Burnout & Vine By Tracey Sivek

Breathing used to be exhilarating until the exhale felt as dry as the dusty desert plains. With life force energies peeling away at my soul.   Exposing the rash, the disease of the past I just fall into the overstuffed chair. Waiting for the grand departure in silence my curdled joy surrenders to the spontaneous combustion. My soul stands off to the side watching the clean up crew as they “investigate”my death.

I light a cigarette and watch as they sort through the bits and pieces of me. I wonder if they’ll find what they are looking for.

God knows I never did…    

Tracey is a native of Northern Michigan.  She has work on Writerscafe and Cosmofunnel.  She is also the Author of "Zero Evidence of Life" found on lulu.com.
Her publications include .
The Abyss, Under The Bleachers , The Rye Whiskey Review and The Dope Fiend Daily.

A BURN TO BE COOLED by Bradford Middleton

The burn kicks straight on

Down and the inevitable

Glow comes on quickly

Tonight.  I’ve poured it

Big and it’s smelt oh so

Sweet but the burn of this

46% suggests it sure ain’t

For the faint-hearted.

A little beer just to take the

Sting out my mouth and

Another little smoke and

Then i’ll be bang on it,

Draining it all the way down

Not caring that there is

Work tomorrow.

Bradford Middleton, sadly, still lives in Brighton but last week he had a nervous breakdown, quit his job so who knows where he’ll be if you ever get to read these poems.  You can do 2 things to help; first, buy my book, out now from Alien Buddha Press, or two, contact me if you got a spare room or a million quid to spare.  

 

 

Engendering Affection by R. Gerry Fabian

I am not supposed to be here.

Sleep does not come easy.

By 11:35 I give in.

Arthritic walk limping

three blocks to the bar,

I arrive and order an IPA pint

hoping it will dull the pain

and promote drowsiness.

As I finish the last swallow,

the bartender brings me another pint

paid for by the wily woman

smiling at the end of the bar.

I wave in appreciation

as my eyes try to discern

any semblance of recognition.

There is an empty seat next to her.

I am not supposed to be here.

R. Gerry Fabian is a published poet and novelist. He has published 

four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Wildflower Women as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound.

Bite by Susan Isla Tepper

A man ate a worm

squeezing out 

the last drop of tequila 

his mouth craved.

Foreshadowing

all that came

out of a craving 

floating in perpetual crisis

The next and the next

‘til the dilemma over

who would eat flesh

in the name of some 

irretractable 

god

A form that remains illegible:

too soft to make

the bite worthwhile.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Writer's Block by Bruce Morton

It will happen to us all

At one time or another

Whether we write or not.

A rosary of sweat spells

Words that will not flow,

Whether shaken or stirred.

There is a difference.

You know?

When the mind will not pour

A word, the page strains blank

Or worse, the words drip

Meaningless, for the mindless

Readers, unshaken and unstirred,

Who drink but cannot quench

Thirst they do not understand.

You know? 

 

Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona.

spiritual release by J.J. Campbell

another night choking down 

positivity, searching for that 

new leaf

all lies, as usual

the scars add character, not 

a fresh personality

and while all the blood does feel 

like some kind of spiritual release

joy is still one elusive bitch

and here comes the scotch

and all those terrible memories

remember the one that slashed 

your tires and fucked your best 

friend to show you what a real 

man was

bad luck, no luck

does it ever fucking matter

some souls are simply lost

never meant to fall in love

never meant for a meaningful 

moment of time

a brave suicide on a quiet saturday

never even makes the papers

ashes tossed aside

forgotten trash

the final chapter of life

how fitting…

J.J. Campbell was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, just good poems, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Bar None by Connie Johnson

You hipped me to Everette Maddox

Bar Scotch on loan from a library in Alabama

reminding me that I met you, not in a bar but a library

o bearded philosopher/Afro poet with

one-more-for-the-road insights

and I remember them all

 

But back to Everette,

so keenly informed on what it means

to live without what you can’t live without

NOLA man thru and thru, making me want to stroll down

Bourbon Street again, look eye to eye with an alley cat

with his own take on the human condition

 

It’s all about the angle

the vantage point 

 

If not for a library, I never would have met you in the first place,

o Afro poet/soul philosopher who hipped me to Everette Maddox

I read him and feel closer to you; it makes me proud to be a poet, too

this often penniless task of putting pen to paper

but I can’t help but savor it, I’ve got so much to say:

“planets blazing in innerspace”

 

Somebody out there listening

 

 

Connie Johnson is a Los Angeles, California-based poet whose work has appeared  or will be forthcoming in Iconoclast, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Voicemail Poems, Misfit Magazine, Exit 13 and Mudfish.