Sunday, April 26, 2015

Janne Karlsson- Cartoon

"Janne Karlsson is an artist from Sweden. His books are available at amazon and Epic Rites Press. His favorite drink is J├Ągermeister. He lives in a shitty apartment with his son. His poorly updated website is You can reach him at svenskapache at gmail dot com"

Michael Ceraolo- Two Poems

Bring It On Home to Me

Our Terran forebears called our star
Kepler 186
only their sun could be called The Sun;
we will do our best to avoid
such mistakes in naming),
                                              as of
the time of the Calamitous Changes,
called our home planet Kepler 186f

           Kepler was a telescope
launched early in the third millennium,
one that greatly aided our ancestors
in discovering distant stars near and far
that might have had habitable planet
in orbit around them,
also aided our ancestors
in discovering such planets,
they provided the crucial first step
on the journey to us,
                                a fact
we will never forget,
                             nor forget to commemorate
We have no record from the time saying
whether or not Kepler was alive at the time,
whether the telescopes of that time
were alive at any time]

We don't know if any data devices
remain back on Terra,
on any other body,
if any creatures who retain data
remain anywhere either
(we remain hopeful of receiving
communications from others),
here are some facts about our planet,
starting with how it got its name:

there was nothing inherently wrong
about the names given our star and planet
by our Terran ancestors,
it wasn't quite right for us;
in the tradition of creatures everywhere,
prefer our own names for things
as an homage to the Terrans
we named our star Voltairine
after Voltairine de Cleyre,
a late-second-millenium
political philosopher,
named our planet Warren
after Josiah Warren,
an earlier late-second-millenium
Renaissance individual

It takes one hundred thirty Terran days
to complete a Warren year;
because Warren has the requisite magnetic field
and is just far enough from Voltairine
not to be tidally locked,
                                    we also have days,
days of sixteen hours' duration
so that it takes one hundred ninety-five
Warren days to make a Warren year
(we knew ahead of time of the shorter day,
on the long journey here our ancestors
simulated the shorter day successfully,
by the time of our arrival here
we had evolved to incorporate
the new day into our circadian rhythm)

Voltairine's light was about one-third of that
reaching Terra from its sun,
one might reasonably have thought
the fact that Warren was only about
one-third as far from Voltairine
as Terra was from its sun
would have produced a climate
similar to that of Terra,
such a mathematical formula
didn't quite translate climate-wise

[an untitled poem penned by a pioneer poet
about the first sunset witnessed on Warren:

One planet's crepuscular light
is another planet's high noon
And the colors of a long slow setting
differ from those of an hour's setting,
differ in getting here quicker,
differ from those in different atmospheres,
differ from those refracted by different chemicals
though we will need different words and images
to depict the picture properly,
we had to try to depict it indirectly
while working on creating the necessary new words]

Because Warren is about ten percent larger
and of a similar density as Earth,
we knew there would be increased gravity,
that that increased gravity couldn't quite
be simulated on the voyage here,
it was challenging for us at first,
but we adapted and overcame

And we set about
learning the natural history of Warren,
learning the vagaries of different climates and terrains,
learning how to set up the small societal organization
we considered a necessary evil,
                                               all while
learning the necessary things for the daily business of life
on our new home,
creating a new species:
                                    Homo anti-imperii

Mobservation #11

The toughest thing to get used to
was to learn to disregard 
planetary averages
in favor of local variations,
just as it undoubtedly too
the first Earth settlers by surprise
when they faced the fact that
the planetary average temperature
of fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit
existed nowhere on the planet

Denny E. Marshall- A Poem

60 M.P.H. Butterflies

The wind is gusting
Up to sixty miles an hour
Turning dead dry leaves
Into swarms…
Of flying brown butterflies
Dancing off some time ago
Swimming back to life
For a brief reincarnation

Jason Constantine Ford- Two Poems


A mind spellbound by eyes which flicker through the night

As rays of hope which bring the blind to sight.

A mind is sitting – fascinated by

This light which feeds the hearts of ones who try

To find a cure for blindness that contains

The seeds of pure addiction in a lie.

As light dispels the darkness that remains

In view, I see those eyes which never cry.

The light from eyes which rise above the ground,

Immerses me in deepest contemplation.

This light is reaching high as elevation

Of laws defined by power most profound.

My mind is waiting at the noble gates

For healing while the darkness quietly abates.

Jason Constantine Ford, “Spellbound”, “The Messenger” and “One Who is to Come” in The Cannon’s Mouth, Cannon Poets Quarterly ISSN 1745-6630, Issue No, 34, December 2009, pgs 14-15.

Searching for Meaning in the Darkness of Night

In the darkness of this night,
I see two images of me
which clash like weapons which strike
without any kind of warning.
As I see the image of me which
claims to be a conqueror of creatures,
a part of me turns away from this form
of pride while another image that is
barely recognizable calls out to me.

“Who am I? Where am I?”

These questions are recurring in my mind
until a dark mist settles over my vision
as I try to find meaning in my life
with eyes that can barely see this world
and where I could belong within it.

Jason Constantine Ford, “Searching for Meaning in the Darkness of Night” in Decanto Magazine / Anthology, Issue 55, December 2011, p49.

Keith Wesley Combs- A Poem

those things she does-.

she creates
paintings out of blood
urine and feces.
it doesn't matter where she gets it
she forms it into
a beautiful work of art.

she cries
while watching silent comedies.
in the middle
of the film she bursts
into tears
and she can never tell me

she plays
gospel music
as she leads black magic rituals
in the candlelight
it'll bring her closer to God.

mostly she holds
tightly onto my emotions.
showing me things I've never seen
and probably never will again
once whatever we have together
inevitably falls apart.

Keith Wesley Combs is a union painter who likes to write poetry in his spare time. He likes to write about his life, life in general and all the crazy people he meets on his travels. His poetry has been published in Main Street Rag, Pearl, Carcinogenic Poetry, Record Magazine, Cokefish, Black Book Press, Struggle, Blue Collar Review, and many more with more to come.

Ramona Thompson- Two Poems

Bitch Viper
Think you're so bad ass
Little girl
Play acting
In the grown up world
Don't know the meaning of class
All you wanna do is stomp your foot
Act up in a rage
Show your ass
And the true fool you are
Low down
Snake in the grass
You're all bark
Got no real bite or life skills
You sell your body
You sell your soul
Just to please a man
What kinda example is that for your son?
I got your number
I know the real deal you
The monster
Under the mask
Baby girl you can't hide
You're low
So low
Quit standing there
In mock outrage
Trying to sass
The truth is out at last
And now there's no going back
Not for either of us
Time to grow up
Back up off that attitude
Cause ain't nobody around here
Gonna take your trash talk anymore
We're done
And so are you
Spoiled fit throwing
Foot stomping
Hulk ragin'
This is the real world
And little girl you're gonna have to learn
Learn your place
As a woman in it
Before it's too late
And nobody wants you around anymore
2015 Ramona Thompson
The Dead Snake In My Milkshake
I don't know why
You're always so glum
Raining thunder on my parade
Whenever I'm happy
You get angry
Lost in a black rage
Trying to drag me
Ever deepr
Into your darkness
Just like a hungry beast
In a cave
My sadness is your food
My life would be
The sweetest desert
If not for you
Always there
Always on my ass
Pitching a fit
Causing a scene
Devoured by your own regrets
You seek always it seems
To make my life
One giant living Hell
With you cast the satanic queen
My dreams have become
A living nightmare
My successes
Sour in my mouth
Your demonic sun
Burns me to ashes
I was a rising Phoenix
Till you cut me off
At the wings
Never before felt so unloved
So betrayed and afraid
How can we stay friends?
When more and more
You make me feel
As if you are my worst enemy
Love for you
So rapidly fading
Starting to think
If I ever wanna be free
If I ever wanna be truly happy
In my life
I must cut the ties
And leave behind
No matter how much it hurts
The dead snake in my milkshake
2015 Ramona Thompson
Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, This Ain't No Rodeo, Howl, and many more.
Fans/readers may find her on facebook or her e-mail 

Linda M. Crate- Two Poems

a warning

you taught me everything
i know of beauty,
and how not to become a
your desires were carnal and primal
animal like impulse
without sincerity or purple prose
you simply did not care
for my heart
simply took everything you wanted under
the guise of charm—
it was a warning i'm certain to not
become consumed by
the same hubris that devoured you to
always remember i have a heart, a
soul, a pulse;
all of which you left forgotten.

sated lust

true beauty
from within,
and it's something you
sorely lack;
you've got the charisma and charm
outward beauty galore
but somehow along
the lines you
lost your soul and traded it
so you could satiate
your lust
without guilt.

Phil Wood- Two Poems


The meaning of this twisting path
meanders in air, disconnected
from the womb of a mother tongue.

Across the roll of hills
the speaker's breath so hushed with mist
silence pools all solitude in peat.

In the descent of farewell song
a school of limestone rock breaking
the heathered mesh. Whales gulp air,

threads of lichen gilding their heads,
a keening gleam of sea. All glide
towards a single silent end.


Whilst Adam sleeps in dreams of apple pie, she rolls
pastry for a tempting treat, baking golden brown
in tropical heat. With time to bathe, unzips her skirt
and spies her lover dozing summer schemes.
An axe lies lazy by his knee, a glass
of cider by the apple tree, and bees
are humming hexagon themes. With prey
to please, she wears his cotton shirt, descends
the stair and loosens her buttons. A snake
uncoils, all sleek and smooth, an hour to tease. She runs
her hand across his shedding skin, unravels cares
with lips and sighs, to gift an eternity
of sin in taste of apple pie.

Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. He was born in Wales.

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

A Perfectly Captured Fragment Of Lost Love

Like the slightest feathers of aching and longing
dancing and trampolining together
inside a small, fragile bubble of memory,
settling ever so gently upon the impatient surface
of my tenacious and steadfast hand.
Your smile and red hair were here again this morning,
a fraction of a second before I properly awoke.

© Paul Tristram 2015

A View From The Bleak Side

She sits huddled in the cold, derelict shop door front
watching a family exit a posh restaurant across the road,
smile at each other as the older man of the group
rubs his fat belly with a satisfied and contented glow
to his extremely happy, rosy, carefree face.
Then she shifts her gaze to the right as they all join arms
and jaunt and swagger off merrily to her left,
she is not bitter just very desperate and life-beaten.
The smell of pies and pasties coming from the bakery
next door is literally killing her starving, clawing stomach
but it’s the aroma of fresh bread which sends tears
streaming down her dirty and exhausted face,
for she’s sure that’s what a proper home must smell like?
She’d move her pitch further up and away from the torture
except it’s lunchtime again (For the Normal People!)
and this is simply the best place to beg for mercy.
Two days ago, a kind old grey haired lady approached her
and gave her a pre-packaged chicken salad sandwich
and that is the last time that she’s actually eaten anything.
Using that memory once more as strength, she focuses,
frowns determinately and continues……………….to wait.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Wigwam Fuckwit

There were this old homeless couple
both ‘out there like Pluto’
and about as alcoholic as you can get
without actually dying from it, yet.
They lived in a patch of trees and gorse bushes
by the side of a railway just outside the city centre.
She slept in a rusty, beat-up, derelict car
and he in a tepee fashioned ingeniously
from nicked rowing oars from the nearby harbour
with a stolen stretch of diesel soaked tarpaulin,
from the back of a flat backed lorry.
Inevitably, one night they had a raging domestic
and she stormed off into the darkness
only to return when he was passed out and snoring.
To set fire to the material of his little abode,
the only thing saving him was her getting so excited
whilst participating in the pyromaniacal task
that she kept yelling “Wigwam Fuckwit!”
which eventually awoke him and saved his life.
I, for one, will never be falling asleep
in a fuel soaked cloth building after arguing
with my better-half after hearing this little story,
I suggest you heed my advice and do the very same.

© Paul Tristram 2015

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!

David S. Pointer- A Poem

Repetitive Punctuation Squads

Riding polluted waves of
attitudes, the Grammar Nazis
enforced rules sanitized by CIA,
approved by corrupt commerce
wanting definancalizied market
verse for a pre-planned market
collapse steering public opinion
away from political poetry and
unconventional thought not all
Christian-myth tradition based
and bubbling science-for-hire,
circling, red pen collegiality…
needing rules to be exactly the
same every time like old clich├ęs,
recurrently pushing a spiritual
death camp, by signed guard-
tower do-gooders on big grants