Friday, April 9, 2021

Absence by Susan Tepper

Old leaves covering the drains
a question of extinction
should the Spring floods
rise to the second-story level. 
Up there windows confused
slap-dash holes cut
almost an afterthought.
You have already stated 
your claim to remain in place.
I would easily squeeze out 
you are too settled.
I would jump into the first
little boat that came by
engine whizzing
calling out my salvation.
Waving to you, the house,
the buried garden,
feeling the goodbye breeze
against my face as
all will drown in my absence.




Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books.  Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.

www.susantepper.com

Thursday, April 1, 2021

Simp by Sanjeev Sethi

After unpacking the journal 
from overseas
I riffle through the pages 
to locate my poem.
I point at the byline 
to my unlettered biddy, 
“My work is over the place. 
I’m not on an ego trip. 
I don’t even brag”. 
She is impressed. 
I can spot it in her eyes.



Sanjeev Sethi is published in over thirty countries. His poems have found a home in more than 350 journals or online literary venues. Wrappings in Bespoke is joint-winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It is his fourth full-length collection. It will be launched in 2021. Recent Credits:  Mad Swirl, Futures Trading, Pomona Valley Review, Life and Legends, Cajun Mutt Press, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.




Tuesday, March 30, 2021

Ever So Slightly Insane by Dennis Moriarty

I am Charles Bukowski resurrected
And bad
Dylan Thomas on a bender pissed up
And ever so slightly mad.

I hate public school types and the house
Of Windsor
Wouldn’t piss on Boris Johnston if he
Were on fire in the desert.
I loathe country music that’s not played
By Cash
And rap is for fantasist, the would be
Gangsters
Bringing terror to the mean streets
Of their minds.
I have fucked up and spewed up while
Sitting alone drinking neat whiskey,
Listening to gun fighter ballads and old
Prison songs.
Sometimes I’m Keith Richards pilled
To the gills and all coked out.
But mostly I am a bar room poet in a small
Valleys town
Spouting words in exchange for applause.

I am a pissed up old fart, an argumentative
Old pain,
Overwhelmingly fragile, and ever so
Slightly insane.


Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.


Wednesday, March 24, 2021

Hollyfuckingwood by John Doyle

For Carey Floyd

Another town
another atom bomb,
another station wagon,
another boy called Jody
sliced in half under its wheels,
another episode of the Flintstones,
another cousin with no face and no name
gathering the petals of her life
in an apple-green shin-length dress.
Another country singer's
head rolling down the highway like tumbleweed,
another Chevrolet mowhawked
by juggernauts driven by Chet
who tells his wife from a nearby phone-booth
he may be late for dinner;
Sgt. O'Malley waits nearby, Sgt. O'Malley
is polite and understanding.
Another rocket built by boys in nearby gardens
frightens horses drowning in technicolor illusions
and the memories of Randolph Scott 
once perched like Julius Cesar
on their spines,
another chief sits unconscious on the white-washed wood
of pretty 19th Century American construction and design,
another war is won by a smaller country
with smaller tits and smaller cocks
and not a single microbe or strain of Rock n' Roll music,
another Irishman who married another Irish woman
stands on the steps of the cathedral
in photographs of St. Joseph's 128 feet high 
and made of stallion-coloured stone and the immaculate
deceptions of priests with robes too loose and morals even looser,
another bullet kills another rusted can,
a different boy called Jody comes back to life
only to die again when another bullet backfires -
another day, another dollar;
Holly would, no she wouldn't, that's what all the boys said,
and the sheriff proud and tall in his pointy boots walked away;
his boys,
all of them;
gosh he was mighty proud




John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your ente

Tuesday, March 23, 2021

Decay by Kevin M. Hibshman

Tread lightly
The man asleep, curled up in the doorway could be in
the middle of a very very prophetic dream
He wants to be wax
Climb him carefully
Listen to me
The afflicted will gift you in charcoal, ash and rust
One glance will inflict you voluptuous with its dusty stare that does not rub off
Come this way, you say
What a scream
What a scene laid out before me in blue moon neon
A silver-winged shimmer
A broken-toothed psalm
Burning gold leaf in a dead letter box
You are propped up on the elbows of an obsolete bone structure
Please excuse me
I am experiencing repeating phenomena with all these colliding strangers
collective particles
DNA and the flesh
the flesh is no firmament
the flesh is but a slow decay



Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.

 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).


Saturday, February 27, 2021

Graham by John Doyle

You reminded me of Paul Weller,
somewhere in London
on a winter’s morning,
petrol burning his nose,
pigeons shitting everywhere
and the lovers back to back, haunting those park benches.
Your company van matched his acoustic guitar,
capturing a cold 6am
like a 19th century colonial-type, crunching through Serengeti dust,
revving engine, the punch of gasoline, the dawn’s screeching chorus,
and that final slamming door, last Tuesday.
I’ll miss you Graham, that fire you used to breathe
keeping Winter in its cage,
as I turned over and surrendered to Morpheus





John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.


Friday, February 19, 2021

Melting Pool by Susan Tepper

In the snow your hair
scrubs clean
Ice runs down 
into a melting pool
You might die 
from severe trauma
Can a person
survive such extremes
of no consequence







Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most current are a poetry chap CONFESS (Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a funky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently she is in pre-production of a play she adapted from an earlier novel about artist Jackson Pollock in his later years. www.susantepper.com