Wednesday, October 17, 2012

A Poem by Denise R. Weuve

Fire Eater
In Malibu
the fires
are finally 
out, but ashes
like fine despair.
Somebody's hopes
my Toyota
and I dust them
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
your new
woman's burning
if I told of
our bed
smoldering lust
into love. Tongues
like blue flames
into each others
‘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,
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 Contact her at or follow her on facebook,

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

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.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Two Poems by April Salzano

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.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Three Poems by Brenton Booth

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
                   a crystal inside a
                   a song
                   a poem,
but I think
& 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
Its just that my eyes
have invisible holes
& thousands of tiny
amicable insects are
trying to flee from
the doleful thoughts
of my mind
the feet have grown
knowing wings & keep
attempting to lift off
though nature doesn’t
want any part of it
the ears are now
acoustically engineered
auditoriums with a
handful of notes
endlessly sustaining
without a single change
in volume
the hands still hold
onto her with a
limitless grasp like
a purpose built
& no matter what
I tell them:
they refuse to let go.

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

Thursday, October 4, 2012

A Poem by D.M. Aderibigbe


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

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

Monday, October 1, 2012

A Poem by Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

A note on the dining
where you shared meals, love,
A bomb detonated the moment
you read the barbed words:
Sorry, I had to leave this
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.