A Poem by Denise R. Weuve

Fire Eater

 

In Malibu

the fires

are finally 

 

out, but ashes

hover

like fine despair.

 

Somebody's hopes

cover

my Toyota

 

and I dust them

away

the way you once

 

did me. But I

should not

care when I hear

 

you are engaged

yet my

stomach tightens

 

on the smoke that

is your

ghostly presence

 

still on my love

seat. How

quickly could I

 

extinguish

your new

woman's burning

 

if I told of

our bed

smoldering lust

 

into love. Tongues

darting

like blue flames

 

into each others

mouths

‘til we ignited.

 

I always knew

I was

strong enough

 

to eat fire. Would

she leave

you? Cold gray groom

 

at the altar

the way

you left me for

 

an icy North,

when hot

embers still burned

 

in my stomach.

I am

fine now, gutted,

 

an empty house,

fodder

for men to search

 

through. Still, I wish

you the

best, but warn you,

 

not all women

can eat

fire and survive.

 

 

 

 

Denise R. Weuve’s work appears or is forthcoming in Carnival Literary Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, Gutter Eloquence, Pearl, RipRap, San Pedro River Review, and South Coast Poetry Journal. She teaches English and Creative Writing in Cerritos, California and is actively seeking the perfect MFA program (or one that will take her-which ever comes first). She collects paper cuts, and other miscellaneous damage to display in glass cases (her blog http://deniserweuve.wordpress.com/). Contact her at Inkdamage@gmail.com or follow her on facebook, http://www.facebook.com/denise.weuve.1.

Two Poems by Jean Brasseur

your voice

 

like it had a right

to slip in through the airwaves

 

your voice on my voicemail

like yesterday wasn’t last year

 

and the months of tears

were only something to pass time

 

like I shouldn’t have donated my sanity

to a nondeductible charity that sounded like you

 

like I never should have walked to the edge

of that nightmare ledge to give you a little shove

 

like I should give up on anger

because today my name showed up

dressed in your voice

 

 

 

 

Purging you

 

I sliced my left wrist

and watched

 

the tilt of your head

the caress of your voice

strong hands and soft lips

watched all of you

spill over my skin

 

for a moment

even held your dark eyes

in the cup of my hand

before you trickled

to the tile floor

 

another lonely mess

another solitary cleanup

 

 

 

 

Jean Brasseur is a writer living in Northern Virginia. She is of the belief that poets and artists are grossly undercompensated while other professionals such as politicians really ought to work for free. In the meantime her work can be found in various publications online and in print such as gutter eloquence, right hand pointing and flutter.

  

Two Poems by April Salzano

Wisconsin   What does it mean, this state I have never been and never plan on entering. Nothing except the place my ex-husband and sperm donor to my children, stealer of light, selfish bastard that he is, moved for a couple months. He crossed a time zone for a piece of ass. Not an easy piece, a bipolar, borderline, needy piece. And diabetic at that, posing on her social media site, glucometer in hand like a consolation prize. Wisconsin. The place from which he thought he could commute, commit. Every other weekend to uphold his court-ordered visitation. But her body was too much temple for such a confirmed agnostic. The tongue was swollen, the shock of his two children dripped through her like sugar. Like a poison. A coma. Wisconsin didn’t want him either. Pennsylvania Domestic Relations and my lesbian attorney shouldered the blame for one in a series of failed loves.

Sperm Donor

 

The shit being otherwise taken in

is the first attraction. Anonymous

gift, a welcome second. Your hands

never having laid

claim to my body, mouthless,

removal of inferior opinion given

every other weekend, undoing

lessons I have struggled to teach, guilt

of failing to bite my tongue every time

your name is mentioned in some false

revision of history, all compete for

third best feature of absent father.

No consolation prize, dangling carrot

of monetary support. No dream

to wake from, half a lifetime

later with the nagging sense of déjà vu,

should have known better regret,

a glass of champagne spilled,

a gold band tossed over a bridge.

No one heard it hit bottom,

a tree falling in woods without witness,

silent solitary oak pulling strength

from the center of the earth

to hold its knotted branches.

An amazing equation,

half the formula simply deleted

with the sum equaling the same.

April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania and is working on her first several collections of poetry and an autobiographical novel on raising a child with Autism. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Pyrokinection, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Napalm and Novocain, Jellyfish Whispers, The South Townsville Micro Poetry Journal, The Weekender Magazine, Deadsnakes, Winemop, Daily Love, WIZ, and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly, Decompression, Work to a Calm, and Windmills.

Three Poems by Brenton Booth

REJECTION

 

She’s not a cup

                   a $10 note

                   a laundry ticket

                   a pair of sneakers

                   a ibis

                   a river at sunset

                   a mouse in a

                   wheel

                   a crystal inside a

                   stone

                   a song

                   a poem,

but I think

of

her

now,

& wish she was here:

even though she

has been

so cruel:

I’ll pour a drink

on her

& another

& another

& another

& put on some

clothes &

go to a

strip club

drink some more

then back to

a bar:

trying to forget

a girl in

Gosford in

Kings Cross

on a January

Saturday

night.

 

 

THEN APART 

                                                                      

Its just that my eyes

have invisible holes

& thousands of tiny

amicable insects are

trying to flee from

the doleful thoughts

of my mind

that

the feet have grown

knowing wings & keep

attempting to lift off

though nature doesn’t

want any part of it

that

the ears are now

acoustically engineered

auditoriums with a

handful of notes

endlessly sustaining

without a single change

in volume

that

the hands still hold

onto her with a

limitless grasp like

a purpose built

machine

& no matter what

I tell them:

they refuse to let go.

 

 

GRIEVING FOR HER

 

Assembly lines of

emptiness; pumping

then out by the

truckload. the clock

will soon strike the

hour, when the bells

ring I will know the

time. my vices are

yours too; does that

mean we are compatible?

sitting in a dark small

room waiting for the light

to come. seagulls and

engines sounding in the

distance. yet the sound

I wish to hear is gone.

and will never return.

 

 

 

 

Brenton Booth is a 33-year old writer of poetry and prose. He resides in Sydney, Australia. If you would like to read some of his other stuff. He has work on, or soon to be on 3:AM, Zygote in My Coffee, Red Fez, Underground Voices, Shot Glass Journal, CitiZens for Decent Literature, Mad Swirl, Camel Saloon and Gutter Eloquence

A Poem by D.M. Aderibigbe

SOLITARINESS

I lay eggs of discontent on the roof of a solitary nest,
The sober walls, replay my resonating sound of anger.

My ears hear their voices of lamentation and remonstration.
My heart is a pool of its own undoing.

Tears! Tears! Tears, stream! Stream! Stream!
from my cheeks, Like a rain soaked ceiling.

For you. Yes! For you.
For the promises you never kept.
For the love you never showed.
For the heart you never had.

I was a foolish swain, who didn't know
The location of his two hands,
I was gullible as a village maiden,
I thought we'll reach the end of the road
Together.

I mosey on a solitary road of love.


D.M Aderibigbe is a 23-year old writer from Lagos, Nigeria, an
undergraduate student of History and Strategic Studies of the
University of Lagos. He writes poetry, fiction, non-fiction, plays and
lyrics. His work has been published or forthcoming in the UK, Canada,
Australia, Nepal, South Africa and the United States by, Vox Poetica, Pressboard
press, UP Literature, HUSMW Press, The New Black Magazine, Misfits'
Miscellany, Thickjam, Ditch Poetry, Bluepepper,The Applicant, Rusty
Nail, Jellyfish Whispers, Wordriot, Pyrokinection, Red River Review and Carcinogenic Poetry. His poems have
been included in the anthology ON THE WORDS OF LOVE by the Canadian
group, Poets with Voices Strong. His debut novel Sisyphean, will be
published in America, soon. He lives and schools in Lagos.
Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device from MTN

A Poem by Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

VACANT HORIZON 

 

A note on the dining

table

where you shared meals, love,

laughter.

 

A bomb detonated the moment

you read the barbed words:

Sorry, I had to leave this

doghouse.

 

You race to his bedroom, his last

retreat before the war.

His wardrobe is a virgin

again: no clothes, shoes,

ties, all gone.

 

Your tears flow through

all the rooms more voluminous

than the twins: River Niger

and River Benue.

 

This cemetery is now

yours. Eat its deep

silence. You search

 

the horizon for answers but

as you stretch out your

hand even near objects seem

to slide farther away.

 

 

AGHOLOR LEONARD OBIADERI holds a Bachelor's degree in the English Language.He lives in Delta State, Nigeria. He loves poetry, crime novels and wrestling videos. He has been featured as poet of the week in Poetry Super-Highway and Wild Violet Literary Magazine.