in consideration of
 
Actual facts, so that specimens record
Dictates for general execution. Senses
Are diminished by advocates who
Vet once-taken and unmixed suspense
Moored to memory. Facility shifts from
These times and these points, and once
 
More affords silence to the counsel
Concurring with one punter in promo.
After all, the coequal force is devised
From estimation, and happens to
Require a foreign body to conclude
That motives translate to a public wish.

Steve Armstrong is a graduate of UC Santa Barbara and lives in San Francisco.

In For A Penny, In For A Pound…Of Flesh

She turns herself off like a lamp
when alone, shrinks in stature,
and becomes nervous
and uncomfortable…
‘They’ always keep her waiting,
whilst watching from the Bar
opposite… until she goes to leave.
He sharpened the very same knife
right down to a stump
… patience gives you stitches.
She was carrying a paperback
of ‘Pride and Prejudice’
when turning up her toffee-nose
at a homeless beggar in the City
… I was sitting on the grass
directly opposite with a Medium
who declared with a chuckle
“He’ll find pockets of happiness
… her path leads only to Futility.”
I chose ‘Balance’ over ‘Rest’
… it keeps the mind’s edge razor,
‘Equilibrium’ hand-in-hand
with ‘Determination’ and ‘Force’,
Self-Empowerment comes in Tiers.

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. 

The Testament 

I hadn’t felt the keys move
Under my fingers
For so many years.

I had originally rejected 
Your request although
I’m not sure I was so clear

It’s difficult for me to
Communicate now
So I politely twitched my face

I can’t describe how 
Vital it was for me to hear
Those keys move underneath 
The pressure

But I knew the expression would
Collapse upon my face eventually
And I would make the best smile I could

You invited and I accepted 
I knew I had a chance
And only this one 
To feel young again

So I played
And I played well
And I couldn’t tell you
How much it meant to me. 

 

Jack Milton is a poet based in Sheffield, England, and has been writing poetry
for a number of years. He has recently began submitting his work to underground publications,
and is also a regular performer on the local Sheffield poetry circuit.

The Ghost of Maggie Thatcher Exits Stage Right 

Being the frontwoman of Iron Butterfly for so long
has taken its toll.  Elvis may have left the building, but the Iron Lady
has left the country, this world altogether.
Take a bow, Lady Brighton.  The flightless seagull armies are squawking for you.
And the roadies begin to take things down.
The ghost of Maggie Thatcher exits stage right.
Ain’t no Lady-Gaga-On-Pita. Once you get away from all
the Ritz and glamour.  And why do barbers always have the worst hair?
Something about being shearer over sheep,
more bully than wooly.  Ain’t no sham in that, surely!
And I know what you’re thinking, 7 clairvoyants on the payroll
and I still can’t dress for the weather.
I’ve seen that look on your face before.
The sagging laugh-less rot of condemned buildings.
Its dinner guest asbestos and tilted gravy boats
in the stairwell.  Ignore those many signs of danger.
Ignore the clappers and the trappers.
Their garbage means nothing.
It is a landfill built upon a landfill.
Riding lessons for Superman, all aboard the Eastern Express!
Did you know the Man of Steel was allergic to horsies?
Refusals are hard to take.
And the woman in my hopeless brown Barcalounger
begins to growl – I start asking about flea collars and intruders,
arsenic-hungry Napoleon inside Mother Russia,
shopping for trusty Babushkas on the sly.
And the climate is changing into something more comfortable,
did you know that?
After 10, 000 years of glacial inactivity.
May have something to do with that lying ass Pinocchio
with the fifty-foot dong.
Doing doughnuts in front of glazed windows.
I see that any sense of humour
has left you, how long have you been single?

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

À / propos of / the philosopher’s stone

The number of people living in
cities continues to increase, esp-
ecially since le clown Grock a fait
rire le monde entier. Never under-
estimate the power of a twisty
tiny top! We’ve already agreed
on 17 goals. We are now an urban
planet with a high percentage of

wood flour, & incessant noise knock-
ing at the gate. Mainly from street
sport — graffiti, hopscotch, parkour,
rollerblading — but also mayhem,
queued up waiting to emerge as
a central trope of modern culture.

Mark Young was born in Aotearoa / New Zealand but now lives in a small town in North
Queensland in Australia. He is the author of more than sixty books, the most recent of which
is with the slow-paced turtle replaced by a fast fish, published by Sandy Press in May, 2023.
A free downloadable pdf of visuals & poems, Mercator Projected, will be published by Half
Day Moon Press later this year.