Thursday, September 4, 2014

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

Lost in Twilight

these ragged
   moments mid

ebb and subtle
   flow as pastels
      loose essence

as earth colors
   shimmer and dim
      deepen into night

shadows seem
   ominous as their
      indecision fades

for a moment
    -i forget
   have forgotten-

      the way home

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs), hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Writing the Whirlwind, Shamrock, and (translates as joie de vivre)

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

A Poem by John Pursch

Skinny Porch Kerplop

Signage loops to menthol hexagon retraction,
flitting football Corsicans to root pier prostitution specks
of poured Othello arias and aromatic favoritism's
nether dermal afro fiction why compendium mistake.

Coopers denote chancre hopping cobbler grottos
by an exiled exhalation's scarab, harrying wheeled arrowsmiths
with purchased proboscis scaffold census sensor dust,
polled several milliseconds into centigrade repulsion dreams.

Seven dregs decay in sparse entitlement
Rapunzel efforts gone frantically antique,
rubbing amphorae into sleepy sigh ballistic frenzy,
soiling prestidigitation's leitmotif with loincloth lotion legalese
and legerdemain's logistic porpoise whims.

Tinsel doves corrode in caustic flip card urges,
primping the paltry blitz incineration pool girl's
imitation sloth toupee with schoolhouse jail oregano coulisse,
delicious to the touch of sutured sober hammer gals
from fossil action college fee reduction igloo martyr gender photographs,
burnt yesterday for semi-swollen tundra deals gone virulent
in midway barn anthologies.

Covert rickshaws rise in scalding pawing fractions,
sobbing mental proctor staples of pedaling gas colonic pone,
elusive yet befriending pedometer guppies
in proud saline hosiery's ecstatic seamstress zoom.

Occasions orchestrate refracted flossing speech sagacity
within suburban mining stallion gall bone douche repair fee lossage twine,
imploring skeet petunia backers to berate anarchic logging thrivers
into maypole undulation rites and skinny porch disturbance pleas
of snowy loaf intent, her haystack's nebulous pomposity
turned quizzically to midnight pancake rescue gape
of turban flame from neutral fairies flown halfway
for drowning pleasure breech pad ballpark shamble
burping bleach kerplop extrusion mayhem.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona.  His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals.  A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available in paperback at  His experimental lit-rap video is at https:///  He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Monday, August 25, 2014

A Poem by Duane Locke

Terrestrial Illumination (2014) No. 380


The garden ticket booth wet by rain.
Minute stone chips
Loosened from old asphalt
Rolled from roof

To fall on slabs of cement,
To fall on
A fallen world

As the world has been libeled for over two thousand years.

A string quartet was to play in gazebo postmodern music.


It was as if the downpour was a new flood to cleanse the world
Of its past fantasy enchantment and its false beliefs.
For over two thousand years the people had misled themselves
By mistakes, and lived by lies.
The had lived by illusions
Of the theological and the scientific circus and sideshows, and now
With the transvaluations of mostmodern people were on the threshold
Of salvation and finally, a relationship with reality.

The music would celebrate the new dispensation of postmodernism.


The rain was the heaviest of the year,
But the people not having read the program was to be postmodernism, set
As it dry, awaiting the usual trivial and petty amusements.
The old beliefs and living according to the old axiology
Had made the people obtuse
And the people could not feel any more natural sensations
Such as the wetness of rain.

But they were told by the TV set that it was raining.  The commentator
Read from a script that outside was a heavy downpour.
The report resulted in everyone putting on raincoats.
Over their unnoticed soaked tuxedoes and evening dresses.


For over two-thousand years the earth had been turned into an insane asylum.
Causation was the theological and the scientific minds
Echolalia was the normal way of communication,
Communication had ceased to exist under the old order before postmodernism.
The clean and distinct had failed to communicate,
Postmodernism discovered profound and meaningful communication
Came only from poetic opacity.


Now in raincoats, some started to pass the time by reading.

The scraps of paper turned from page to page
Are seen as graphic elementary designs, straight, cursive lines.
Blurred by false memories of their blue blood,
And the curls under the hoods of nuns.  Antic,
Their fingers whirl car keys.  Some have in bags
For gifts toy replicas of anorexic tiaraed royalties
Posed as the tiny white globes that roll over numbers
On roulette wheels.  All eyes spin as do slut machines.
What is there to be read is never read, content chased
Away by vague desires and inherited meta-narratives
Of angels painting their fingernails gold as tattooed
On hairy arms or shaven legs.  Books written to be destroyed.

From the shrubbery comes the song of the wren,
What is unconcealed by the wren's song is vaguely heard,
And quickly reheard as something else, as something
That was believed to exist but never existed.  And
The current fractured, fragmented, faked life
That began in ancient time with the original lie
And original sin still reigns, comforted by the thermostat.


Adorno observed how faith in logic and reason by
The Enlighment's white wigs, bows on knee pants,
And white stockings prepares for Auschwitz
And the Marquis De Sade.  But the Enlightment
Was already corrupted by attitudes and habits
Implanted from the Middle Ages.  Logic and reason
Were the clowns whose acts took the peoples' minds
Off the fact that there were truths.


The musicians have not arrived, a nightclub comedian is substitute.
Champagne is distributed and the audience is in ecstasy.

The applauded comic weeps as the audience laughs.
The comic has sensed the responses to his stolen jokes
And how these responses will lead to the destruction of humanity.
He knows that the inferior quality
Of his jokes is what makes them such an outstanding success.


The wet chairs in the park await the musicians
To play the music that celebrates the return of enchantment
And the return of truth that postmodernism will bring to the world.

The musicians' instruments rest on the chairs,
The musicians have refused to play.
The musicians refused to play
When the musicians learned they were to play a composition
That celebrates postmodernism.


The comedian was informed, so he had to tell more dirty jokes.

Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida near anhinga, gallinules, raccoons, alligators, etc.  He has published 6,763 poems, including 31 books of poems.  His latest book publications:  April 2012, DUANE LOCKE, THE FIRST DECADE,  1968-1978 (Bitter Oleander Press).  This book is a republication of his first eleven books, contains 333 pages.   Available at or on Amazon.

Monday, July 14, 2014

A Poem by Ken L. Jones

The Neon Koan

(A Suicide Note For The Sixties)


Behold a green skinned monster
With a brain the size of a walnut
A hot fleshed green skinned dinosaur
So large that he needs another brain in his tail
Just to act as a guiding apparatus
A green fleshed behemoth whose emerald oaths rip the primeval air
Causing the lesser monstrosities to scurry in terror
Behold this thing driven by a passion
Which engulfs him like a vortex
This unholy fool is the last of his kind
No more will he taste warm red flesh and armored platings
No more will he be a fourth horseman in a time when horses are the size of rats
No more will he topple trees and rock the food chain
For the strange bony faced primates who cling to the branches will soon stand upright
Someday these insignificant creatures will only remember
This terrible green skinned one as a legend
An aphrodisiac, a side show curiosity, thirty feet of white bone abstraction
Suspended on piano wire like George Reeve’s Superman was in my daguerreotype youth
The green skin now spews from Texas oil rigs
The hot blood is now the minerals of Africa
The savage razor teeth now line the coal shafts of Wales
Now the emerald king is nothing but an illustration in a children’s book
Nothing but a Japanese movie monster
Now nothing more than a symbol for things that can’t adapt
And refuse to function in the all too real present state of affairs


This is my tribal chant
My ghost dance to scare up feelings in an effort to catch hold
Of any submerged fragments that rise to the surface
My fingers now drum in the dust of ruined civilizations
How my fingers long to make dust of my present bloated situation
Oh why must I be dust again
Oh dust to be reborn
To be dust to be reborn again
Reborn again and again
Spinning in a cyclic sickness
Until the final sewing shut
Of infinity’s eyelids


These words like a team of horses strain beneath my whip
While a musette playing free form mocks my word imprisoned lips
Oh stumbling straining existence you woman never tamed by man
Still my pen, amputate my arms, atomize my soul beyond remembering
I am weary of life and cringe at the dawning of each new day
Street worn things beyond my grasp
Not within my range of caring


This is the end of my pink flesh age
This is the beginning of gray hair
Flaccid thoughts, coughed up words
And all of the empty dreams that come near the end

“What sign are you?”
 They ask as they stitch up your life like   
An ancient whale bone corset
 “What sign are you?”
They ask and when you tell them
They know who you are
They’ve seen you coming a mile off
You’re as recognizable as the punch line
To a traveling salesman joke
What sign are you they ask and I answer
“I am a sign of decay and folly a mass of hacking fat
A Pandora’s Box of complexes
I am the Mayan Codex decoded in Camarillo
An immaculate deception
I am a vaudeville nativity
A tangible infinity
I am the instant anything machine
That puts you on Easy Street
And never asks “Where would you be without me?”
I am a Frosty the Snowman
Who never melts in the summer
I am a mystic and a libertine
I am the rhyme that does not vamperize inspiration
The poetic voice that matches any saxophone
The Sphinx that asks no riddles
In short I am paradox and enlightenment
Nonsense and common sense
Mysticism and reason
An irreconcilable set of opposites
Whose tension keeps the world spinning
In the middle of the teeter-totter
With no time off for bad behavior


Such bitter wine I taste
Bitter to my dilated taste buds
Bitter to my phlegmed lungs
Bitter to my corrosive spirit
Which lays crumbling
Like a sheet of steel
Which has resided in a vacant lot for months
And now sparkles in autumn hues
In the pale cold sunlight of afternoon
Oh what a cold ashen fireplace
It is the morning after youth
So like stale jazz heard through a worn needle
So sadly stagnant like a river damned
And happy in its green death
And in its inability to quench thirst
I have lost the only love that I have ever desired
Since desire first did bloom
And I prayed to God to free me from this flesh
And pleaded unto him for release from this world
Of singular beds and barren wombs
And I was denied
Yes I was denied
Is death such sweet succor that God would deny me its pleasure?


Spin me a blue web
Play me some blues
Slide your fingers
And play me some blues
Play me the blues of the first born slayed in Egypt
Play me the blues of cheered slaughter in the Roman Coliseum
Play me the blues of The Children’s Crusades
Play me the blues of The Inquisition’s chambers
Play me the blues of Dachau, Nagasaki, and My Lai
Play me the blues of red skull fragments scattered on a street in Dallas
Play me the blues of a dead man on a mountain top
Play me the blues of a rosary of blood dripped on a kitchen floor in LA
Play me the blues of a pregnant butchered actress
Play me the blues of jungle death in steaming Indochina
Play me the starved to death lack of love drunk and drugged out aching souled blues


Two sweating tundra’s of sun pink flesh
Slam together in a secret death at night
Mastodonian grunts of pleasure issued through foaming teeth
A separate life force emerges unbidden
In squirms and screams and mindless motion and in the bargain
A teaspoon full of ectoplasm to carry on the madness!

Ken L. Jones has written everything from Donald Duck comic books to dialogue for the Freddy Krueger movies for the past thirty plus years.  In the last three years he has gained great notice for his vast publication of horror poetry which has appeared in many anthology books, blogs, magazines and websites and especially in his first solo book of poetry Bad Harvest and Other Poems.  He is also publishing recently in the many fine anthology poetry books that Kind of a Hurricane Press is putting out.


Monday, June 30, 2014

Three Poems by Martha Landman

Your Skin 
            You cannot travel within and stand still without.
-- James Allen
To be drunk from the colour of your skin
Wrapped around you in biscuity ash-white,
Flawless like a prayer-shawl
I think albatross, or even something bigger,
More severe, but I do not know why
My thoughts are analytical, like clear blue sky
The smell of wild animal, of wild
                                          of animal
The taste of you, reckless like chili
Con carne, travels inward along my spine
I pause — blue; like a sign of punctuation
Standing patiently on the bitumen’s edge,
The smell of your skin’s karri-tree aroma
Spreads faster than any train of thought
Tucked away in the shade
I think little leather miniskirt or naked flesh
The sacredness of spider’s silk, of spider
                                                       and of silk
Reassembled into a silhouette honest as
Skin on skin in the slit between dark and light.
Back Then
Just because it happened a long
time before my imagination’s
eyesight, my retina’s perfection,
Just because it now all seems blurry
and memorably impaired  .  .  .
When I relax the I and see the full
stop and let my mind loop from
thought to thought, I find symbolism
in the ulcers bursting in my stomach
feeding me organic wisdom.
My soul’s windows need a wash
to see my students in the balance
they offer me when they exercise
all the muscles of their mind even
though they don’t process the facts
I feed them day by day.  They are not
to blame for emotions triggered by
my hypnotic influence, my vision
training, my problem-solving approach
skilfully gazed upon their innocence.
Mother and child bonded on a clean slate
back then, but I’ve learnt to become scared
of dark material clouding my equilibrium.
My ears, my eyes, my orientation have
grown deaf, stress-inhibited, unrecovered.
My preference is to link sound, smell and
taste and indulge in a bowl of chocolate-flaked
ice-cream while I listen to Maria Callas’
frequencies even though some are missing.
It’s been a long time since my brain hungered
for otherworldly explorations: the ability to
communicate subtly through the electronic
ear, not shutting down at a baby’s cry or
closing my eyes when romantically kissed

 – my left stockinged calf elegantly uplifted.

Science of the Unknown
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes.
            T.S. Elliot
The moon a yellow night,
unscandalous as ivory,
your unframed shadow
grim, an echo without vision.
Smokeless, lifeless,
your opium pipe smelled
of seaweed as you withdrew into
yourself, your skin cool and dry.
Not unlike Othello you moored your
misery, handkerchiefed it in a heart
dark with weariness as smoke

eloped from the muzzle of your gun.
South African born Martha Landman writes in North Queensland, Australia. Her latest work has appeared in egg poetry, Beakful and Jellyfish Whispers.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Three Poems by John Pursch

 Lipstick Swap
Wayward pouters puzzle over dross
in ghastly quadrant highland tabernacles,
owning spiked gypsy doodles in
pterodactyl Steadicam rice balloons,
flipped to ashen primate shoulder tongs
by the wisest statuary, groaning over
seasonal poofs of shallots in threadbare
missionary imminence.
Guests arrange an ouch forever, elating
queasy fall resection tortoise inklings
before structured luminaries stumble up
to lamprey cartwheel orgy penitentiaries,
feeling for solitary guardians in cardigan gales.
Keisters christen original urchins
with marching inguinal dumplings, bleeping
into pried Scotch routines for groupies
on sonic mantissa craze defense puree,
quacking sourly at historic umbilical flotation
in tasty spume coordinates.
Martinis squelch tribunal undulation, ululating
amusingly guileless topographic requiems
for architectonic vintner pants in sprockets
of a Sten’s ball-peen pulchritude, plus or minus
the espadrille of tree house frills.
Wending flimflam from periodic insect saturation,
hobnobbing with exclusionary torpor, educational
cash chasms cash in cached casuistry
for facial effacement’s surface furnace,
bleeding Troy’s parasitic Parisian
duck clock marquis in folded vowels,
canned innocents, and gustatory truss
marks of this embattled lipstick swap.


Time-Trap Sighs
From far below the babble of marginal baubles,
huffed and proffered with taut stretched hounds,
comes the barking of aliquots and sedimentary crayons,
simmering over doughnut stoops in sold-down Paltrymore,
spurning typhoons merrily in jocose rotational caresses
of sweet concrescent swoons.
Crescendos captivate clipped gaggles
of fairly told and furious tattlers,
trying on robotic wigs in tomfoolery’s
penultimate surmise, coughed to
splintered locomotive tiffs by
squalid highbrow suitors of an
adoration’s annual survival pit.
Hokum lifts the arse of whaling nuns
to ergonomic palm retriever soil,
coiled in recompense for sweatshirt sundaes
and mollified Hockedover Moonies,
flexing quintessential scepters
in doggone lassitude’s flimsy
technical eyewash caboose.
LL-57 brings up the derriere,
flashing goulash facial jammies
within apostasy’s tallied pies.
Sweetness pours down lace enigmas,
supplementing time-trap sighs with cluttered crows,
asleep in toweled-off trampoline entrancement bolts
of shoelace grocer crabbiness.
She culls the catwalk for sunshine glossies
in daily chutney waybill wander,
stipulating household hyenas at dawn
for nestling newsboy underthing replacement,
termed numismatic by avuncular dropsy clothiers.
How could a hobo countenance
the prude dismissal of stealthy air seditionists
from shallow conning tower knolls,
sneered adroitly at juvenile sailors
in row house deviled nylons?


Lorry Chimps
Wind climbs to cooing dove repeater tears,
falling on fettered ears in pools
of lachrymose pterodactyl sutures,
bending distant rooftop catamarans
with hoarse lineament shallows,
punching time-retardant fate to diamond grist
in followed waypoint indignation.
Muttered cowlicks warily refute a scolded trench
with paradoxically wooden shipments of tire
irony and tiptoed laboratory dog columns,
fishing tousled curvature from pineal meanings,
flourished in bobbled topographic cufflinks
before a wrestler’s suburban sightings
line up for caryatids of pentagonal unrest.
Armed weariness snakes to thorough armchair tails
of Automonkey Umpire sheaves and fibrous pundits,
mopped to annular pistachio headboard turrets,
firing bullfrog missives at swiped illegal egret scuffs
in premature giraffe collation handlers.
Spoilsports spout,
offending marsupial karma
with Hofbrau Mauser misfires,
clenching kaleidoscopic fairy stools
and amulets of umbral preset inquisitions,
plucked from sighing octets of pewter thimbles,
fueling dental winter dusk with keg line ballast palliatives,
raked to spine powder.
Lugging floral mussels to lorry chimp wiggling festivals,
spooned rock stars spar with parietal espousers
of the weirdest formulaic horse meat mown
to naturalized menaces of flannel girth,
crossing overt marionette neurotics
with industrial crustacean galoots,
leaving hockey scars in triumphal

scintillations of encountered lisp eclairs.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at His experimental lit-rap video is at He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

A Poem by John Kross

All That I Have Felt
(In some semblance of order)
(1967 to 1975)
carpet burns
WGN presents “One-Eyed Jacks” starring Marlon Brando
my grandmother’s basement
slaps from my mother
kicks from my father
Nerf basketball
10CC “I'm Not in Love”
(1976 to 1980)
sunny, cool, fall days
the woods on Sundays
tall green grass
raised red seams on a baseball
Tickle Pink wine
the smell of hashish
the buzz of high tension wires
Stroh's beer, pull tab tall boys
the woods at night
the breeze through the car window
her breath in my ear
(1981 to 1988)
“Footloose” starring Kevin Bacon
Michelob Light in bottles
extra spicy guacamole
“Members Only” black jacket
para mutual wagering
4 seam fastball
the garlic taste of Dimethyl Sulfoxide (DMSO)
a 91 mph fastball
Feldene dissolved in Dimethyl Sulfoxide and applied to my skin via tongue depressor
my 93.5 mph fastball
The roar of the crowd
the swirling light and sound of a west Texas freight train at night in the fog
Jesus Christ
(1989 to 1999)
the anticipation of child #1
the birth of child #2
6 hours of uninterrupted sleep after child #3
an 8mm obstructed kidney stone
sunny, cool, fall days
“The Road Less Traveled” by M Scott Peck
the woods in fall
the woods in winter
the rumble of Niagara Falls
“Ruthless Trust” by Brennan Manning
the woods in spring
The Stanley Cup
(2000 to 2004)
nostalgia of my youth
photos of my children as children
Jose Cuervo silver tequila
sunny, cool, spring days
Major League Baseball opening day
Jose Cuervo Gold tequila
Chinaco Reposado tequila
the stench of pavement
Gran Patron tequila
the heat of pavement
Herradura Anejo tequila
Marca Negra Mezcal
AA meetings
Alice in Chains “Down in a Hole”
nostalgia for opiates
(2005 to 2007)
AA meetings
Camel 99's
her infidelity
photos of my children as children
Camel 99's
the sweet, sweet voice of Martin Sexton
AA meetings
(2008 to 2010)
the tenderness of your touch
a king size memory foam mattress
the tenderness of your touch
Amerique Verte Absinthe
discussions with the dead
the tenderness of your touch
Ray Lamontagne “Winter Birds”
the tenderness of your touch
ablution by Amerique Verte Absinthe
visions of the dead
visits from the dead
(2011 to 2014)
their forgiveness
AA meetings
Camel 99's
my inability to sleep
the tenderness of your touch
the tenderness of your touch
the tenderness of your touch
the tenderness of your touch
Centenario Reposado tequila
Tramadol in large amounts
thoughts of you leaving me
thoughts of me being left alone
thoughts of you being left alone
the words I have just written
John Kross is an aspiring poet living and working in Dallas, TX.  His poems have recently appeared in Napalm and Novocain, The Mind[less] Muse, Pyrokinection and the 2012 edition of Storm Cycle.  You can read more of John's work and interact with him as the poet "V" at Hello Poetry.