by Thomas Piekarski
They rolled out the barrel of sequin dust.
Would that cause a pomegranate to split?
Not much mention of pay per view.
3D or nothing, and at that extraordinary.
Blood let. Toppled Egyptian metropolis
discovered at the silken floor of a sea.
Cantankerous notion that there’s only
a wind-swept blistering inferno ahead.
Vague signal: blinking yellow lawns.
Rhymes unwritten because they expired.
You’ll make it right in the final stanza.
Any road leads everywhere if you have
the stamina to stay on it long enough.
Pantomiming our nervous habits as we
navigate telescopic tomorrows. Cousins
kissed, then were euthanized. Pray,
pray, or scourge. You have no choice
but to tread native earth. So please
take those love letters you have stored
in your varnished oak hope chest, read
them again and again, far removed
from that time you woke afraid
of the dream you had that vanished.
by Waldeci Erebus
"...as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen..."
—T. S. Eliot
A soft red glow suffuses over all.
It is a corner of a basement floor.
The light's subdued. Dark red bricks form a wall.
It's unknown—the location of the door.
It is a magic show. One dude leans back.
He's floating in the air. How is it so?
Perhaps he is suspended on a rack?
One sees his hair against the lovely glow.
A dark magician moves him with his wand.
He is a strong, broad-shouldered sorceror.
What is it? Something's hidden, or beyond?
He seems like he is an enforcer, sir.
The audience applauds. The act is good.
How does he do it? I wish I knew...I could.
from AT THE MUSARIUM
by Peter Grieco
[31901 – 32000]
The bigwig ticket-collector & Laotian
matriarch show-off their videotape
for the BBC someplace in space-time.
They hopscotch bipedal arthropod
under the username “chiliblain” for
a few centavo. How to accommodate
non-fiction with hanky-panky hilding
in the asepsis, when the carburetor
robots, & the zanies overstay? Jiggle
your chronoscope, do a bong, & envision:
Pharaoh in his geep-dom, Yemeni who
immigrate down a daedal couloir, &
the gooseherd who undernourished them all.
The blackcap who lasciviously oversaw
viability, the lackluster Lilliputian
who Capitalized at lunchtime on the anapest
& brio, along with the time-consuming
Episcopalian who hosted the contango--
defloration unchallengeable—their scission
under an electroscope, their sumo sura
& rhapsodic simultaneousness raveling—
ovine a prolate parasitology famulus
with dihedral tawse. They grepped
the foon a bumboat, but the Guinean
roo a Welsher.
[27401 – 27500]
Lilo-like & lupine, Czarina Kirsten
encamps, til galoshes eraser, s’il
vous plait. Metatarsal patina
spearhead her philanthropical umlaut.
Firecracker finals fascism, overconfident
ingestion, & slaughterhouse addenda.
Flivver lewdly outstay their sacerdotalism,
prostate with agave, tenebrous, yet
inappropriateness, though internment,
fails to rationalize the washroom payee,
magnetically acclaiming the troglodyte,
now a scintilla, now a bowlful, of
[14701 - 14800]
Unravel this phial, oh warm-hearted
Sappho, of its sprig of vernal drowsiness,
open-mouthed to luscious tidal blues that
vibrate with incandescent quietude,
for Demeter to emissary quarterly
upon her meager barque. Tillage of twos
& cancelled presidents, bedclothes blood-
shot with the nag & squeak of propagate,
drummer at the typewriter of a cleaner
metamorphosis: What foreword defines
such untenable circumcision to probe
the inimical markings of a sacrilegious
& bullying celibacy?
by Pijush Kanti Deb
My guests are ever-solicited
yet they cross me flying over raising hands
or running by me,
so selective they are, it seems,
Nevertheless, my thirsty eyes get quenched up,
as my guests are witnessed
entering my poor parlor
walking on the way of my blood and sweat.
They steer the magical rods,
make my dry lips fertile,
my heart brimful in luxurious emotion
to blast a musical laughter
and my feet hilarious in joy
to show their spontaneous dancing steps
for a blissful while- consisting of
a few tumultuous moments of amusement.
Alas! As time passes, moment by moment
so the guests start disappearing one by one
in the bottomless holes of my booster-
boosting my unaccounted
smile, laughter and dancing up.
The wheel of life moves another round,
makes my eyes thirsty and watchful
for gaining the presence of the guests again
and hopeful too plan wise to sustain
their existence for a long time and term.
Experienced heart admits the importance of
a rationing system of amusement-
boosted up by a new booster with a regulator.
by William A. Greenfield
Dozens of blackbirds sat
on a wire above the horse farm.
I saw them see me.
I saw them jockey for position.
They didn’t need to take flight,
didn’t need to be capable;
no more capable than the
infant learning to babble,
learning to recognize, like
the blackbirds recognized me.
Beyond the horse farm
sat the charred remains:
just a foundation and chimney:
certainly a problem of
Just how much can ashes
weigh on the mind?
I don’t recall what lay
beyond on that day. I was
thinking of a time long
ago, when I was bathing
my infant son. As
simple as they were,
his needs far outweighed
my own. A day came
when he asked if he
had become a man, I
had no answer, as I
know only when a man
is no longer a man, when
he becomes a nucleus
of blood and bone, watching
with indifference as the world
revolves around him, like the
blackbirds watched me on
that day, from their lofty perch
high above the horse farm.
IF THE SUN WOULD FORGIVE
by Ava Lauryn Wells-Quantrell
My august heart of gold has melted for you, gregariously.
Fantastic visions of making sweet trails
Along your body torment me in my sleep.
Your deep, dark eyes, like that of a scorpion, flash,
Rich amber sunset always seems to abduct me
Away from your appreciated embrace.
A holy massage with jasmine oils come off
Of my hands, onto you.
You smile at me with charm, confessing that
We are one, is it true?
I wonder whether I would much rather stay
Within your magnetic space.
My flightless bird, that strange Chance has
Made our paths meet!
If ever our hands do separate, remember our
Will you trust that the Sun pities our feet?
And with True Love shall we travel into the
Unknown distance, like darts.
Poehemian: a poet or artist who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry or art; a poet or artist who is quite possibly (subconsciously or consciously) inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.
"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" -Edgar Allan Poe
"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." -Edgar Allan Poe
"It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat." -Edgar Allan Poe
"We loved with a love that was more than love." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute." -Edgar Allan Poe
"And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams, Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively, Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?"
"The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The customs of the world are so many conventional follies." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence— whether much that is glorious— whether all that is profound— does not spring from disease of thought— from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence-- but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself." -Edgar Allan Poe