Allen Griffin- A Poem

Carapace Sole

The apartment is a honeycomb and it's easy to picture the building

In cutaway like an ant farm

Clicks and buzzing sounds surround

Four or five audible televisions provide comfort

A warm blanket of static

Every time a door closes it sounds like an explosion

Every good buzz is a cocoon; stasis

A knock at the door and moment to know if it’s the door to this unit

"Sheriff"

And some of us scatter like the switch has been flicked

The light a little brighter and we crawl through the basement window

It opens out to the courtyard

Rain mud; the ground so soft

I wish I had been on the second floor and just jumped from the balcony

Earthworms stick to the soles of our shoes

We laugh like little kids jump into puddles

Staring back in wonder; staring at our own flight

Bio:  Allen Griffin is a writer and musician living in Indianapolis.

Paul Tristram- A Poem

Chrissy’s Last Stop Tap

We kicked in his caravan door,

found him laying in his bed,

he was yellow.

“That’s the liver, I’ve seen it

four or five times before!”

said the landlord with a sigh.

“I’ll go and phone the police,

don’t touch anything!”

Chrissy’s pancreas had fucked up

six months ago, the poor bastard,

he knew he was dying.

I looked around the place,

it was stinking.

Empty bottles and cans everywhere.

Two full ashtrays, some porn mags,

three half eaten meals

on cracked and chipped plates,

a bucket by the TV which he pissed into.

I looked back at his face.

The tufts of hair that stuck

out of his ears and nostrils.

The scars and burn marks.

He had spent twenty years in jail

on and off and yet he considered

himself an alcoholic.

Two years to the day

they had let him out of prison

for the last time.

He had called himself

a retired villain.

Alcoholism did not kill him.

He died of want, of longing,

of unhappiness, of desperation.

Alcohol just happened to be easy

to get hold of.

I picked up an unopened

half bottle of vodka

and put it in my pocket,

spat on the carpet

and walked out.

I would not miss him.

No one would miss him.

But I would think of this

from time to time.

Published in In Between Hangovers, Issue #1, Autumn 2006

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who now lives on the Southern coast of Britain, has poems, short stories and sketches 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.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

A Romeo's Comeuppance

 

Coming toward young Tony now

are the husband and his wife,

that older woman from last night,

the one he danced with New Year's Eve 

while downing Heinekens and shots of Jack,

the one he didn't know was married.

She told him he was tall for just 16

and that he danced like Fred Astaire. 

But now it's noon on New Year's Day 

 

and the husband just whacked Tony 

harder than the drummer

whacked his drums last night. 

Falling backward like a slab, 

Tony sees the golden halo of the sun 

swirl until it disappears.

Later on the gurney, Tony almost hears

the doctor give the nurse his diagnosis, 

"a Romeo's comeuppance, not to worry."

Joseph Farley- A Poem

The Mission

The mission bells ring in the desert

summoning the scorpions to mass.

Tumbleweeds fill the pews

and a coyote leads the prayers.

Salvation is in the red hills.

Salvation is in the blue sky.

All who are humble

can achieve this majesty.

(appeared previously in Sketchbook)

Bio: Joseph Farley edited Axe Factory from 1986 to 2010. His books and chapbooks include Suckers, For the Birds, Longing for the Mother Tongue, Waltz of the Meatballs, and Her Eyes.

Valentina Cano- Two Poems

 

Salt

Water fills his mind.
Cascades of it
swamping every thought,
filling each one up
into salt-water ticks
until they can’t float anymore.

 For T.

I watch him cry
and it’s like watching worlds cracking open.
He wipes at the heat rising to his face,
at the ache lodging like a nail in his head.
There’s nothing I can do
except watch him destroy this world.
Our world.
All worlds.
And hope he’ll survive.

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Web and the Pushcart Prize.You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com

Afzal Moolla- A Poem

The Whispering Leaf.

Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite patterns,
forming an immaculate, delicate sheaf,

while morning's dew whispers,
tales of forgotten woes,
left scribbled on every leaf.

Murmurs float gently,
across solitary trees,
to distant forests deep and dense,
teasing the waving grasses,
while coquettishly inflaming every sense.

Listen! For the murmurs whisper to us all,

listen carefully,
as the whispers recall,
the crushed memories of the lovers' call.

Listen!
For the whispering leaf shares,
a story that may travel,

to you, to me,
if we still our minds,

and,

gaze upon each leaf,
and quietly marvel.



Afzal Moolla lives in Johannesburg, South Africa.

He writes for pleasure and enjoys reading non-fiction and the occasional novel.

Paul DeVito- A Poem

Night Flight

Flying high at night

through the trees,

she spreads her wings

with the majesty of a condor,

she is free to fly where she will,

our garden bathes in the moonlight,

I see her like a shadow

gliding through the evening breeze,

she likes the night,

her flight is freer

turned away from the droll patterns

of the day, her song

deeper and lighter at the same time,

in the middle of the night

she discovers herself,

can find a bit of laughter

in the shades of fine light,

she feels life will be longer

if she flies at night.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- A Poem

NOT TO WORRY

I don’t hang out much.

I don’t watch those that want to be watched. 

Some people try too hard.

Some people try too hard looking not to try.

I’m not holding out for anything.

I stay at home.

I hear the birds by my window.

At night the stars are twinkling in the sky.

Some stars appear to be floating.

Some of the clouds appear painted.

Some of my dreams are strange.

I like the stranger ones.

Some birds sing louder than others.

Some birds sing as soft as smoke.

Not all of the birds sing.

I tell myself not to worry so much.

I don’t listen to myself all the time.

I hardly go out.

I have few friends.

I keep to myself.

Michael Mc Aloran- A Poem

Scene Eleven is rupture:

Headlong, torn vast, till shimmer, asking of until to numb’s becoming, scarred unto existing, barely a life, in void of naught’s shadow, claustrophobic traces, endless, subtle then…

Claim/ claim then, in night’s devour, breaking the bone dice laughter of violent appraisal, skinned lest the hollow bleeds, trace of desire, a trace of desire, flesh upon flesh, scars upon scars…

We laughter long, the breathing of the I deeper than emptily, deeper than the ice in the veins cleft as the bereft static of following on from, -what step, as if it could…

(Rupture will…headless arc…restless the eye’s bleed…exhalation of some dead foraging…)

Pause, step back, back into no no way forwards, till step’s rupture redeemed, in an echo of shadowing, till silenced, a snag of broken lights, release/ absurdly the eye/ I/ we, drowning in the hearth of blind binding…

Cleft, then, till reek and havoc spell, in the bitterness of turning to face the one, the murmur, the twisted nerves in damage seasons of the membrane, all fallen, kaleidoscope of breath…

I/ eye, or none, in the spit of sun light,  we or else, breaking without laughter, skinned a-piece, such was the longing of, the rupture of, claimed or not claimed the fucking difference is none, balk and be done with it…

(said aloft…)



Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His most recent work has appeared  in ditch, Gobbet Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, Ygdrasil, Establishment, Carcinogenic Poetry, Primal Urge, A New Ulster, Slit Your Wrists, The Galway Review, Turbulence Magazine, Unlikely Stories: IV, Eratio 16, etc. A second full length collection, 'Attributes', was published by 'Desperanto' in 2011. 'Lapwing Publications, (Ireland), also published a collection of his poems, 'The Non Herein', in 2012 & The Knives, Forks & Spoons Press, (U.K), will release an ekphrastic book of text/ art, 'Machinations' early next year. He also has projects forthcoming from Quarter After Press...He edits Bone Orchard Poetry, a webzine of the bleak/ the dark/ the surreal and the experimental...

Ross Leese- A Poem

try to smile

love was always
a lie

and the dirtiest
trick of the
ages.

there is no electricity
in a fleeting
brush of
skin--

no
telepathy

no
hope.

there are simply
sands of
time

and they wait
for no-
one.