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Sunday, 22 April 2012

Kyle Hemmings-

In the Junkyards #13

The Junksters unleash their dogs underground. I am found crouching in interminable shafts, guilty of selling my solo horns without mark-up, slightly bereft of pompous tea ceremonial manners. I am accused of causing slow murders in four-way traffic. At scrapyard #3, the Commandant of Scar & Detail posts me by some burnt Rambler bodies, circa 1963. Three women ask him my going price. The second one says Lower! The first one says He reminds me of the first angel-faced boy who raped my fingers only. The second one says My Husband could only have sex in the backseat of stolen cars, that's why we always traveled with spare license plates. The third one says the best way to do it is by wind & shattered glass. SLAVE CYLINDER/WHEEL STUD/MOTHER/MASTER/VAS DEFERENS STRIPPED OF SPACE RINGS/ THE PURE OIL OF DESERT TURMOILS/CARJACK THIS LIFE & FUCK OFF!/ I say.

All three have orgasm on the spot.

Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poems: Avenue C (Scars Publications), Cat People (Scars), Fuzzy Logic (Punkin Press), and Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction (NAP). His latest ebook is Moon Down Girl from Trestle Press. He blogs at

Zach Hamilton- ey.e
( i. )

An oak stained cranium and shoes on the door, the screwdriver inserts the logic into the logic of the rooms. Little, bleached stain inside the shadows merging to the hairy lines of the carpet. A folded sheet of residue that the modern culture left behind, rosemary bent a shadow on the road the paint drips.

The pavement is a monster. Concrete wears a mask and has eyes, nose and lips seeping from a tattering of brain patterns chiseled everywhere are the worlds that build up the room.

The fan distributes to the unknown, fifty assorted needles. A plastic lens, black tubes shoved through a narrow thought/ 19.5 v of ringing in my ears and yellow flowers that are windows to my eyes, all windows and seeds.
( ii. )

The platonic circular marsh that the roof becomes. Pulled string curtain, (red wire) a maudlin hut upside down crossing white silk. A rose shimmer that reverses pattern, letting light through crumpled hands and in the corner, wooden window letting in white with clouded mountains. Solar flares and print jobs in the cut. A warm river under the bed brings a little light to the musculature- and positioning the red afghan high, there is a mountain –

Zachary Scott Hamilton is the author of fourteen 'Zines, including Temple of Sinew, The Orchestra of Machines, Wallet of Hexagons and HAIR LAND (named 'Zine of the month by the Independent Publishing Resource Center).His work appears in various magazines including: The Portland Review, Trigger Fish and HOUSEFIRE. He Recently went on tour with the band Holy! Holy! Holy! And installed artwork with partner Molly Pettit for a photo series, which appears on-line at his website WWW. Blog:

Saturday, 21 April 2012

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal-


The cruel voice builds
a landscape of hate,
which shoots out stones
into the flesh of
the souls it targets
and always hits its mark.
Bodies are left for
dead and the cruel
voice does not shed
any tears for them.


Her heart was a stone.
It was like a boulder,
like concrete.
like a brick wall,
like a rock,
hard as a mountain,
all shapes of mountains,
like a diamond,
like a statue.

I do not know why

I am seeking her.
I look away.
I cut myself
like before,
like when I was a child.

Her lips are soft.

I kissed them in my mind,
where she bit my lip.

Peter Marra-

notorious dreams of the lost women

what's next -
the light bends flickers
the space is oppressive
and the walls breathe slowly
it's coming for a slam-pain
while talking of a wonder-fall of signs
kissing the sand of the shore.
“I lost my name
I lost my name,”
she said very softly.
as she stared and stared as she touched skin
and slid down

slowly silently they removed their sunglasses
as shades of desire clutched the grass
ripping it out in clumps. she laughed at the sliced skin
of her hands a hard work that pays off
a trophy for her endeavors it’s the apex of her ambitions

“please talk to me,” as she backed up to the brick wall

Cold barrier felt, slowly slide down to a sitting position,
the damp sidewalk comforted her bare ass as she rested for a moment

“please talk to me. I dressed myself in iron.”

all aimed at shutting before a bombing of a forensic agony
a cemetery for suits of swords
a system of the ace of spades


Villiphane Thek the Elder-

blind familiar poem

large balcony of eye
with standard moonlight

oxygen of vacant birds
lumbering for each sunlight
is the serious of winter

these temperature 
limping somewhere 
half broken

haircut of clouds
the width of darkness
exhale frozen lungs 
of shattered glass

morning parachutes  
yellow with milk eyes

is mark rothko 
dressed in suicide

his empty canvas
drained of blood

for example:

round mustache of
religion, my 

plastic cloud with tammy wynette 
special effects

for example: if prayer
the extra mustard

is threshold voltage,
is more room 

for example: is free path 
because these geometry 

paint only snoring 
for example: each 

exposure if it scatters
some teeth remain

in the cubist 
their style usually
considered sprightliness, a

flowerlike modulation more
frequency is; 
describe the polyphonic
is time or other oxidation

when blue ochre
anothers its vapor?

is mondrian is 
easy access to
free of painterly

the temperature however
become so argon
for example: today

these right angle
are the other

the relaxation process
the roan mare of
this procedure 

fleet under the
electrodes the, 
the feeble cry

as instructed
for example:   

trumpets the round mustache of
religion, is 

plastic cloud with tammy wynette 
special effects

Villiphane Thek the Elder's poetry has been published in Diagram, Cricket Online Review, Otis Nebulae, Anemone Sidecar, The Dirty Napkin, Blaze Vox, Poets and Artists Magazine, Tupelo Press Sappho Poetry Project, REM Magazine and others.

Friday, 20 April 2012

Christopher Barnes-


Electrode is to calf
As megapixel is to eye,
A painstaking transformer.
Purple-mould injuries bludgeon the head
-          Always this demonstrative shot.
The footsteps of your legend
Is ruinous.  Fuse-blowing vital chunks,
Alternating current hurled hangmen
Into regenerated undertakings.
Crackle goes an extra life.

(From The Electric Chair Poems)


White Coats enlightened us.
Extremities give rise to energy
(A charged switch
Stung yours).
A botch, by tears.
Cut-short.  No lovebird deliberates
Your cage in its pupil.  His Nikon, winceless,
Impotent to unsettle
Your lost-sleep eyes.
Cadaverousness engrossed that thick head
Into a knockabout bruise.

(From The Electric Chair Poems)

Christopher Barnes' first collection LOVEBITES is published by Chanticleer Press.  He is a participant for and has just had an art review published by Peels Magazine, UK

Sam Ledger-

A voice becomes hoarse from swallowing gravel in efforts to scour an abrasive taste of words. I do not wish to write of you anymore, for I am tired of living in the shadowy glacial chill of a corpse.

Mourners should have left you to scolding June air. Where feasting infants beating wings could have gorged sustenance from your spleen. Or become intoxicated on your swollen liver. Or worse. No one needs a lesson in patriarchal biology.

My utterance transcends unto this,

a state of silence. You inhabit a pill box casket of ash and littered bone, nameless through expressions of a faceless man. Fingers have beaten stakes of refusal. Of disinclination to acknowledge billowing gusts of air wasted in your efforts to enrapture my soul between your cupped hands.

Love is loveless when defiantly taken and I will, if I must, steal back time and body and blood


Sugar Skull & Death Masks
I never cared to lay in sunlight, alone and exposed to rays. Never crept above deck but to bathe in violet light of the moon. He walked forward in his death mask as I held my sugar skull in symbolism of matrimony. Fingers fall to mastectomy scars wrapped beneath mottled rags. Their removal never did serve the purpose intended. I am still, standing, delinquent, muted by  a singular stitch in my lips.

Roses &  velvet & lace knitted together by seventeen pairs of hands and sixteen pairs of eyes. Veils dipped in reddening dye. Eyes hidden by puckered skin, drying since removed from its head.

Heathen voices call out mockingly as we waltz along our dusty aisle. I had been agile in my youth, now stiff with lethargy and melancholia. Vocality stifled in a malformed vocal box. I have not sung aloud in the catacombs when walking alone since I was a child. I have not walked alone since a sun set upon a distant shore. Our witnesses remain static, impaled where they stand, evidencing two shadows merging under a bitter testament.

Until death shall part us

To dishonour and obey

Two corpses laid shrouded in their marble sarcophagus. Silent but for hushed sounds of laboured breathing. I am birthing his fantasy under a weight of virginal lace and taffeta. Wrapped in tissue paper a list of lies I told...

I love you.

Mourners do not weep amongst themselves, fall to knees begging the Almighty for why.  He, He lays next to me, stoic, solid, clasping a frail hand in his. Faithful. To keep safe, to keep silent. The blind are leading the blinded. My lips have turned blue and the sex of humanity leaks from my mouth.

Stigma did not manifest as I imagined.  In spite of my bringing my own nails and handing him the hammer. Sweet kisses touched my eyelids and words stung as sung in baritone vibrations. There is no salvation for sinners

Nor penance. Not redemption.

I say Revelations lied, he laughs steadily. Deafening tone echoing mockingly from stone walls and lid. An airtight grave does not whistle with wind, rain may not seep into my bones, but I sense a sentiment of suffocation setting in. He smiles again and says something I cannot hear. His teeth are missing, his teeth are missing as the last note of morning passages is played on a piano. Low notes drifting down or up or across, I have lost a sense of space and time move back and sideways and from itself.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Michelle Reale-

Aurora Sets the House on Fire
But first, because it mocks her, she kills the fat fly over and over again.  It’s wings leave an iridescent smear on the French vanilla colored wall. It pleases her to no end. Outside the sound of a basketball hitting the cement at eerily slow intervals threatens to lull her to sleep, while she stands. She snaps back to attention and remembers how she once read about a serial killer’s mother who never left home without her big scrapbook, as if your life can be held together with some glue and some tape, something she may have to resort to in the near future. It’s curious details like this that spur her on.  And the questions. She’d like to know how she can stop raking at bloated desire with her bloody claws.   Anybody? The avenue is full of other people’s trash and she is up to her ankles in the different stories they tell all on the same day. Listening went out of fashion years ago.   There are rivers that flow with molten wax, but in the end, the heat, the burning and the light it gives will have to be enough.  Even pleasure has a life span and she’s lived long enough to know, that it is usually a short one. 
Michelle Reale is an academic librarian on faculty at Arcadia University in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She is the author of four chapbooks and her work has appeared in various anthologies.  She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She blogs on social justice, immigration and migration in the Sicilian context 

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Serena Wilcox-

An extinguished flame form clouds
their incandescent stands
become a human storm
In a cold room
at the base of a window
particles of dust adored in gold
morph into children
sleeping under a sheet of their own breath
planted in rows like young trees
in a foreign land where rain is regulated by seasons
(Note: First published in Desk Rage Poet April 2012 (E-Pub))
There Were Two Trees
There were two trees in a garden
Whose limbs were densely woven
Like cobwebs soaked in liquid foam
Separate secrets revealed
At the threshold of a lie
Leaves from both trees trembled
Impotent buds fell
Mute nonetheless
Serena Wilcox  is the author of Sacred Parodies. (Ziggurat Books
International) She is poetry editor for Leaf Garden Press. She has
literary work published  in Ann Arbor Review, BlazeVox, Word Riot,
and many other publications. She was recently nominated for Dancz Best
of the Web 2011.

Aad de Gids-

la princesse de kathmandu ou de shigatze
being tibetan or tibetanoid is almost on the road to titaniumnization.
enlightenment with an outerwordly glimmer,the quartzes of the
mountains directly as cotissue infracerebralous thoughtinterference
to enlighten the interference of repetitive words,construing thoughts
against the grain,la princesse de shigatze lost her thoughts to love
and the altitudinous soft psychosis to affirm the alpine flowers and
bric-à-brac roads downward or,upward,here or,there.wearing her
ten ton weighing yak woolen cape with the regality of heights endless
deverence or,” developing reverence for divergent intelligence”,to
tip tap on her wooden mules up or,down those flatstone stairs to heaven
and brightest brightest lightblue tibetan uninterferenced skies,the blue
of death and love,and as she also likes it,the mauve of the rhododendron
flowers himalayan richesse,reverential transparent mauve with spots
for the queens bumblebees with blackglama fur coats flying in the stiff
cold tibetan nepalese air,bhutan,sikkim,ladakh,this eye of the world
elevated to greater hights and culminating in mount kailash,the kang
rinpoche feng,the holy mountain around which counter-clockwise the
autochtone people of tibet the bön,and clockwise the jains,tibetan ~
and other buddhists and hindus circumference it,all its 45 kms,to acquire
immediate zumhimmelfahren. ’la princesse tam tam de paris’, la princesse de kathmandu ou de shigatze is wearing nothing but the finest dessous,under her rough and ready outerwear,silken fineries and lace boxeurs des dames. the yurts are as cold as they are warm. tzizu sleeps dressed.


Saturday, 14 April 2012

Dom Gabrielli-

Pasolini Rex

there is no wine left
there are no laughs
as the storm descends
with cold under its torrential arm

there is no idiom left
to dispel this hell
there are no films to eject
the instant into rhetoric
there is no being no meaning
no oscillation of heart and pen

there is no desert
dead the sand
there is no sea
blank the tides
there are no hearts
blood clotted the image

the genocide porn of the mind
the mutilation of desire
youth abandoned to the bare bone
from the Roman hill where you were murdered
gathered one last time to the halt of living
to the knife edge
what cuts is no longer
the hesitant kiss
does not attract its believer
the incomplete poem
has lost its ink
it dries in a vain desert for recycled criminals
who laugh as they decapitate intellectuals
where the mafia do what they can to complete the opera
with all their complacent apologists
all their faussaire filmmakers
they found an empty road
they turned off the cameras
drove their money into elegant malls and banks
whoever they saw soon blind
listeners losing ears to fictional gunshot
drowned in millions of joyful pills

dawn has not
since you died
love has rarely
since your assassination
retreat again
into the simple hole of scream
i did not cry i could not
because your words were by my side
i put them into fists
i saw the menagerie they called politics
i wrote from nowhere
for no reason

i wrote a poem
into your poem

i wrote a poem to hear you
sing a poem
to my poem

poems once you sang
i never heard twice
but i should have
the desert had grown
the mafia slang creeping across ivy coloured borders
dialects many dying in the candlelight eve
no one to stoop down and write their resurrection

there will be no tomorrow
no more light
just the willing to raise a body
from a premature grave
to hold a penis as day becomes night
to write what is left of words
across a scroll of broken dreams

you can laugh at anything
you can destroy everything sacred
you can ignore every book written or sung
to the point of losing even the prick
of your heartbeat
down a stray strolling drunk alley
into a fight to the death
with black gloves and white teeth

which emissary likened you to a god
which million of drunken dollars killed a prophet

sing to me now
i have listened
longer than most
long enough
to play this dead Italian music

Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh and New York Universities and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man (2009), his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body (2010), which earned considerable praise. Several new books are on their way. Gabrielli has also published several individual poems and interviews, notably at Leaf Garden Press, The Poetry Bay, Vox Poetica and Real Stories Gallery. Gabrielli's books are here: His own whereabouts on an axis between language and nowhere.

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Dom Gabrielli-

After Pasolini's Medea
there would have been delight once
in the scattered body of the victim
whose blood was smeared upon the grain and the pod
on the black and brown surfaces of the earth
his handsome face and hand his testicles
carried in a frenzy to unknown summit

so he was just a smile
at the executioner
his destiny a broken neck in spring
as the crowds gathered to scatter his axed members

the camera's deliberate shaking
like the smile a man sends to another
in the hiatus between jagged stills
the beauty of any wholeness is just colour
is just a body just a face a pair of eyes or legs
deep valleys and mediterranean rocks
burning in the power of almighty indifference

what then is a world without gods
what then is a world without sacrifice
the god that hid in an enigma
the god of a premonition the god of a smile
which ushered you to make love
as life depended upon it
to assassinate your rival
in the same wild act of love

gods were never benevolent entities
you could never talk to them
they admonished as they killed
they ordered the scatterings of innocent men's blood
they raped and pillaged for jealousy
they were the intolerable and the unjust

the hero is not himself
he is just the feelings he has
spontaneously between one sentence and another
between the orders of a fool
and the hideous spittle of a monster
just a conduit
between one god's game and another's fury
the dialectic of his insignificance
playing in fields of the unknown
the movement between one god's penetrating finger
and the amussis of judgement

Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh and New York Universities and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man (2009), his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body (2010), which earned considerable praise. Several new books are on their way. Gabrielli has also published several individual poems and interviews, notably at Leaf Garden Press, The Poetry Bay, Vox Poetica and Real Stories Gallery. Gabrielli's books are here: His own whereabouts on an axis between language and nowhere.

Sunday, 8 April 2012

Petra Whiteley-

Little Night Music


Blackness is
my light, inside my mouth
worms of music crawl, heavy
as my darkest bone; the bone's bitten side
bears a mirror in which no other appears. In
there a body grows and folds into itself. I think
it is mine. My eyes are refusing to hear. My ears
no longer see this music that smooths me out as pebbles,
soothes my darkest reactions into the muteness of  seas
as their green thinning waters wait

                               I become a feeling
of stigmatised silver.


When God took me I was milk,
when he sung me I was its perfect whiteness.

Somehow my crucial pieces became a clock inside
His head.
A fly scraping His skull.


In the rain I touch
the edgeless-ness. A rhythm of lies
passes deathly
between my body and me. I believe
this - !
my body, a heretic of my pain. My fingers,
crippled and crushed, collaborators off target.
And that slippery war
                                  a heritage. Constant
and permanent.


My body,
               annihilated and silenced,
slipping dead through its own pulse. And my eyes,
always turned towards the same point(lessness)

The Sound Shrouding Teresa

Far too often I find my hands working;
there are too many discarded statues around here,
air and dust. I throw Teresa against the wall,
that weird doll inside my chest falls,
her no body against the off-white muteness of plaster echoes
just as it was when I've finished
with being a girl, and threw my dolls against the wall.
If I had a knife I'd have called them all after Marie Antoinette.
There was nothing behind their smile and those mouths,
they lied about Golem song-words and the skin of God.
Only out of the black moments of sex and that terrible longing for death,
I have brought something back to breath. A slow sound in ebony warmth
of old violin cracking inside my freezing fingers. And for the statues
I arrange lilies on the razor's edge.

  Melody Of Darkness

My body is not the one walking down the street
               it's the cold mass on the table in the mortuary
                   it's the black bird pecking on its own wings mid-flight
                         it's the Christmas fish in her last bath
                            the other side corner of a cemetery
                          (only dogs remember it)
             burning painting on an empty white wall

I would rather if it were music drifting from the doors
            through the windows,             through grey and heavy air   
                     (not song-sheets, rain-pissed in the gutter)
                             a yellow flower wind-torn in a mountain's spring
     (not a speck in its dying tomb-water)
         or even its cold biting river      frightfully alive
             as the darkest wood violins
                (my grandmother's forest; its fragrance of
                       shimmering scary-beautiful - no world -  lostness)

      or just a thought -
                 a thought dissolving in a cup of coffee in its white delicacy
                   (in blueberry china touching an antique table in
                           forgotten house with history stashed in its dust -
             handkerchief in a pocket, in dog-eared photo, corner-smile - ancestral)

                               but lingering on
         (visible) melody of darkness
                                                        lined  in memory of fingers (touchable)  sonata  of a lived-in skin.

Petra Whiteley was born in Czech Republic, but England has been her home since 1993. Whiteley’s poetry collection 'The Nomad’s Trail' (Ettric Forest Press) was published in 2008, a chapbook 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press) in 2009 and ‘Exhibition Of Defined Moments’ (erbacce-press) in 2011 with 'The Liquid Metropolis' out recently. Her children’s book Watchmaker’s Quartet And The Shattered Pendulum describing a surrealistic adventure has been released on Kindle in 2011. Her prose, poetry and articles have been published widely in webzines and in print. She reviews CDs and interviews bands/musicians on regular basis for the Reflections Of Darkness.