A Poem by Aaron What

Human Certification Exam

Section One.Please circle the one best answer.

1)Which of the following statements is true?

a.I plan to buy your product

b.Any of this matters

c.Television is alive

d.I studied

e.All of the above

 

 

Aaron What is a top-ranking agent of The Deception. His or her talents include insincerity and misdirection.

 

 

 

 

 

A Poem by Gary Hewitt

De-liberation

Portal

White, cool to finger

Blue haze

Come alive

Eyes twitch with impatient hunger

Enter an enchanted world.

I float on a Roman spaceship. With nuclear lollipops I obliterate worlds. I am come: the goat king of the Poppylots. I hear voices in a cacophonous whirlpool of fornication .I store billions in my data wallet and words snake in divine obedience. With a ninja finger I slay foes and embolden allies in a fair of sparrows. I, the bringer of light and devourer of darkness. Zeus licks my boot-up: I may gift him a parking permit for Fido’s Puppies.

I am slave,

to irrelevant binary.

Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. He has written a fair few tales over the years some of which have been published in Mbrane, various anthologies, Twisted Tongue, Morpheus Tales, Morpheus Tales Best Of Weird Fiction Volume 1, Smokebox, Slingink Magazine, Short Story Net, PygmyGiant and Bewildering Tales.

He is also not afraid to dabble in the arcane art of poetry. He’s a proud member of The Write Idea and sometimes writes the odd flash fiction tale on that venerable website. He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone which continues to grow from strength to strength.

He has produced an anthology of his flash fiction available in e-book from : http://www.lulu.com/author/content_revise.php?fCID=9607218

Three Poems by Doug Draime

               
                            Chant Twice On Any Moonlit River

It was the same as was it was the same the

Same as was it was the same as was is it

It was it was it was it is the it is it is the same

The thing it is it was it is it was it is it is it same

As it

A was there inside a was there inside the inside

Inside inside inside it was inside the same it is it

And it was there inside inside a was it is it too

There inside a was inside it it was as a same as

A same was

It was the same as was it was the same the

Same as was it was the same as was is it

It was it was it was it is the it is it is the same

The thing it is it was it is it was it is it is it same

As it

A was there inside a was there inside the inside

Inside inside inside it was inside the same it is it

And it was there inside inside a was it is it too

There inside a was inside it it was as a same as

A same was

It was the same as was it was the same the

Same as was it was the same as was is it

It was it was it was it is the it is it is the same

The thing it is it was it is it was it is it is it same

As it

A was there inside a was there inside the inside

Inside inside inside it was inside the same it is it

And it was there inside inside a was it is it too

There inside a was inside it it was as a same as

A same was

The Way The World Works

up

side

down

full

of

blood

with

no

plug

for

the

invisable

drain

bio-scopes:

part 237

fang he was

unsettled working

as a storm storming

(steel sleet

&

quick murders)

polluting all his

wars where it or

nothing was

behind

nothing

not even

fang who (with 2 black eyes)

never

had a

way with wars

when

he

died

fang i’m

sure

it was

wars with him

always unsettled

polluting

& wonder-

ing

why

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doug Draime has a full-length collection due out

from Interior Noise Press in 2012. A presence in the

underground literary movement for nearly five decades.

Most recent books in print include: Los Angeles Terminal:

Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press) and Rock 'n Roll Jizz

(Propaganda Press ). Awarded small PEN grants in

1987, 1991, and 1992. Nominated for several Pushcart

Prizes in last few years. He lives in the foothills of Oregon.

Two Poems by John Pursch

Attic Steak

Itchy bonbons steer the few tiled embers of a rounded heel, sorting torn fealty and tendons of silt. Electronic simians float atop bipedal code, recurring in daylight screams of fissile ponds and soaring endorphin steam, plastered on baked masks. Fractal droplets steer the sky to soaking lands of hourly peeks at churning ham and ankles, hocked in mock effusion. Shaped charcoal mops stir a locust well, immersing schoolboy taunts in honey, lifting whirled warrens to hired clothes. Pen pals practice pinning trestle rain to tournament steers, simpering to starboard, cavalier and ignoble. Trained to flip a boxy chartered caliper, figurines mesmerize encrusted gulls, mousing a stentorian peg to varsity stove dispersion. Minted by the Cleveland administration, today’s patties pair backpack choirs with outer queries, contracting post-whir nervosa, tagging herbal canaries. Seaside poise engulfs a fleck of etched heuristics, quashing procedural tantrums when idiosyncratic piers apply for hooves. Parried go-karts hatch impassioned solar touts, resting on statistical glows, clearing radium cereal. Sugars emerge from mynahs, porked and stoppered, hitting insulation pores with mounting equine tundra. Ineluctable masks place addled sleepers in third-tier getaway schemes, acting out for understudies of a marginal glute. Hectares slip through eel replays, stitching bombers to currency drams, chiding a deckhand’s spousal toucan trainer for nautical persimmon takes. Rays of guilt peer below socket sand, glimpsing heated oils, sneezed by wise erotic wafters of an imminent plaid ruble. Motto makers walk the crock but cower before trusty naivete, pitching until ham lopers free the liberal gurney from encased comics. How soothing, the real, effective semblance of warm expressive wrists can be, scrambling logs beyond the frozen punji cliques. Only scarlet employs a more envious ape mask, doughty and crumpled in cornerstone news, regarding smudged adjudication with sneering high-top gourds. Of course the striated enemy can’t waddle; that’d break brachistochrones in national wedding toll streams, foiling an augury before manacles were demented. Cilia mooch a yelling docket, breeching misty corduroys, slashing focal ointment. Halls of chesty terminals inch backward, painting aisles intact, glamorizing framed invertebrates on shadier notes. Cordoned often, destined for seminal greening, life assistants cadge a sorely dreamt bouncer, leafing under tailors, stacking oxen for waybill burgers. Chaff sides with fliers, fragging the lead xylophonist, obeying counters, mending canned stoics with attic steak.

Moth Giggles

Defalcation grazed the catapult, ushering dawdlers into tritium seams, where sunlight pines for canny berms. Leeward saddles right the coiling chap, mince a chef’s true facemask, and cobble forth in circles, broaching a spherical boot. Skillets bubble ginseng steam, draining coughs from caverns, branding taped doormen with supersonic wilting pools. Aft omissions curl the governor’s palace; perisytles collapse, deputizing cardinals, canning limpers for dawn. Conjuring tracks from vertical ears, moguls measure ascetic slots, lap up crown whorls, and map infusion tucks to cyclic oats. Alluvial belief repels a fragrance with auxiliaries, favoring translucent hermits. The more a fly tries fate’s liberating haze, the heavier its solitary stammering will be. Even so, a fountain taps imagined ease, willing windfalls on unexpected aisles. Points of ordinary speed veer through monthly grays, startling reflected trees. Apples trot in candle fiords, pleasing a porcelain truth. Smoldering in parallel, au pair weekends whistle past elastic locks, investing torn murals with colloidal urchins. Eager wheelies crawl in pickled flan, pitting glaze against horses. Actuaries jostle ogres, sifting orbits for elemental stew, only to founder on motorboat fluff. Frazzled zealots fritter aweigh, catcalling feline augers, seeping into paranormal shade. Adders torch gullies of tidal couth, releasing moth giggles, curdling sand and seawall gloom. Skin cologne wraps tangled crypts in geyser hounds, mixing tonic smoke, stocking ropes for tulip rosters. Checking the keg permanence, braying striders whisk away a tree, trying on an iron gasket. Scythes risk amethyst on wild caloric stains, pair off to blackened flak, and search for solid lips, basking in a Tartar’s irrigated seal.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in The Camel Saloon, Counterexample Poetics, experiential-experimental-literature, and elsewhere. His fiction piece “Watchingstoned, T.V.” was recently nominated for the Sundress Best of the Net 2012 Anthology. His first book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks . You can follow him on twitter at http://twitter.com/johnpursch or on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/john.pursch .

A Poem by Chris Butler

Toad

Even desperate princesses

French kiss frogs.

 

Chris Butler is a twentysomething nobody shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut.

A Poem by Travis Laurence Naught

A Fly's Life

A house fly buzzing around any room does not need much

A spot to land in order to rest his million miles per hour furiously beating wings at the same rate an electrical charge cycles and is ready to zap again into open-air space

A bit of consumption to provide fuel for these clear membrane wings enabling them to pump at a fast enough rate to lift his oversize and engorged blimp body from whatever treat was chosen to feast upon

A willing mate that will allow him to propagate the species ensuring the survival of these buzz winged bugs who are only allowed to live for three to five days before succumbing to natures cruelest trick of death by old age unless instantaneous departure is granted by a hand, swatter or striped rubber shoe sole

A want is not considered to the flea sized brain held behind gigantic eyes that see more during one instant in time than a single object focused human could ever hope to view let alone process even if he had slowed the earth's rotation down to a crawl so that the second hand on a watch appeared to be stuck in molasses because a fly's metabolism is sped up to the level of dog years to the 50th and things happen quickly or not at all

A plan is not put together in the name of deviance as a way to get at some prize pile of shit before the rest of his friends come circling in ruining the flavor for him since more really is merrier when it comes to the social life of a fly that enjoys feasting and fucking as much as the next insect with needs to be met in his own short span that is devoid of any meaning rather than to spread the transferable diseases that feast on all sorts of animal life creating work for doctors and veterinarians who need the lowly house fly and should be grateful to God for their small purpose



Travis Laurence Naught is a poet who happens to be a quadriplegic wheelchair user. He earned a bachelor's in psychology from Eastern Washington University in 2005. His first book collection, The Virgin Journals, was released by ASD Publishing in March of the 2012. It received an honorable mention in the biography/autobiography category at the 2012 San Francisco Book Festival and was used as curriculum in a disability studies course at EWUniversity. Other poems by him have been published online at http://www.deadmansreach.com, http://49writers.blogspot.com, http://www.pyrokinection.com/ and http://www.ravensbrew.com as well as in print in the 2012 Northwest Boulevard and The Easterner, both released by EWU. You can follow his daily update page online at www.facebook.com/TravisLaurenceNaught

A Poem by Janet Rice Carnahan

STAGES OF SELF DEVELOPMENT

 

In the beginning . . .

S l o w crawling,

Weak STANDING,

Quick r u n n i n g . . .

Trip and

f

                          a

                                l

                                       l

                                               i

                                                        n

                                                                g

                                                           n

                            i

                       s

                   i

                          R

   Only to stumble again . . .

Until, I could stand no more!

And once I took that stance,

                       In came every chance,

To twirl, shout and dance,

Becoming true to myself, now as I stand . . .

I see it Took all the rest,

Before I’d understand,

Life is best taken . . .

just

one

step

at

                                                                 a

                                                                              time!

      

 

 

 

Janet Rice Carnahan’s muse simply cannot just color within the lines, stay in the box or stick to form without being slightly left of right. Thankfully for the creative pulse of poetry, she doesn't have to contain her muse instead she can be led by it. Janet’s poetry has been published on three online poetry sites, “Pyrokinection”, “Jellyfish Whispers” and “The Mind [less] Muse”, one anthology, “Prompted: An International Collection of Poems”and on one tee-shirt! She lives in Laguna Beach, California among artists, photographers and writers, who also find delight in the unique perspective. Must be that grand ocean air and for the muse, a cool beach within reach! A dance on the sand truly does it wonders!