Christopher Barnes - Putting You Through Now, Caller

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (21)

“Squizzed at me, all pulled out.

A reality-crunch measure?

The earreach of a farewell gasp is roses in May.

Take it uncomplaining, headwaters will.”

“Okes, rabies-dancer,

Your cheque’s in the postbag.”

 ***

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (22)

“Dog-eared his tab, jiggled it into my shirt pocket.

Even the horizon cracked.

Mullarkey was woozy, beefy as a nun.

Intemperate kickback for one go.

I snooped enough?”

“Mistrust is gravity, honey.

A profitable chore boy’s defunct.”

 ***

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (23)

“Frankness ink-slung onto roadhouse paper.

I got churned by the tidings.

Skin-flickers also unveil in white.

Duplicate explanation? – the plaything’s oofy.

Bob for an invitation.”

“Knew she was in Blind Alley.

Who’s got the revolver?”

 ****

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (24)

“Sly-looking at the mere, Eileen was.

Valium owned her lullaby.

You’re a trigger-quick practitioner.

Hunched the Dodge was swiped –

Too gleamy for Big Al.”

“Don’t chop-chop elsewhere.

Witnesses might spare us.”

 ***

“Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (25)

“Repper’s mush corrugated with petulance.

Thought he was at end lengths.

Such a foozle.

Switchblade hasn’t been dug up.

Jimson weed reels in barley

But this isn’t a gala day.

Known him eons?”

“Shouldn’t be nudging anything.

Best be meek…outside.”

Adam Fieled - Two Poems

Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. His latest book, “Trish: A Romance,” was released by Funtime Press in 2019. 

***

A Match

The loft-like flat with the cavernous

    roof was in South Philly, well-heated

but polluted, dusted,  with detritus,

     she was what Los Angeles was in spite

of these things, sunken wastelands, sheeted

lightning making the stage all but emptiness.

    As he fell into her, he fell into resistance,

petulance, snobbishness, yet also wetness—

    she could do it, out of sublime forgetfulness,

big-titted, posing for spies, cameras her witness.

Los Angeles then lay in his arms like luggage.

    What was in her were carnival masks, face-paint—

greasy, lumpy, churned from blood gone sluggish.

     She was his palm-tree baggage, dumb, doggish.

He felt himself bitter, ransacked, naked, wasted.

Their child sails brackish seas somewhere, twisted.

    Los Angeles just died, still convulsive, of disease

not acknowledged, or processed, number unlisted.

     L.A. & her were queen for a day, then got fisted.

He moves on in Philly, no sprain in his knees.

*** 

Days of Old

In days of old, my friends, they took

   the music, made it a girl, sang

   her songs, caressed her, thanked

her for her own caresses, & the books—

Then the music retreated for a while,

    no caresses, no books, turds,

    brown, thick gibberish words

in lieu of nature’s own heavenly smile—

Well, the music is a girl again, coy,

     silk-gowned, ready for us,

     ready to be a vessel, trust

our impulses both to pain & joy—

& only coy at the outset, hot-blooded,

    skilled, plugged in like a TV,

    electron passages there, ready,

to cast light into the world, over-flooded—

& this “days of old” music you’re hearing,

    deliberate, measured, necessitated

    by eternities of white-noised, jaded

jumps off bridges, is nothing to be fearing—

so let the music be a girl forever, or a boy,

    it doesn’t matter; someone young,

    spry about ecstasy, drugs, love & fun,

& poets need not be scummy, or dummies, or coy—

A.J. Huffman - Three Poems

Justification

after Forms, Hatchets  by Magyari, John the Younger

One stroke

      obliterates two things

creates a third.

Can we call it harmony?

We shade it gold, give it value

cherish it,

label it

worthy

 but hone its edges

to cut its own throat,

drip

red

life.

Can that equation ever equal anything

as soft as pink?

Sky and birds fly,

land

on houses built of sand.  Temporary tragedies.

Axes obliterate forests

erect

permanent shelter for humans that offer

occasional cages

for wayward wings.

This we call reprieve.

***

Sweeter than the Desert’s First Rainfall

The snake slithered into her.  I assumed

I would sleep until the next morning—

didn’t work out that way.  It was not yet warm

outside, but ridiculously hot inside.
Perhaps the effect was from the stress of a new place.

For the first time, unbreathing skin revolted.  

In the feverish concentration, human ovens transform

into something bulged, and accused

me with their stares:  Someone burns the world.

It was the same nightmare [about the skeleton shroud].

***

Stuck Stuttering [In Silence]

The peacock feathers on my finger

nails look

    all glitter-glowy.  Moons

alighted, they spark.  The pen

spears the page.  Are they the prophesied third

eyes of legend?  Or the collective channel

through which the muse now chants?  My wonder

leads to worry.  Twitching,

I pick at their petals.  Peeling, they pit,

split, crack.  They are/I am ruined

by the minutia of such

a misguided thought.

Robert Masterson - The Last Words of Johnny “The Cannibal” Tarlington

The Last Words of Johnny “The Cannibal” Tarlington

Transcribed in an accurate fashion under the most difficult of circumstances…

By Robert Masterson

…while the Wrestler himself, delirious, sometimes falling into unconsciousness from which he could not be roused, or wildly thrashing and screaming gibberish, trying to break free from those in the dressing room called upon to help restrain the dying Cannibal…trainers, towel boys, photo-bugs, locker room freaks…and at times attempting to do them harm, mistaking them for the visions with which he was tortured…

Is this the shiny part? Is it? Is it shiny? Oh. I love the shiny part…yeah…yeah…uh huh…uh huh…nu uh…Higher! Climb higher! Are you afraid of heights or something? Get up there. Get all the way up there…I saw them first, I got them first ha ha ha ha…Fucking Olympics and fuck the fucker fucking Olympics and Greco-Roman shit fuckers, too…I never took it, Mom. I swear to you, and I know you’ll never believe me, but I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t take it. Not ever, Mom, not ever…Two dogs is good, one dog is bad. Two dogs will play. One dog goes crazy. Three dogs, three dogs, three dogs…Okay, this one is for all the marbles, folks, this one is for the belt, the $1 trillion billion million dollar purse, and super-hot sexy girl valet Fawn!...Which one of these crazed maniacs will take home the glory and gold? Which one of these psycho-killers will become the King of the Ring?...SUNDAY…PAY-PER-VIEW…SUNDAY…PAY-PER-VIEW…$1 zillion stillion fillion skillion means $1 zero, zero, zero, nothing…it means it means no thing…It means you fight, little man. You fight. You want to eat? You fight...Oh, the shiny part…Times ten, I could. You and nine little fuckers that look just like you. I’ll knock each one of you out ten times, you little fucker… Like a million candles, all those flashbulbs on all those little cameras in all those little seats…MY house! MY car! MY woman!...By the lake at night, the sky twice. In the sky. Yeah. In the water. Yeah. Twice. Sky. Water. Sky. Water…There was a wonder, a wonderful, a wonder wonder wonder…And I will DRAG you out into the motherfucking street and I will KILL you and I will FUCK YOUR DEAD BODY IN THE MOTHERFUCKING STREET YOU MISERABLE MOTHERFUCKER…Sign it. Sign it. Sign it. Sign. It...Olympic Gold! The Impossible Kid with the impossible dream and you can see the tears in his eyes as the band plays the United States national anthem…What a story! What an athlete! What a kid!...Olympic Gold!...Gold!...Go!...Guh!...Pay-per-view, man, pay-per-view…Pay. Every time. Pay. Every time. Pay…Fucking don’t know who I am? Fucking don’t know who I am? I am the fucking Cannibal, man, the real fucking Cannibal, and I will fucking eat you. Ha. Ha. Only kidding…Uh huh. Uh huh. Nu uh. Nu uh.

Bruce McRae - Four Poems

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,400 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press), ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).

***

1. Long Distance Love

Stars like question marks

after earnest enquiry.

Stars like asterisks

signifying lack.

Campfires of the Gauls.

The undead’s lanterns.

Goodbye Sol and Ganymede.

Goodbye Luna, the stars

winking provocatively.

Stars like kisses.

The Xs a lost love

sent to me at the end

of her last long letter.

***

2. Going Down To The Sea

A very angry water,

miffed over some perceived slight.

A change in character,

the water made mad and out of its senses.

So I’m going down to the beach

to shout at the waves,

shouting songs and sermons and psalms.

I’m reciting a poem to calm the sea,

assuring the drowned

of safe passage and eternal rest.

I’m telling the tide to turn,

to return to the storm’s source

and take with it the souls of those damned.

The souls of swimmers gone under.

Their feint cries like tender kisses.

***
3. Off The Record

Not now, I’m listening

to the rain’s confession.

Told in confidence

one November morning.

Spoken in whispers and gasps,

the rain’s secret life,

its untold story.

Sweeping leaves after the storm,

the rain took me aside,

wringing its blue hands,

eyes sparkling with tears.

The rain confided in me.

But what can you say?

How does one reply?

Clouds hushed and gathering,

as if something were on their minds.

As if they too

had secrets to spill

over the blackened horizon.

***

4. Permanent Solution

I was half way to the pavement

when I changed my mind.

After leaping from the bridge

I took a moment to mull it over,

my decision perhaps too hasty,

gravity a son of a gun.

Speaking of which, my itchy trigger-finger,

the difference between brain and mind.

And how I wished my doubt had lingered.

Lawrence Upton - Song: In formation Nutrition (2 voice)

ADMITTED AMUSERS WHIPLIKE

EFFECT FOUL HATLESS

ADMITTED MAKEUP WHIRLIES

ASTUTE FLESH SHELF

ADMITTED MUSHIER WASPLIKE

CHEAT FLUFF TOELESS

ADMITTED SMASHUP WIRELIKE

CHOSE LEAFLET STUFF

ADMITTER ASSUMED WHIPLIKE

CASSETTE FLUFF HOLE

FEEL SHUTOFF

ADMITTER IMPULSED WEAKISH

ETHOS FLUFF THOSE

ADMITTERS AMUSED

CHALET EFFUSES LOFT

ADMITTERS LIKE WHIPS

CHUTES FLEET OFFAL

ADULTERATE SKIMP WHIMSIED

CLEFT EASEL SHUTOFF

AIRSHIPS MILKWEED MUTATED

AFFECT

AMATEURISH SKIMPED WILTED

FLESHES LOUT

AFFECT

FULLEST SHOE

PIKED AMATEURISM WHISTLED

COAL FLUFFS

AMPLITUDE DIAMETER WHISKS

COLA FLUFFS HUFFLE

DREAMT WHISKIES

ALOFT FETCHES FUELS

MISDATE WHISKER

CHUFF EEL FALSETTOS

MISTAKER WISHED

SKATER WHIMSIED

EFFECT FLASHES LOUT

SMARTIE WHISKED

CHEESES FLUFF TOTAL

STREAK WHIMSIED

CASTLE FLUSH TOFFEE

DIAMETER WHISK

CHAFE

ACHE FLUFFS FULLEST OFFSET

CHUFF LEAFLESS TOTE

AFOUL CHEFS FETTLES ALE CHESTFUL

ALOE SCUFFLE THEFTS ALOFT

EFFUSES LETCH

FACET FLESH FOULEST

ATHLETE FUEL SCOFFS HUSTLES TOFFEE

CHUTES LEAFLET OFF

CASTOFF FLUTE HEELS

COAT FLEET SHUFFLES

FULL SEETHE

CHAFF FEELS OUTLETS

CHAFF FLEES OUTLETS

CLOSET FATE SHUFFLE

COFFEES FLAT SLEUTH

OCTET SAFE

Selene Charalambos - Bedtime Feelings

Bedtime feelings:
- freezing
- disorientation
- knowing
- quaint
- scintillating
- flippant
- onerous
- ajar
- uppity
- inward
- verdant
- irate
- towering
- melting
- ossified
- humdrum
- else