Bad News For Bunny By Bruce McRae

The bad news is
you’re not one
of
God’s little ponies
or an old hit
on the radio.

You’ll never be
a clever trick
that they drag out
at parties.

The sun will never
come from you.

I’m sorry that I have
to be the one
to tell you,
but it’s a short ride
and it’s a fast one.

For those of you
with aspirations —
aspire. But you,

you the one in the back
looking decidedly
sick at heart:

that feeling that you’re feeling
is right on the money.

You’ll never be one
of Heaven’s shiny pennies
now.

Pushcart-nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 900 publications, including Poetry.com and The North American Review. His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’ is available from the Silenced Press website or via Amazon books. To hear his music and view more poems visit ‘TheBruceMcRaeChannel’ on Youtube.

Haiku of the Synesthete by Kristina Butke

Did you know your voice
Sounds like salted caramel
Fluid, thick, and dark?

The vowels are slow
And the consonants, tender.
Your words stain my ears.

Whenever you’re gone
I escape to the South Bend
With Jeni and Fran.

But they aren’t you.
Their voices convey silence.
That’s when I decide.

I devour them.
One by one they disappear,
And as they’re swallowed

I pretend I hear
Your voice echo inside me,
A noise like candy.

Kristina Elyse Butke writes fantasy and horror, and occasionally dabbles in the world of digital art and comics. She has an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University and is an adjunct English professor at North Central State College. When she isn’t writing or arting, she indulges her geekiness by cosplaying at fan conventions. Say hello Kristina on her website or follow her on Twitter.

Electric Penguins by AJ Huffman

Decked out in full tuxed,
sunglassed, red-carpet style,
They practice for their paparazzi
moment. They blink haphazardly,
not yet used
to being the focus. Excitement
rises, temperatures
drop as their body-
guards are using blow
dryers to shrink bergs into cubes
for their drinks.
Clink!

A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She also has a full-length poetry collection scheduled for release in June 2015, titled, A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.

The News by Andrew Collard

1.
A word is written underneath her naval. I bend to see clearly but my head is blocked by phantom corners. Squinting only smears—I reach, restrained, and know the neckline pull of fingers on my pulse, the vertigo of wanting.

2.
The word is five weeks long, but it’s rumor. I echo what’s pronounced and stumble over growing syllables. The ink won’t dry though; it spreads to palms, needs reading. She rests on elocution like an undiscovered bone.

3.
She is whole where I remember less warmth, hovering unseen like a painter over canvas. I press myself against her blindly like a wall against the wind, waiting for a word to make my own.

Andrew Collard lives in Madison Heights, MI with wife/cats/Outrageous Cherry albums. He attends Oakland University and kind of wishes he had a pet lobster.

Featured Author: Mark Roberts

building site at midnight

star light bounces off timber scaffolding
illuminating sawdust dancing
in the thought of a breeze
everything smells of freshly sawn wood

i am miles away & will
read of it tomorrow in
a newspaper which will omit
important details
or maybe i will wait
for the despatches
single words carried on
a breath i can assemble
them how i choose

but the starlight is still there
even during the day
like this poem was here
even before the scaffold

 

Mark Roberts is a writer, critic and editor currently living in Sydney Australia. He has been publishing work in numerous magazines and journals since the early 1980s. He runs Rochford Street Review (A Journal of Australian & International Cultural Reviews, News and Criticism) and Rochford Street Press (one of the smallest Australian literary presses) . He is a founder and editor of P76 Magazine and is currently poetry editor of Social Alternatives.

 

green balloon

sometime in the late seventies he disappeared into the sky under a large green balloon he left a note behind an almost poetic message of lost love & a shattered heart he floated high above a street he wanted to forget pulling ropes & pushing levers to go higher finding that his heart beat slower in the thinning air

his old word disappeared in a haze he looked down on a blue green sphere as the sky above turned black & the pin pricks of stars grew larger he heard that below great advances had been made in poetry he didn’t care he watched the earth curve as he rushed around it again & again & longed for a straight line

 

October 1933

wish i could get it full
calm & unconscious but
a perpetual little spatter
of comments keep me awake
only a rain drop, a frog
in the bed of an administrator
& i refuse to take life
more strongly & steadily
open eyes open mind
a pot shot with substance

 

You can view even more of Mark’s work at:

Cameraman

Pacific Solution 3

Mark Roberts


http://verityla.com/posthumous-mark-roberts/
http://verityla.com/ishmael-mark-roberts/
http://the-otolith.blogspot.com.au/2013/10/mark-roberts.html

Mark Roberts – THE LAST DAY OF WAR

Cupid’s Vacation by Craig Kurtz

MISTER:
I say, it’s getting tricky lately
for a chap to have a cigarette
With all this fuss about the ladies throwing in
with those marching suffragettes;
Not that the gents are blameless
— they’re either effeminate or celibate
Reading Schopenhauer and moping
every hour. How deplorable!
What happened to the spirit
of bacchanalian high-jinks
And where is that waiter
who took the order for our drinks?
I used to think it was
rabble-rousing radicalism
Or the torpid symptoms of
contemporary existentialism;
The problem isn’t politics, nihilism
or its discontents; it’s men and women!
It’s more than just a little
squabbling and beshrewing,
It’s positively worse than a crisis
of neurosis
Or collapsing capitalism:
It’s Cupid on vacation — that lout.

MISSUS:
Now, let me tell you something
(do forswear your interrupting):
I, for one, have had my fill of machismo
and dare I mention mustache-twirling.
It’s brutes like you fomenting
partisan imbroglios
and conspiracies of protocol
inveterately feudal. Indeed!
Blame it on the liberal press
stirring up those abolitionists
Or point to global brinkmanship
from a factious working class,
Do what you will — now, where’s
our drinks? Let’s just get the bill.
The Devil’s in the details,
the issue is societal;
Upheaval in the colonies 4
is a trifle when you think of this:
It’s men and women! There’s the gridlock
in another campaign cycle
When demagogues are querulous
and filibusters universal;
It’s positively irremediable
When Cupid’s on vacation — what a rout!

Craig Kurtz lives at Twin Oaks Intentional Community where he writes poetry while simultaneously and crafting hammocks. Recent work has appeared in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Blue Hour, Drunk Monkeys, Literati Quarterly, Outburst, Regime, Indigo Rising, Harlequin Creature, Reckless Writing and The Tower Journal. Recent music featured at Fishfood & Lavajuice.

Self Portrait by DS Peters

My heart an old woman
skirt hiked up mid-thigh
as she slowly crushes
porto grapes with her
smooth bare feet
My blood is not porto
but magma rolling
sluggish as it cools
in a stream at the foot
of the calming volcano
though it still tastes of the grape

My head a red clay pot
my cerebrum soil, synapses seed
my hair grows thick and long
Dionaea muscipula
good only for consuming flies

My mind is quicksand
not even my mind can escape

My Spirit a Spirit
not a soul, covered
in soft feathers, deep
eventide tinge, with eyes
the color of the sky just before
a morning storm at sea

The rest of me is
as the rest of me appears
once a desire churning to burn
one day ash carried by the wind

DS Peters earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY, and obtained his BA from UW-Milwaukee. He writes speculative fiction, earthbound fiction, poetry, and odd bits of non-fiction. He is a traveler, and currently resides in South Korea where he works as a professor and observes human behavior.

Signals for Belief by Seth Jani

The simplest, most incommunicable truth
Is a small stone at the bottom of the heart,
An intimation amongst the bile,
Amongst the patchwork of perjury and blood.
It doesn’t sing like love,
Or burn in the bowels like hate or anger.
It barely simmers even when the most glaring space
Opens for its presence.
Instead it is like a hint of the unknown
That comes and goes with the wind’s discretion.
An instinct that shudders in the carpentry
Of bone.
A subtle premonition
In a backed-up voice box.
It’s a slow, lugubrious butterfly
That occasionally starts up
From the intestinal thatch-roof,
Lifts its one-of-a-kind body
Up through the diaphragm
And disappears through the pear-shaped
Clouds of morning.

Seth Jani was raised in Western Maine. He is the founder and editor of Seven CirclePress and his own work has been published widely in such journals as Writers’ Bloc, The Foundling Review, Phantom Kangaroo and Chantarelle’s Notebook. He currently resides in Seattle, WA. His website is http://www.sethjani.com.

My Life and Medieval Times by Howie Good

There’s a new exhibit at the museum. Many odd items are on display – hair from the heads of madmen, baby clothes that were worn by a miniature pinscher, a jar of eyeball jell. The visible has become fugitive, taking a cue from the language that birds invented to preserve their secrets. Those of us waiting in line avoid any discussion of what is art. We all must share one handkerchief. It’s like watching TV with the sound turned off. The real content lies elsewhere, perhaps with the falcons that feast on the crows feasting on the bodies of hanged criminals.

Howie Good’s latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work.

Translating the Colour Breen by Carol Shillibeer

swimming, before the new moon
crescents-out all over the night,
my wet skin feels breen like yours does heat,
the mouth of the warm spring sun
on the skin over your heart

Carol Shillibeer is a synestetic and an epileptic, hence her obsession with “translations.” A writer, who also takes pictures, makes sound files, reads tarot, edits poetry manuscripts and teaches workshops, she publishes a few bits and bobs. Her list is at carolshillibeer.com