Attached by Allison Grayhurst

Ride on, suddenly departing
like a magician – basking on
the threshold where you kneel and spill
your secrets into the mud.
You should have stopped, before your body
grew in stress and your mask like pale lips turned
greyer, unintentionally drained.
But on you went, instead of speaking, you ran
forward, smelling of silence, intoxicated with danger,
flaming high with your own deceit – a vibration
to reckon with – your regret finally torn
like the inside of a coffin
from hands that refuse defeat.
I was behind you, always facing your back.
You painted yourself a target and drew me a lie. We all
lie, you said. You promised me nothing but the shallow rush
of living in your glorious and destructive
wake.

Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 500 poems published in international journals and anthologies. She has eleven published books of poetry and five collections, as well as six chapbooks and one e-chapbook. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 500 poems published in international journals and anthologies. She has eleven published books of poetry and five collections, as well as six chapbooks and one e-chapbook. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; http://www.allisongrayhurst.com

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A Ten Question Interview With The Artist…Sophia E. DiGonis

Why do you write?

I write a variety of poetry and songs as well as short stories and plays. Mostly, I write music and everything goes in my world.

What books do you read?

I love classics of British, French and Modern American literature. I have favorites in each. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte is one, The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo and 1984 by George Orwell, just to name a few. My favorite American poets include Carl Sandburg, Charles Bukowski and Robert Frost just to name a few.

What inspires you?

Life.

How did you know you wanted to be a writer and when?

Since high school, my sophomore year. I was eccentric back then as I am now.

How Do you deal with rejection?

It’s an open door to something better.
Who are some writers you admire?

Off the top of my head, Litsa Dremousis, is one.  Her writing is gutsy, different and tells a story with a backbone equivalent to epics.
Djuna Barnes is another. She revolutionized writing by bringing the Underground to the surface.

Is writing the only artistic medium you do?

No, my dear. I play the piano, as I am trained and educated in music and I do a medium called scratch board, which but a board immersed in clay and one carves images into it. Writing does serve as a starting point to everything else, though. I also run a radio show called “Gypsy Poet Radio” on http://blogtalkradio.com/gypsypoet
And it’s based on my wit, humor and focus on substance.

What would be some advice you would give to your younger self?

Don’t give up just because you didn’t get it the first time.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Start with one word that invigorates you, find different ways of pronouncing the word and have fun with it.

What is your writing process?

I have no filter between my brain and my mouth. I write the way I speak and the moment a word rings color to my ear, I work with it! Try it! 🙂

Sophia E. DiGonis runs a radio podcast called Gypsy Poet Radio on http://blogtalkradio.com/GypsyPoet, which is a radio show for a variety of arts and guests and brings more to the world of expression.  She is a pianist, composer and poet. She resides in Texas and lives in art, music, literature and the love of spoken and written word.

Sophia E. DiGonis runs a radio podcast called Gypsy Poet Radio on http://blogtalkradio.com/GypsyPoet, which is a radio show for a variety of arts and guests and brings more to the world of expression.
She is a pianist, composer and poet. She resides in Texas and lives in art, music, literature and the love of spoken and written word.

The One O’clock Gun by Sally Evans

We are residents of Edinburgh
walking down Princes Street,
on the Bridges, the New Town or Old
and we hardly lose our stride
in the lunch-time energy,
doors swinging, cafes and booths,
the floral clock unreliable,
no longer planted with flowers
by the stone steps down to the gardens
where we, true Edinburghers,
may be constrained by the hours,
but the gun’s boom, noisy and sudden
worries us not. We look
at our watches quickly from habit,
an old proof of accuracy
as this signal to shipping
goes off and the white ball falls
on the yard-arm on Calton Hill
for the sailors along the firth
as a guide to the tides.
We know the gun, its daily
obstinacy, we carry on
our conversations around it.
Only the new arrival
remarks on it, the one
who noticed her taxi driver
from Waverley Station was Scottish.
BOOM THUD. What was that?
It’s our one o’clock gun.

Sally Evans lives in Scotland and has Welsh connections. She has had several books of poems published including Poetic Adventures in Scotland (2014) and the Bees (2008).

Sally Evans lives in Scotland and has Welsh connections. She has had several books of poems published including Poetic Adventures in Scotland (2014) and the Bees (2008).

Eyes Never Lie by Prerna Bakshi

That’s what they say
But we know better
Not all eyes fall for this
‘Never lying’ honesty trope
Some have mastered
The art of deception
Some just crave for that
Good ol’ attention
Some do it out of survival
Some–As an act of transgression
These eyes are shamed
For they push boundaries
Lie
Cheat
They deceive
Pull out tricks
Break rules
Defeat
Teach
They revolutionize–
Some of us proudly reclaim the tag:
The woman with those evil eyes.

Prerna Bakshi is a sociolinguist, research scholar and writer of Indian origin, currently based in Macao. Her poetry has been published, or is forthcoming, in Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Red Fez, Muse India, Postcolonial Text, Theory in Action, Hysteria, Misfit magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, Asahi Shimbun and elsewhere. She could be found on Twitter: @bprerna

Prerna Bakshi is a sociolinguist, research scholar and writer of Indian origin, currently based in Macao. Her poetry has been published, or is forthcoming, in Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, Red Fez, Muse India, Postcolonial Text, Theory in Action, Hysteria, Misfit magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, Asahi Shimbun and elsewhere. She could be found on Twitter: @bprerna

Huckleberry Quim & Ursula Cuntrouble by Paul Tristram

Huckleberry Quim and Ursula Cuntrouble were half laying/half sitting upon the floor behind the antique money safe, which had been blown onto its side when Ursula had taken out that Security Guard-who had dared point his motherfucking gun at her dear Huckleberry-with a stick of dynamite she had lit off her Swisher Sweet cigarillo not five minutes previously.They had two female cashiers, hands tied and gagged, sat against the wall not quite 4ft away,as long as they had these cunts alive, they knew they were cool against any kind of grenade, or mortar pussy attack.
Huckleberry was checking his badly grazed left elbow and sharpening his Bowie knife upon the pile of jagged childhood memories he kept in a special pouch around his neck as Ursula was clicking shells into her shotgun whilst deep throating him voraciously, in between bobbing his sweaty war-torn cock and wretching, she would half mumble ‘God, I Love You!’ in a voice so full and strained with love and adoration that it brought a tear to the eye. After swallowing heartily, Ursula fell into quiet contemplation for a moment or two, thinking about how they had met-she had been a Prison Officer at the notorious ‘Wordsworth Scrubs’ and Huckleberry was in on a 6 month pimping and street hustling charge-she had known it was love the moment she had looked into his deep black eyes (which Micky the Fence had given him in a fight over B-Wing amphetamine, she had taken the law into her own hands later that night and fucked Micky up good and proper with the thick end of a pool cue and no lube, he wouldn’t be standing upright for a good week or two!)
And now, here they were, in the middle of their very own bank job, Huckleberry had already transferred the funds to two offshore accounts via computer, seconds after entering the bank, unfortunately Ursula had farted (Nerves!) rather loudly and with guts to it, sending her loose floral dress a quivering whilst simultaneously drawing everyone’s attention just as the bottom hem lifted slightly, revealing the tip of her shotgun barrel.
From there, it was ‘On Fucking Top’ big time, wasn’t it! They sprung into action immediately, Huckleberry reached both hands forward with lightning speed, ripping out the cashier’s tongue and eyeballs in one fluid motion, preventing her from ever revealing the offshore transaction details.
Just to make sure (suffering from OCD he liked to do things thoroughly and properly!) he leapt the counter like a violent ballerina, picked up the fire extinguisher and beat her exactly thirteen times over the head and breasts, only stopping for a second once whilst slipping upon his own pre-cum.
Whilst this was going on Ursula did the nearest Security Guard with martial arts, she was on it like a teenage slut on a car bonnet, she wasn’t a delicate woman and had shoulders like an American Football Player and she charged and rammed one of those shoulders right into his throat, slamming him into a filing cabinet, whilst the crush was vibrating through his-to use a technical term here ‘fucked-up body’-she reached down (Swift as the shits!) and ripped his scrotum sack open from back to front, sending both testicles rolling down and out of his trousers legs and across the marbled floor.
This stopped the second Security Guard who was running towards her with his baton raised in one hand and his revolver pointed in the other (Waiting for a clear shot!) immediately, upon seeing the rolling testicle he shit his pants (literally!) murmured “Fuck That!”, fell to his knees and shot himself through the temple.
The third Security Guard was taken out with the stick of dynamite, and here they now were, the next step was to get to Hawaii, get married and make motherfucking babies, she was nearing forty and didn’t have much time (She’d put everything into her career before meeting Huckleberry, bless him but he’d really brought the woman out in her!) but firstly, they had to get the ‘Fuck Outta Dodge’
She was interrupted from her reverie by a voice over a mega phone
“We have nine police cars outside, there are more on route and the SAS are on their way… Release the hostages, put down your weapons… and exit the building, slowly and with your hands raised up in the air, palms open and fingers outstretched!”
“You’ll never take us alive Pig Cunts!” Yelled a homeless man with mental health issues running through him like the marbling on a steak, who was sat in the doorway of the bakery next door.
A fraction of a second later a helicopter arose on the horizon, an order was given, there was a Whoosh! and a rocket took out both homeless man and the front of the bakery.
Even before the dust had settled Huckleberry had quickly put his cock away (he liked to let it drip-dry slowly instead of wiping it!) looked deep into Ursula’s loving eyes and said.
“Here’s our window of opportunity, my Lover, they’ve got a fucking ‘copter out there, we need to get to that motherfucking ‘copter, quickly, let’s grab the bitches and burst outta them front doors like Ninja Assassin, Knights Of The Roundtable, Charles Bronson, Hard-core Bastards… and remember, anyone in sight not in a stinking uniform is probably detective, their ass is grass and we’re the motherfucking lawnmowers!”
As they burst out into the Summer afternoon, an hostage each held before them, the sunshine bounced off Ursula’s spittle as she yelled the immortal words
“Hold your fire, or I’m a barrel-fuck each of these bitches right in front of ya, cocksuckers!”
Everything turned to slow motion, Huckleberry was firing his Uzi into a group of Salvation Army fuckers with trumpets and trombones to his right whilst Ursula (Keeping her bullets for them Pigs!) was rapidly flinging Chinese throwing stars from various garter belts, with deadly accuracy into the faces of a gang of Nuns huddled in prayer off to the left.
They sidestepped to the right, trying to escape from the Police, who to be honest were just waiting for a clear shot, and saw in the traffic jam there, a flat back lorry with a massive ship harpoon strapped to it as cargo, they headed for that, obviously.
Just as they mounted the lorry, two helicopters arose above the buildings opposite, Huckleberry noticed that there was an harpoon strapped to each side of the casing, he ripped one out, loaded it, aimed and fired straight into the furthest helicopter on the left of them, blowing the fucker to smithereens.
The Police Captain screamed to the second helicopter through his megaphone,
“For fuck sake matey, land on that roof and stay there until the SAS get here, these Bastards ain’t fucking about here!”
While this was going on and Ursula was busy fanning the perspiration from her ample cleavage whilst admiring her ‘Cute As Fuck’ man, killing people and blowing shit up, the hostages bolted, straight off the back of the lorry and over towards the Police car barricade.
Ursula screamed
“Fucking Whores!”
and swinging her shotgun from the motherfucking hip, put a hole in the back of each of those ‘Bitches’ big enough to ram King Kong’s dick through.
With their human shields now horsemeat, it was time to get things on a bit sharpish like, the helicopter had landed on the roof of the building right in front of them and behind the harpoon carrying lorry was a fire engine.
With her right hand Ursula swung the Harpoon upwards and pointed it at the fucker and yelled,
“Get out the ‘copter and scram motherfuckers or I’m staking your Pig asses!”
whilst simultaneously firing one of the Uzi’s she had strapped to the bottom of her back over at the Police cars with her brass knuckled left hand.
As this was going on, Huckleberry had jumped ship and was now on top of the fire engine, directing the ladders upwards to the now empty ‘copter, as he scaled the rungs, Ursula removed the two grenades she’d plugged in orifices earlier (In case they needed to suicide, quickly?) and lobbed them at the restless mass of Police activity going on behind the line of Police cars, giving them cocksuckers something else to worry and think about whilst her beloved Mr Quim attended to the necessary job at hand, namely getting their motherfucking sky-chariot ready.
After dispatching a ‘copter cop hiding in the back of the ‘copter with a fireman’s axe, Huckleberry started up the engine and turned the fucker sideways so the machine guns were now facing the street, then looking over and seeing a rocket launcher on the passenger seat, he leapt out and fired it into the Police below, yelling,
“Ursula, get your fine ass up that motherfucking ladder now, girl!”
She stopped to wipe a small tear from her eye and draw a little heart in front of herself whilst silently mouthing the words ‘I Love You’
Then she took off at a gallop, striding three rungs at a time, whilst Huckleberry jumped into the ‘copter and was busy firing the machine gun at every motherfucking thing that moved down below, from pigeon to Police horse (The reinforcement’s were arriving with every passing second).
As Ursula reached the top of the ladder she took one in the thigh from a marksman who had just joined the ruckus, and winged, she fell off the ladder onto the roof, luckily only feet away from the ‘copter, she hobbled over and climbed in.
Quick as a flash Huckleberry was in the drivers seat and they were off in a eastwardly direction over the rooftops and out of shot range in seconds, the motherfucking Police Captain punched his Lieutenant out of sheer frustration and quit his job on the spot.
The SAS arrived on the scene in balaclavas just over a minute later and after a quick briefing, were off after the fleeing, stolen ‘copter.
Did the SAS catch up with them? Did Huckleberry Quim and Ursula Cuntrouble finally make it to Hawaii and change Ursula’s name to Quim.
Or did she get gangrene from the bullet hole and die painfully in Huckleberry’s arms, leaving him bitter, destitute and a raving, suicidal, homeless alcoholic?
Stay tuned Folks… and all will be revealed (Well, maybe… if I can get the God Damned top off this motherfucking bottle!)

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. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036  And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

A Ten Question Interview With The Artist…Christoph Paul

Why do you write?

I don’t know. It is like asking why do we fuck? We just feel the need to do it from a deep biological need. Some of us enjoy it more then others, but we all like to fuck. For me it is the same thing with writing. Not getting laid sucks but so does trying to get laid (when I was single). It is hard, takes time out of the day, but in the end it feels worth it. It is the same thing with writing, I just need to get off. It feels like a need. Once you hit that stride its up there with the Little Death.

What books do you read?

I am a schizophrenic reader and it kind of sucks, because there is very few people into ALL the same stuff. My Big 5 are Bizarro, Horror, Poetry, YA, and Literary Fiction.

What inspires you?

Two things 1) Quality good to great art. Music, Fiction, Poetry, TV, and sports (basketball is big men doing ballet). 2) Something really dumb I see that drives me to write. Right now it’s ISIS, Political Correctness on steroids, American Politics, and #GamerGate

How did you know you wanted to be a writer and when?

I was a little kid and wanted to write a story inspired by Tales From The Crypt. I can still remember writing about The Pool Monster. It felt so good to write the ending of the monster putting its arm through a kid’s stomach during his high dive. Though I can’t write good horror, it planted the seed.

How Do you deal with rejection?

By saying the short version of The Serenity Prayer—fuck it.

Who are some writers you admire?

This is my favorite question. I have many writers for different reasons. I love Gary Shteyngart, and Tom Perrota for their sense of humor, satire, and tight writing. Mohisin Hamid and Laura Lee Bahr for their brilliant use of Second Person. Kim Addonizo, Philip LoPresti Lisa Marie Basile, and Nate Slawson for keeping my passion of poetry alive and healthy. Carlton Mellick The 3rd for being my favorite Bizarro (my favorite genre) author and storyteller. Brian Keene and Edward Lee for horror. And Matt and Trey from South Park, which I think The University of Mars will say they are the best satirists in human history.

Is writing the only artistic medium you do?

No, I play guitar, bass, and sing and play in bands. I’ve recorded songs with The Only Prescription and Moses Moses, but there is nothing better then playing live. I also do The Passion of the Christoph Podcast on The Shootin It Network that gives me a similar buzz

What would be some advice you would give to your younger self?

Learn craft, don’t wait for inspiration, make friends patience and perseverance, and don’t be afraid of failing. Also I wished I learned guitar sooner.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

I do. Besides the basic memes and basic shit. Learn how to play yourself and you can only do that by jamming. What instrument are you? Know this! Do you outline or pants it. That shit matters. Build a system, know how you play the best, and have courage to see your weakness and then try to make them part of your own strengths.

What is your writing process?

If you ever seen the HBO show True Detective, I take a ton of notes like the nihilist Matthew McConaughey. I can’t just sit there and write. I don’t’ work that way (similar to what I said above.) I need notes and outline to write decent to very good Fiction. For poetry, this is lame as hell to admit, but I write my best poetry and even take my best notes when on a treadmill on working on an abandoned road. I worked at RaidoShack and would write on my phone. The habit has stayed with me. I also like noise in the background. I also got bad ADD but I make that weakness a strength when writing.

Christoph Paul is an author of six books of Humor, Non-Fiction, Satire, Bizarro, and Poetry. He hosts The Passion of the Christoph Podcast on The Shootin It Network. He was singer/guitarist of The Only Prescription and is part of the current 2-man band project Moses Moses. He has worked for the Dept. of Labor and managed an adult video store—both were equally repugnant.

Christoph Paul is an author of six books of Humor, Non-Fiction, Satire, Bizarro, and Poetry. He hosts The Passion of the Christoph Podcast on The Shootin It Network. He was singer/guitarist of The Only Prescription and is part of the current 2-man band project Moses Moses. He has worked for the Dept. of Labor and managed an adult video store—both were equally repugnant.

The Found Poem (Of Bobby Driscoll) by Ricky Garni

TRADEMARKS:

Bright smile and presence

Innocent, angelical look

Very soulful eyes

Short hair

Often delivered the line: Gee Whiz!

HIT MOVIE:  the voice of animated Peter Pan (1953), 

for which he was also the live-action model. 

QUOTES:  “I have found that memories are not very useful. 

I was carried on a silver platter and then dumped into the garbage can.”

Two playing children found his dead body in an abandoned East Village tenement. Believed to be an unclaimed and homeless person, he was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave on Hart Island, where he remains.

Ricky Garni has worked over the years as a teacher, wine merchant, musician, and graphic designer. He began writing poetry in 1978, and has produced over thirty volumes of prose and verse since 1995. His work can be found in many online publications, print magazines and anthologies and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on five occasions. His latest work, HEY, is dedicated to the memory of Faye Hunter.

Ricky Garni has worked over the years as a teacher, wine merchant, musician, and graphic designer. He began writing poetry in 1978, and has produced over thirty volumes of prose and verse since 1995. His work can be found in many online publications, print magazines and anthologies and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on five occasions. His latest work, HEY, is dedicated to the memory of Faye Hunter.

The Season In Hell by Brenton Booth

I understand the wilting flower
the dusty bowl on the shelf
all the words ever written about longing:
is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry?
drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon
in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney
raindrops dancing on the roof
my neighbour still quiet two days after I told
him we should have a fight right now on the
street
Kandinsky on the wall and dust on the floor
the terrorists killing on the other side of the
world
believing their actions to be right
and they are no more wrong than any other
murder for any cause or country
the penguins eating snails
and tears the same as always
while I open another can
and wonder if this poem will ever end.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has appeared in many small press publications. To read more of his work visit brentonbooth.weebly.com

A Short Distance by Kurt Nimmo

from
that bar fight
over a woman
to this:
old, fat and not
necessarily happy. not counting the days
but aware they are there
caught in dusk each evening
and falling like leaves
from the acacia. she was not worth the fight
and certainly not appreciative. now I am blessed
to be invisible to most women
though that tension is still there
a curse not lightly dismissed.
only my wife
now thankfully
can see me early in the morning
standing naked minus inside out white socks
looking dumbly for spectacles
I did not need
when that beer soaked contender and I traded
punches forty years ago
as the object of our pitiful contest
stood to one side drunk
a cigarette shoved between
snarled lips.

 Kurt Nimmo edited The Smudge and Planet Detroit in the 1970s and 80s. He has been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes for fiction and two of his books were selected as "modern classics" by the Wormwood Review. Kurt now edits Busted Dharma and lives in Texas. http://www.busteddharma.com


Kurt Nimmo edited The Smudge and Planet Detroit in the 1970s and 80s. He has been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes for fiction and two of his books were selected as “modern classics” by the Wormwood Review. Kurt now edits Busted Dharma and lives in Texas. http://www.busteddharma.com