Missiles like Sausages by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She tries on shirts
at Old Navy
and I’m reminded of
Khrushchev.

Missiles
like sausages
banging his fist
indignant as a bluffing child
outnumbered 20-1.

The world would be a far different place
if the Russkies hadn’t choked
in the 11th
hour.

A lot more marching,
a lot less McDonald’s.

I give her the thumbs up
with two shirts
and the thumbs down
with four others

and we head
toward the
cash.

Hoping the ladies of Russia
are buying shirts
that make their breasts look big
as well.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

Ode to the Scum of the Earth or What Remains by Cynthia Bryant

His days no longer preoccupied
In search of prey
He hunches over chin to chest
Bony elbows rest atop arms
Of the iron chair
While wormy tubes
Feed body’s memory
Of a life spent

The man
Once ambitious with testosterone
Houses muscle broken down
  Impotent
His skin waxy
Almost translucent
Wraps fragile purple veins
Like white cellophane
Clogged with low-life living

The thorny weapon
Formally brandished to demean
  Control
Hangs limp
  Uncocked
In full retirement
Drains yellow waste
Into a bag
Between deadweight thighs

His once scheming leer
Imprisoned behind a catatonic trance
A drug induced slow dance
And unseeing eyes
That still refuse to blink
Memory guardians
To those fallen too far
To find their way home

First published in 1997 by two important journals dealing with childhood sexual abuse, Cynthia Bryant has since been published in over 50 anthologies. Her poetry is on numerous websites, an e-book and she has recorded her poems for play on e-radio as well as community television. She served the community Pleasanton, CA as their poet laureate 2005-2007 and again in 2011-2013 Cynthia’s poetry books Sojourn, Pebbles in the Shoe as well as No Time to Shoot the Poets have recently been accepted in the new Ina Coolbrith Circle library section in Sacramento’s State Library’s Special Collections Reading Room.

 

 

Only You by Ananya S Guha

will know, will do
what the ancient mountain tells
which spouts torrid waters, matching
with heavenly skies, yes only you
will wish that I was not born
into this cesspool of lies
as my face uncovers untruths, truths
of you, me and only you will decipher
how the snake hydra headed has a honeyed
accent of love, betrayal, as only you
can hold that mirror close to your heart.

Ananya S Guha ( 1957) lives in Shillong, in North East India. He has been writing poetry and publishing his poems over thirty years.

Cucarachas by Jay Passer

I understand
they need food just as much as I do
but for fuck sakes
I’m the one going out and buying the groceries
what’ve they ever done 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.

Hotel by Katie Lewington

is it that easy

to second glance
flutter eyelashes
and drop an invite
with room number
11
i will join you
in three
on the bed
lay lady lay
and spread your legs
say goodbye to good sense
hello to STD

–

blow me a kiss from the bed
you lay

my fingers are poised
to flick it
as if a fly
i stand
back against the wall

sliding into my skirt
where did i put my phone
and why
am i
missing a shoe?

Katie Lewington is a UK based writer and has been drafting, editing and rewriting her bio since she started submitting to literary magazines and journals two years ago. It isn’t as if she doesn’t know who she is, she just isn’t sure what is relevant. Her creative writing can be read https://gumroad.com/katielewington She can be contacted through Twitter @idontwearahat

Watching ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ Again For The 8th Time This Week, Whilst Drinking Myself Sober Twice Every Day Of It by Paul Tristram

The settee has turned into a floating raft…
swaying gently… like your hair against my chest
or fingertips climbing back down from foreplay.
I fell asleep/unconscious to the birds singing
through the early dawn and awoke in the dark
to blue flashing lights and sirens, not for me…
but, searching for someone else more immediate.
I formed smoke rings in impossible heart shapes…
then shattered them with my drunken fist.
Tore a chunk out of the shadows, crouching
and watching from the left-hand corner
and stuck my curious, demented head inside…
there was nothing in there but nostalgic hallucinations,
old scars and un-coveted preoccupations.
I burnt myself lightly, laughing like a child
and no one was close enough to hear or judge me.
I ate Rizla’s, ring pulls and my mobile phone,
without even a trace of salt or pepper,
but, with monumental, frightening, determination.

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 books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Color in a Sea of Black and White by Melanie Browne

the toddler wants the umbrella,
the tiny red and white
Minnie Mouse Umbrella
but as rotten luck
would have it,
there is no tag
The cashier looks
in vain for some
sign of a price but
the momma says
awful ugly words,
“we don’t need it,”
sparking fury
but also want,
so much want
Her want is her
whole world
“But I want it,”
she wails,
I want to help
but I am helpless
I also happen to know
how huge the store is
& that its not my place
to interfere in
the great Umbrella
apocalypse.
I hear her wails
for hours in
my ears,
her want now
mine,
a spot of color in a
sea of
black and white

Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas. She has poetry at Madswirl, Bad Acid Poetry, In Between Hangovers and the now defunct Dead Snakes. She spends too much time looking at ghost photos on EBay, reading Wikipedia articles on old west Outlaws, and cataloging her fears for future generations.

The Melancholy Of Life by Anoucheka Gangabissoon

I made myself a coffee
Then I sat at my kitchen table
And stared at it
Till it became cold!

I glanced up at the clock
And noted, without twitching my eyelids
That nearly one hour had gone by
So,
I stood up
Picked up my cup of coffee
Threw it down the sink
And went to my room!

As I walked, I passed down a long corridor
I wondered then if the paths of life are same
Walking and walking we are to
Down its own aisle
Till we come to where we have to
Only to feel a resurgence of the doom
That envelops us!

I walked still to my room
And climbed up the stairs
I wondered then if the way to the celestials were same
Made of steps
And getting more difficult at each passing one
More so, since our legs are so frail!

I stood outside my room
And instead of walking in
I crumbled to the floor
And cried….

When I calmed down
I realized that I had no reason to cry
I was still young
I had a loving family
I had a good job
A good social position
A good mode of living
But then
What do I do about this lump weighing hard
In the very depth of my heart?

The melancholy of life made it such that
I was found in a pool of blood
After having shot myself
With my grandfather’s gun

Now, it was my loved ones’ turns
The melancholy of life made it such
That the heaviness of my burdens
Got shifted to them
Now, they constantly re-live the routine
I had indulged in…..

Greetings from Mauritius. I am Anoucheka Gangabissoon, a Primary School Educator and a poet/author. My works have appeared both in print and in online blogs/anthologies.

Three things I tried to tell myself in songs by Les Bohem

One:  Put the girls and summer dresses and the boys all look like fools.

 
Two:  I want to lead every life, and now I can lead every life, and now I don’t have any life at all.

 
Three:  Choosing is like killing.

 
Jesus was singing as he cried.

Les Bohem has written a lot of movies and TV shows including Twenty Bucks, Daylight, Dante’s Peak, The Alamo and the mini-series, Taken which he wrote and executive produced with Steven Spielberg, and for which he won an Emmy award.   He’s had songs recorded by Emmylou Harris, Randy Travis, Freddy Fender, Steve Gillette, Johnette Napolitano (of Concrete Blonde), and Alvin (of the Chipmunks.)  His short novel, Flight 505, was published last year by UpperRubberBoot .   His new album, “Moved to Duarte,” was just released on Jack Rabbit Day Records to much critical acclaim and no sales whatsoever.

Good Enough by JD DeHart

We play the good enough
game daily.

Here is how it goes:
Was I fine when I talked
with Paul?
Did I sound kind?  Too aloof?

And:
Does this look okay on me?
Should I go with the pink
or the dark blue jacket?

Or:
Tell me I’m not stepping
on anyone in the universe.
Tell me I’m ok.
Tell me it will all work out.

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He has recently been nominated for Best of the Net, and his chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available on Amazon.