A Poem by Lynn Hoffman

What he knew when
 
He should have known. He should have known.
When he saw the photo of the near-naked man on the entry table,
He should have demanded. . .something.
Maybe he should have.
Or maybe he should have put together
the strange smells she brought home on her clothes
with the odd absences
and that steely-reedy tone that she got
when she told a lie. Shit, maybe he did know.
 
But he didn't.
The place where he would have put that knowledge
was already filled up with stories he used to know
Fat stories, true stories, antibodies, songs.

All he knows now is this:
He doesn’t want to hurt anybody.
He doesn’t want to be the cause of anything.
Ahimsa, he remembers that word: harmlessness.
He would be the guy who reduces the pain in the world,
He'll take a new name, call him:
Professor Hebrewprofen
Doctor More Feen
or Kiss My Ass Perino.

It was his way all along
and that much, at least, he knew.

Three Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

cutting words

 

spoken

spite

like a

kitchen

knife

its blade

forged

from

sharpness

of steely

disdain

its handle

formed

from

wooden

disregard

 

words

aimed

carefully

 

she thrusts

deep, deep

into my

abdomen

then

slashes

upward

 

lightning

in reverse

 

it's the

quickest

way to

a man's

heart

 

if your

aim

isn't to

keep him

around

 

 

 

perdition express

 

love is a

drunken

train

hauling

a line of

groaning

freight

cars

a mile

long

 

each one

filled with

broken

promises

as the

whole

lot

jugger-

nauts

along

in

suicide

circles

 

while

the grim

engineer

looks for

the first

oppor-

tunity

 

to

jump

the

stinking

track

 

one more broken heart on the boulevard

 

she intro-

duced me

to the

street

in a way

that i

hadn't

expected

 

no choice

really, but

to crawl

away

 

amazed

at how

well she

played

the victim

when i

said good-

bye to

romance

 

kissing

the hot

pavement

 

 

as the

bitch

scraped

me off

the

bottom

of her

shoes

 

Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, TX. A writer

of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work has

appeared in Handful of Dust, Visceral Uterus, ThunderSandwich,

Dead Snakes, The Vein, Underground Voices & elsewhere. Jack

is also the mad editor/webmaster of Gutter Eloquence Magazine

(www.guttereloquence.com).

A Poem by P.R. McDowell

Anguish

Ruined,
Heart in a vice grip.

Crushed,
Soul broke from longing.

Torn,
Voice cracked by emotion of words of love no longer allowed to be spoken.

Incomplete,
Laid out cold,
Pained,
With no one to calm tears.

Broken,
Heart on sleeve,
Unwanted,
And never truly heard.

P.R. McDowell is a writer of poetry, scripts and generally anything which sparks his creativity. Since late 2006 he has begun to be known for his writing. During 2008/2009 he had poems published on the online gallery Sometimes When I Wake At Night, where he was a featured artist.

He began performing poetry at the Freed Up! poetry night which was done monthly at the now closed Greenroom in Manchester & hosted by Dominic Berry and Steve O'Connor, where along with other long time regular performers there, he became known as a Freed Up! veteran.

P.R. has also performed at the 2011 Environlution Festival; wrote a collaborated poem titled “Twist the Knife” with the poet Graham Halsey, and has performed at events including Poets Get Mashed, Magical Animals, Stirred, Beatification, Bang Said The Gun: Manchester, Guitar n’ Verse, and Once More With Meaning (which he was a guest compére at).

He is currently preparing for the start of production of his first independent film "True Colours" and is also the founder of the arts organisation Light In The Dark (founded by himself, the photographer Damien Hayward, and the poet Nadeem Zafar in August 2011). Light In The Dark is an arts organisation unlike any other, run by artists for artists with the aim to get a venue of its own to run as a community-based hub providing a performance platform for artists; they are also a support development source for aspiring artists by providing them with support & development (advice, guidance & PDP’s).

A Poem by Seamas Carraher

LETTER TO A BELOVED

 

Love, i am wasting

in this hundred years of our exile,

my chest nailed in disease

with other people's debris.

Listen, the concrete

is throwing stones here

in despair.

Nothing can grow and

the killing won't stop.

i have crossed this threshold

between time and our timelessness

on the veins of my wrist.

All the trains are on time,

this is no extraordinary crisis

in a century of greed.

My knives were sharpened on my mother's milk.

i still cross

this country of our homecoming,

a flag burning

in subversion for the dead.

Love, the time is late, and

spring an unknown season

half full

of shooting and bombing,

with fear groaning in all its hollows.

On this point in the unwinding of space

i sit and tease the pain on the point

of your nipples.

i remember your claws that

scratched my old wounds.

i remember when the rage stopped,

your face peaceful like a child.

And then i remembered

a time when the feeding was full

and it was elsewhere,

more human in our futuring,

and another time in its truces,

and with that note cracking your

sleeping forehead

and the day breaking in segments

between our fingers

i joined your thighs with my maleness,

laughing,

at the unwinding of war,

the permanent nature of losses.

 

 

 

Séamas Carraher was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1956. He lives and writes on the Ballyogan estate, in south County Dublin, at present.

Recent publications include poems in Dead Flowers, Pyrokinection, Dead Snakes, Carcinogenic Poetry, Naphalm & Novacain, The Camel Saloon, ditch, Bone Orchard Poetry, Istanbul Literary Review and Pemmican. Previously his work has been published in Left Curve (No. 13, 14 & 20), Compages, Poetry Ireland Review, the Anthology of Irish Poetry and the Irish Socialist (newspaper).

A Poem by Phil Barnes

This IS a love poem

You can't understand the pyromaniac in me.

The desire to love and then set flame to the feeling

to pour rum on it and watch the light from destruction play in the air and mock your senseless building.

Pursuing flimsy shit

like comfort while cavorting with a beast

I have no pity for you

(you wanted it)

You took the shit

(you wanted it)

Even when the recognition of evil was so blatant you had to hum and whistle to block out the sounds of your bones being crushed

you stayed

(you wanted it)

Even when the carefully crafted look in my eyes changed from friend to foe and the heat from my gaze threatened to leave a mark

you still held out your hands

palms up

And when I finally found the place to cut you

where the pain would be the most exquisite

and I went about carving my real name

even then when you looked up at me and saw there was no room for you

that there never had been

Even when the veil came down and the teeth came out

you still blindly reached for my hand and tried to tell me things about love.

 

Phil Barnes (who is a she) is a poet and fiction writer currently residing in Uptown, Mpls with her Beta Mayhem.  While this is her first attempt at publication, she has shared her work at multiple events including the 2011 St. Paul Art Crawl, Chronicles from the Wall-a First Friday event and several random gatherings of writers in dark taverns.  She will also be hosting an event for the upcoming 2012 St. Paul Art Crawl.

 

 

A Poem by Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD 

 

It is called the magic

of flapping heart-beats,

the emotion that drives you

to kill those whom you love.

 

You wait patiently by

the door while your lover sleeps with

someone else.

 

You crave your mother’s

bosom, your lover’s

breasts.

 

Tear out your

heart and fling it into the streets,

with its pipes,

tubes and longing.

 

Douse this

volcano of desire. You may

self-destruct.

 

The heart-shaped sword

lies between

the pillow and pink letters piled

in neat folds.

 

It sparks your

ruin. Cuts your heart to

pieces.

 

 

 

AGHOLOR LEONARD OBIADERI holds a Bachelor's degree in the English Language.He teaches in a secondary school in Delta State, Nigeria but also finds time for his hobbies which include writing poetry and reading crime novels. His poems have been published in UptheStairCase Quarterly; Barnwood International Magazine; and Shortstory Library.

A Poem by Susan Dale

IT DIDN’T FEEL LIKE DRIFTING
       

You went away one October day.
I told myself we drifted apart

Though my heart doesn’t remember it that way

Drifting___ is morning mist
burning into full-fledged day

Shadows into sunlight

Winds: wanderers

But you leaving that brisk November day
That was howling gales hurling
sharp objects into helpless creatures

Powerful waves
Crashing the shore in rampages
To carry off
my sad and broken heart




Susan’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.