What It Is To Have Tenure by Jay Passer

I summon the battleships
my doppelgänger resides overseas
the media chatter splits anvils
I’m broke on barefoot bottles
against the regime of disinformation
I went gray and stooped in minutes
I lost some weight when removed of kneecaps
my surveillance was confiscated
I listen to the same song over and over
obsessed with botched executions
I consume frozen burritos
waiting for the dry cycle to finish spinning
just in time to fall off the mountain
I don’t expect miracles
I grope at the cumulus of the sky for some scratch
I give Achilles a run for his money
onset of a pantheon employing Black Op directives
while grifting me at every chance
I hope and pray I awaken from the psychotropics
to corral killer whales and brainwash berserk rhinos
I extradite my sovereign collection of lovers and rivers
I ought to be committed
I ought to run for office
I ought to clench my teeth in defiance
of what’s
best for me.

Jay Passer’s work has appeared online and in print since 1988. He lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth. His latest chap, Flower Omelette, co-authored with Misti Rainwater-Lites, is available from Lulu.

A Ten Question Interview with the Artist…Reuben Woolley

Why do you write?

I write because I feel a need to communicate even my weird self. Curiously, when I write people accept what I have to say better than if I went round just talking about it in conversation. It seems a writer is expected to be strange.

What books do you read?

Poetry:

TS Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Paul Celan, Jerome Rothenberg, the Ted Hughes of Crow, Philip Gross, John Burnside, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, David Pollard, Charles Olson, JH Prynne, Denise Levertov, James Schuyler, Jack Spicer, Kenneth Koch, Robert Creeley, Paul Blackburn, ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Amiri Baraka, Gary Snyder, Anselm Hollo, Adrian Henri, Jaynae Cortez, Sylvia Plath, Kathleen Fraser, Ron Padgett, Ray DiPalma, Alice Notley, Wanda Coleman, Ron Silliman, Bob Perelman, David Shapiro, Rae Armentrout, Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, Charles Bernstein, Federíco García Lorca, Vasko Popa, Antony Owen.

Fiction:

Dystopian and fantasy novels especially Neil Gaiman, Phillip Pullman, Terry Pratchett. China Miéville, Garth Nix, JK Rowling, Michael Moorcock.

Non-fiction:

Wittgenstein, Ethomethodology – Harvey Sacks, Harold Garfinkel

What inspires you?

Death, graveyards, birth, refugees, Greek, Celtic, Scandinavian and prehistoric mythology, buses, people on buses, people off buses.

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

In 1968, after reading Louis MacNeice and the Liverpool Poets. I thought, ‘I can do that’ and convinced myself that I really could. Ah, self-deception! I’m still trying.

How do you deal with rejection?

I often think, ‘Oh good! Now I can edit them a little and send them somewhere else’ or ‘How the hell did I think that that poem was good enough!’

Who are some writers you admire?

See the books I read

Is writing the only artistic medium you do?

I play guitar, but not very well and I have done a little (very little) painting.

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

Don’t stop! Take advantage of every opportunity to learn more. Don’t be such a wanker!

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Write, write and then write some more. When you need to relax, read! Scissors are almost as important as a pen or a keyboard. Be cruel!

What is your writing process?

Typically, I write ideas, images, words, lines, even complete poems down in a notebook I always have with me. This often happens on the bus to and from work. This may or may not grow into a poem or be recognised as a poem. It may get rewritten several times – the editing process is going on all the time – and then it will be copied onto the computer (another opportunity for editing). I then share it ‘friends only’ on Facebook where, as Helen Ivory describes the process, I hang it up to dry for a time. If it’s any good it will possibly be edited again and then sent off with the hope that it will find a home.

Reuben Woolley has had poems published in Tears in the Fence and Domestic Cherry 4. He has been published online in The Stare’s Nest, Ink Sweat and Tears, Nutshells and Nuggets, Yellow Chair Review, Bone Orchard Poetry and the Screech Owl, The Lighthouse Journal (forthcoming) among others. His first collection, the king is dead was published in 2014 by Oneiros Books: http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/oneirosbooks/the-king-is-dead/ He started the online magazine, I am not a silent poet, in November 2014, and continues to edit it: https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/ Runner-up in the Overton Poetry Pamphlet competition, 2015 and also runner- up of the Erbacce Prize, 2015 with the corresponding chapbook now published by Erbacce Press, called dying notes: http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/reuben- woolley/4590077522

 

 

 

The Etiquette Of Perversion (Or A Little History Of The Masked Fiend Partial To A Little Feminist Toilet Seat Pissing!) by Paul Tristram

“Ok class, today we are going to focus upon non-violent, home intruders.
A few decades ago, all the way back at the time of the Millennium, there was the strange case of Rupert Aubrey.
An ordinary sort of bloke on the surface, by all counts. Batchelor, lived in a cosy little flat in middleclass suburbia, worked as a shipping clerk, was competent and reliable in his job.
No Religion, abstained from alcohol, drugs both legal and illegal.
No children, collected and built model trainsets, no friends only acquaintances, had dinner each Sunday with his mum who lived a mile and three quarters away. Wore a lot of grey.
Unassuming in every single detail, apart from the fact that he was caught, uninvited, in the bedroom of Susan Starflucker’s home. Susan was an actress (I used that term loosely here!)
in a strange sort of ‘Sheeping Experiment’ the Government was involved in back in the day, based upon ‘real life’ (I use that term loosely here!) TV shows.
Immediately the Police realized that they had in fact caught the ‘Pervert Prowler’ whom they had been exhaustively searching for the last eighteen months or so.
Up until this point, the authorities had been at a loss to profile, nothing was ever damaged or stolen from the twenty five properties which Rupert Aubrey had broken and entered.
The victim’s were never at home when he unlawfully presented himself within their place of residency and he had disappeared before their return.
His focus seemed to be in his actual ‘calling card’ which was to urinate profusely over the toilet seats of well known Celebrities expressing (what he considered extreme!) Feminist views in interviews, newspaper articles and upon TV panel shows.
After the ‘Scenting’ had taken place, he would adjourn to the boudoir and strategically place a polaroid of his limp dick within their knicker drawer.
He was only caught on this occasion because whilst in the bathroom ‘happily gushing forth his crime’ he had spied tampon wrappings in the waste basket next to the sink and three public hairs (two auburn, one grey!) upon the actual toilet seat which he was desecrating.
The combination of both discoveries, led to a chain reaction which resulted in him becoming erECT, which slowed down his entire operation drastically, resulting in him overstaying his allotted seven and a half minute time slot.
He was in fact arrested after a guest sleeping in the next room was disturbed by his cursing and growling and telephoned the police whom, as luck would have it, had a two manned car travelling down the next street.
He later claimed in ‘Cautioned Interview’ that he was still busy trying to de-ERect his penis by violent slapping, pinching and thoughts of tuna fish and sweetcorn pizza when the aforementioned Law Officers burst in and ordered him to remove his furious hands from his weapon and un-spread his legs.
A few days later he was Sectioned under the Mental Health Act and became a permanent resident at Broadmoor Secure Hospital, where he worked in the gardens up until his heart attack in 2025.
When asked why he did not just take and leave a polaroid of his erect or semi-erect dick, thus sticking to his seven and a half minute deadline, he replied sincerely,
“Why, it’s a matter of etiquette, completely!”
He also stated in letters to several female fans that his only regret (Apart from getting caught!) was in being outfoxed by ‘That Greer’, apparently he had entered her Berkshire home on several occasions but she had cunningly removed her toilet seat and her underwear drawer was either so cleverly hidden or non existent, that he had always left feeling depressed, suicidal and beaten until finally moving on to someone else!”

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/

 

 

My Ugliness by John Tustin

There is something that seems natural
And right
About a man
Drinking alone
And writing moping poetry
As the phone sits silent
And the music that emanates
From the headphones
Poses as people
Whose noise would occupy
An otherwise stifled room.

I belong here,
The cat staring a room away,
Reading Bukoswski
And Li Po
And ee
Cummings,
Alone
Alone alone.

My beer does not get the chance
To get warm.
My eyes moist with memories
Of someone beautiful
In this same room
Calling me beautiful
Not so very long ago.

That is past.
Today is almost yesterday.
Tomorrow will almost certainly be worse
As it becomes today,
The sun spilling in through the blinds
Like a smiling curse.

The night is dying
But the dawn is death
Because it breaks
Without hope.

In the night
My scars gleam
Like silver.

In the night
My words are the slickest
Arrows
Finding their intended targets.

In the night
My ugliness is clean
And almost beautiful
To me,

My tears a pantomime
To indicate
There is something
Within.

John Tustin has two perfect children and no awards or trophies. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is a link to his poetry online.

Sasha And Dasha by Oleg Razumovsky

Dasha loved Sasha, and Sasha loved great russian poet Alexander Pushkin. He memorized one hundred poems of the poet and shone in the classroom. The teacher of literature, Larissa Ivanovna, praised Sasha very much. She loved him and strongly encouraged to love poetry and all Russian literature. But the student of the same class as Sasha, the tatar named Rashid, did not like Pushkin at all and often muttered in literature classes: fucking Pushkin, Pushkin sucks, Pushkin is an asshole … No wonder the real Russian people claim that we have borrowed the foul language from the Tatars. This is probably true. It is clear that the literature teacher hated Rashid and would like him to be transferred to another class, another school or kicked out of the city and the country for good.

So, Dasha loved Sasha. Sure. He was so great, he recited Pushkin’s poems very well. Dasha often, tongue hanging out like a dog, repeated for Sasha: I remember a wonderful moment … And naughty Rashid grimaced and whispered loudly; when I fucked you. Then the teacher of literature, Larissa Ivanovna would, ran up to him and beat the tatar with a ruler on his foul head.

The trouble was, however, Natasha, an angry and psychopath girl, loved Sasha too . Once she persuaded two of her friends to beat Dasha. Girls lured their classmate into the basment, where they smoked, sniffed glue and did everithing they wanted to do. They took with them Rashid too, who did not like Sasha and Dasha. He hated Dasha for being too modest and arrogant, and he desliked Sasha, of course, for Pushkin, whom he hated with all his heart, he knew not why.

It wasn’t easy for the girls to lure Dasha into the basement, but they succeded after all.

Sasha meanwhile came home and began to recite Pushkin the moment he entered the room: frost and sun – a wonderful day … The parents were sitting at the table and drinking vodka. It lasted several days already. Frankly speaking, they were sick and tired of listenening to their son reciting Pushkin, so they asked him to shut up and go away. Sasha, however, got very excited and went on: my first friend, my friend … priceless. Then the father has slammed the bottle down on the table and shouted: shut the fuck up fucking puppy. But Sasha did not let up.

And in the basement the cruel girls were beating Dasha real hard, calling her names like fucking sheep… and so on. Then they stripped her stark naked and humiliated in every possible way. Rashid stood aside and smiled wickidly. Then Natasha saw a dirty stick on the ground and called the tartar: “Rashid, take the stick and fuck this bitch”. Rashid, without a hesitation, as if he had long waited for this moment, grabbed the stick and came up to the weeping Dasha.

And in Sasha’s apartment the drunk Dad was beating his son. Sasha was crying, but he continued to recite Pushkin. When he wasn’t able to bear the pain any more was, Sasha rushed out of the house, but the debauchee father ran after him, and overtook him at the pump. Dad knocked the son out and beat him with his feet, shod in canvas boots, until he killed the boy to death.

At the funeral of Sasha Larisa Ivanovna had a heart attack. And died.

Oleg Razumovsky was born in Smolensk, Russia. Served in the Navy. Graduated from teachers training school. First publications in underground reviews The Third Modernisation,(Riga), Mitin Journal (St.Petersburg), Chernovic (New-York) and others. Books by Franc-Tireur USA: Ho-Chi-Min trail, Merry Pictures and others. Literary prizes: Star Phallus (Moscow), Silver Bullet (USA), and Nonconformism 2015,Russia. Translations in Bulgarian, Dutch and English. Quite recently Razumovsky’s stories have been published in Roadside Fiction magazine, Bicycle Review, Mad Swirl, Offi Press and HST.

 

Knaves by Ben Banyard

My loves were trayed tarts
cooling on a window sill

I caught some thieves
red-handed and jam-faced

Others scarpered leaving crumbs
I kept one back just for you

Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, where he writes poetry and short fiction. His work has appeared in Popshot, Lunar Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears, Eunoia Review, The Stare’s Nest and others. Ben edits Clear Poetry (https://clearpoetry.wordpress.com) a blog publishing accessible writing by newcomers and old hands alike.

Forgiven by Ajise Vincent

I have washed
Your sins of infidelity
With the detergent of mercy

Dried
Your bedraggled esteem
On the line of ennoblement

So shun your coyness
And cover the nudity of my he(art)
With your bristles of tenderness.

Make me have heaven on earth.

Ajise Vincent is a Nigerian Poet. His poem “Song of a progeny” was a shortlisted poem at the Korea- Nigeria poetry feast, 2015. His works have been published in London grip magazine, Kalahari Review, Sakonfa literary magazine, African Writer, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Poetry pacific, Commonline Journal, Novel Afrique, Black Boy Review, Tuck Magazine and various anthologies. He is currently finishing up a major in Economics at the university.

A Weekend Diary by John Alwyine-Mosely

Today, I shall love my son
as kitten eyes and tease
with milk teeth words

He said I was a Lion
with dirty mange
and claws of iron

Today, I shall love my son
as a Sparrow on eggs
in spring warmth

He said I was a seagull,
screaming and shitting
on his chips

Today I shall love my son
as seahorse and hold
him tight beside me

He said I was a jelly fish,
a poisoned sting
and no back bone

Today, I shall love my son
until he comes back
from his mum

John Alwyine-Mosely is a poet from Bristol, England who is new to published poetry. Recent work has also appeared in Stare’s Nest, York Mix, Clear Poetry, Nutshells and Nuggets. Three drops from a cauldron, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Street Cake, Screech Owl, The Ground, Aphelion, Uneven Floor,The Lake, Morphrog and Yellow Chair Review.

A Ten Question Interview With The Artist…Marie Michaelle

Why do you write?

Same reason you breathe.

What books do you read?

I read any book that happens to comes across me and peaks my interest.

What inspires you?

People like you. Like us. Artist. Spirits. Energy. Life.

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

I knew because I just started writing. Very young. As a child. 12. Maybe younger.

How do you deal with rejection?

The same way I deal with acceptance.

Who are some writers you admire?

I admire any writer that writes words that actually add to the over well being of this universe.

Is writing the only artistic medium you do?

No. I live art. I am art.

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

“Baby don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing’s gonna be alright.”

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Write

What is your writing process?

I write when I feel.

 

As a Performance Poet, Marie Michaelle writes and performs her own work with a burning passion to entertain and educate her audiences with a smooth verbal, visually stimulating, and spiritual delivery. Several years of theater training in voice control and delivery have led to a finessed tone which enables her to invoke emotion within her audiences. During her performances, audiences sit in a trance like state of visual paralysis as they visually focus on her every movement. Throughout her life’s experiences, Marie has stockpiled her poetic tool bag full of valuable knowledge with regard to human nature and relationships. Her Haitian heritage infused with American culture, affords her a particular perspective that many who attend her performances and read her books can relate to. To others, Marie’s experience is a source of curiosity. But whatever the case, she pours her experiences over all her works and stimulates the human psyche. Marie Michaelle is working on publishing a number of poetry books in the near future and currently has one out and available on Lulu.com entitled Windy City Poems of Lust and Desire. And if she’s not busy enough with writing books and performing her poetry, she is also working on recording an album. The album promises to include featured appearances and collaborations with other artists both musical and poetic. http://www.mariemichaelle.com

Running Shoes by Amber Decker

He lifts his head from the pillow to look at me.
“I love…” His hesitation
is the flight path of a bat
flinging itself through sideways beams of light.
“Your tits,” he finishes, and slides
his hand over my skin
to cup my breast.
I roll my eyes. “How romantic.”
He shakes his head.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I say, “I know.”
His finger trails across my lips,
sews them shut
with the soft needle of touch.
Across the room, the TV mumbles,
its light glancing off
the empty bottle
of whiskey, the glass doors
of his gun case. In the corner,
the dog stirs, and the night carries on,
wild as the coyotes loping
through fields in the dark
outside these walls.
I reach for my shoes
at the side of the bed, knowing
there is a storm coming
over the mountain tonight.
But you can’t outrun the rain.
He pulls me back down, begs “Stay,”
like an incantation spoken over the flame
of a black candle.
And you should never run
from what holds you
in its sights.
So I stay.

 

Amber Decker is a thirty-something poet and musician from West Virginia. She is a lover of comic books, horror culture, good wine, tattoos, and rock and roll. Her latest collection of poems, The Girl Who Left You, is available from California’s notorious Six Ft. Swells Press.