It’s dark inside your Buick,
and like someone playing father, you
wolf-whistle at the hilt of your highest speed
with full cigar lungs. I think of what it means
to be docile: wilted myrtle, deafened gypsy.
I am pinned down like a moth
and you came to tame and coo me.
Out the window, the sea looks
so naughty, its ebb and flow sensual,
struggling like hell to latch to the side
of the fermented earth.
I think I am a mermaid now, draught
hidden deep in this forest of silk.
When you gag me, it is a sendoff,
quiet as a charmed mountain, its skin plush
Caroline Wilson is a poet from Western North Carolina. She holds a BA in Women, Gender, and Sexuality studies and Poetry from the University of North Carolina at Asheville. Her work has been published in Headwaters Journal, Metabolism, The Pedestal Magazine, and Spitjaw Review. She lives in Asheville and co-curates the quarterly Juniper Bends Reading Series.
The stick insect
shaped into stick
even knew what one was.
Like god could have done,
if he was around.
i keep asking
for some kind of
by why should there be?
And there is nothing tongue
in cheek about it
No great ant secret
of the ant eater
By 15 million
But hunger and
And doing every
Thing and nothing
Or taking a woman
To a film
A million billion
A small few less
with filled bellies
We wake up.
Make our bed
Go to work
All so god damn
Ben Smith is a half hack writer and runs a dirty website called Horror Sleaze and trash. He has two cats, one wife and too many personalities.
“If you believe in God, you’ll believe in anything.”
Lost weekend that became a fortnight,
waking up who-knows-where, washed
out and wary, time wiped away in self-
induced fugue state of alcohol and reefer,
pep pills and poppers. Clothes that smelled
of a season in hell spent crawling through
sewers with the rats, blood caked, broken
fingernails and slime coated skin, caked
lips and chipped teeth, trembling with
body heat, a need more pressing than
escaping from the cold. Amid torn pages
from dozens of books strewn about beyond-
filthy-squat, room, epic poems transcribed
from dictations from dead poets, reams of
writing, all of it written in words no one
was likely ever to decipher or to understand.
Not something from a pleasure dome decreed
but something by Rimbaud, as a gun runner,
dope sick and insane, or by one of those
Russian poets he had sent arms to, who
would rather blow their brains out than
write another word.
Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine misfitmagazine.net.
It’s as welcoming as entering the station
She looks like a young French actress
blackened walls mortar grayed
somewhere is the smell of fresh coffee
Those empty huts could make a home
the ponies skirt bonfire remnants
there is plenty of wood trackside
Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool born poet and editor now living in Nottingham. His debut collection, Radio Mast Horizon, is published by Shearsman. Poems have recently appeared in The Morning Star, Stride, Otoliths and Pages. He is co-editor at erbacce and M58, a blogzine of visual poetry. http://www.andrewtaylorpoetry.com
A blasphemous horde of poachers and drinkers
the big money had spawned, they dug their way
through rocks and sodden clay.
Camped out like tinkers, only their brass
was missed when they picked up sticks,
following the track to another day
of squalor, deaths and guarded looks…
From those whose curtained lives
they did not share they earned scant praise
for laying down the future.
In an Age of Progress they were its nomads,
shaping it slowly barrow by barrow
wherever work might lead them.
Country lads and migrants,
their mumbles hard to follow –
who thought of them at all
when the band played and folk
clutched tickets for which they had paid?
David Cooke won a Gregory Award in 1977 and has been widely published in the UK, Ireland and beyond. His most recent collection, Work Horses, was published in 2012 by Ward Wood Publishing. His next collection, A Murmuration, will be published by Two Rivers Press in 2015.
I am guilty
I am included
I am crybaby, lecherous, disability welfare, pot smoker
I am victim, attacker, liar and clown
I am a thief, a scoundrel
I am praying
A collection of myths in the morning twilight
The cork out of an absinthe bottle
I am slum lord of this Texas imagination
All these poems that begin with the letter “I”
PW Covington is a disabled veteran and convicted felon.
His work has been published by both universities and underground ‘zines.
He travels widely, but lives in rural Texas with his bulldog, Chesty.
“I am in love with someone working at a water treatment plant?
How fucking dare they!
I’m going there, I’m gonna knock out every man and woman in there
and drag her out by her hair.
It’s Giro Day for fucks sake!”
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
I have lived poor
just to stand in your shade,
to put one hand to your
that droop to ground
and rise again.
And yes, I have set my
other hand into the sun
to see the unscientific
how my veins crook
like the brave black
twist of you
against the sky
Chuck Taylor currently lives in a two room apartment with his darling wife Takako Saito and their cat, Pounce. His most recent book is POET AND VAMPIRE, from MadcityPublications in NYC and available online.
living in the hotel
it’s not like gay Paree
or Constantinople in the 20s
except for when the lights go out
not like being bombed
shellacked from the sky
in any case
they got a bicycle connected to the generator
to fork out the headlines
along with the morning Nescafe
it’s not like that
these are modern times verging on real live
I just get pissed off
grab the cell phone
turn on the flashlight app and commence
to put the finishing touches on my manifesto on how to burn it all down
instructions via hot-wired literati
it’s not like I need a candle
I’m not taking a bath
nobody fucking died
Jay Passer’s work was first published in Caliban magazine in 1988. He lives in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, the city of his birth.
We drank and fucked the nights
away, and shared a million thoughts
before the break of many
What you were will never be again.
Tonight I drink alone to the sound of
mind becoming soul.
Like an apple thrown into the sea.
Daniel Ortiz was born, he has lived, and eventually he will die. He writes poetry upon scraps of paper and exists upon scraps of life. He spends most days looking for a way out. His words and art have been featured on horrorsleazetrash.com and in bathroom stalls across America.