Friday, July 29, 2016

Poetry From The Mag Man Himself Peter Magliocco

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he's been active for years both as editor and small press scribe in the indie presses. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium from The Medulla Review Publishing.

The Ascension of the Midgets

by Peter Magliocco

The sea breeze turns the vagrant around
planting ire-fed fishes at his feet.
What is nature but immeasurable
currents of hot and cold pressure
areas on the map of naked breasts?
I hear the disaffected mewling
of innocents trying to escape ideas
of science defining the universe
while jockeys ride purple dinosaurs
into the teeth of natural disasters.
The savior awaiting us is good & bad,
anointing small children at bus stations,
never caring about the holy water
of tears raining on buried dreams
for heathen adults hiding with them


Someone Like Jean Seberg

by Peter Magliocco

Do they hover now as gadflies on brows
of men sequestered in little worlds
of the insect church kingdom
with coat of arms proudly displayed
by a multitude of miniature thoughts
you believed empower all thinking
instead of becoming more obtuse
doing the daily crossword puzzle
as your life swerved into oblivion
vowels elude dark X-rated abysses
the fetus within struggled to escape
those last days when nothing mattered
as your baby twin slowly devolved
to bend your mind's cinematic panoply
featuring a thousand masked faces
striving to blind the circling orbs
invading your car trunk's coffin
no one could ever see your star fading
out from a dark director's last caress


Mystic Cam Flesh Brides in Close-up

by Peter Magliocco

I splice your models in cumbersome ways
forcing the freeze frame in hardly quietus,
a burst of ambrosia implodes her mouth
leaving lust's residue of enameled glints.
The mob danced barefoot ransacking
the off-Broadway stage for malcontents
acting out a malefic sexual violence,
waiting for a photo-shopped crucifixion
while distant chimes from churchyards
tolled for the world's endless refugees.
Only the most beautiful must die again,
feeling the knife slice pudenda & ass,
even if it's only gory cinematic effects
in the cutting room of noir editors
with nose rings & tattooed buttocks
trying to enhance desecrated lady victims
whose body parts equal chewed cam-bytes
your bare feet prance over the blood-hued
last rites for the criminally insane


The Fetish of Desire

by Peter Magliocco

You were practically on the street then,
wondering how to make ends meet
in '90s Vegas,
where nothing seemed right
because life was upside-down;
casino chips rattled in your piebald brain
for loose ends never finding beginnings
or a way out

of the everyday Strip mecca-madness
we drunkenly pledged allegiance to.
Then years later, when things improved
the old hotels kept being imploded,
releasing gray ghosts from wandering
as losers through empty casinos
where love & money were equally lost

to a muffled sound of vintage Elvis records
someone pinched the showgirl's body --
reeking of champagne & cigar smoke,
yet more exotic than your blowsy wife
in her sad cups mewling --

& for a moment paradise was reborn
in the general scheme of things,
hearts were enriched by dirty lusts
somehow truer than false prophets
trying to sell you time-share nirvanas.


Cheap Sun Glasses

by Peter Magliocco

How could your black lace panties become a flag
for the desires of homeless men watching you
saunter down the Strip on a scalding day
tormenting their bloodshot eyes with booty
bulging from you cut-off 501 blue jeans
(the pair with matching grunge butt-tears --)
& crimson bra visible under a see-thru blouse
bearing faint discolored liquor & food stains
with your striking long legs protruding
like twin white pillars of oversexed might
as your platform-wedged heels clicked
a sonorous seriousness on the sidewalk
while the world debated Clinton or Trump
nobody gave a damn on a star-crossed day
when starving men tried to throw themselves
at your miraculous vision like a last meal?

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Poetry By Chelsea Rawlings

Chelsea Rawlings poetry has previously appeared in The Wolfian.

“Driver Wanted”

to the terminal,
he hops a Septa
smoking to a butt
to the stub before a long haul.

Going nowhere,
taking obese women
with oversized, flowered hand bags,
and thick rimmed eye glasses,
to the park,
the grocer,
the post office,
and home again,
and again.
Criminals loitered the back
of the bus with urban jargon,
McDonald's wrappers,
and used condoms.

Pay the fee,
it simplified his brain,
the monotony,
weighing down time.
bomb threats,
racial discrimination,
setting the bar
for his stress level.
The pressure of his foot
on the peddle amplified
the discord.
A kid crosses the street.
‘Step on it,
end it,
before he winds up like you,’
behind a wheel;
cab, bus, or train,
shoveling people
like dirty snow to their destinations;
without blinking,
or questioning
their fate.

On a Monday,
He drove the Septa
off The Delair Bridge;
laughing hysterically,
puking over the bus schedule,
smoking a butt down to the stub
flicking off the no smoking signs.
He chauffeured
the criminals, handicaps,
prostitutes, bike riders,
senile, middle aged hags,
into the polluted waves,
without segregation.

“Happy Birthday, Whatever”

there was a party.
They sang my praise
with ulterior motive.

Someone bought beer,
and someone brought drugs.

I obliged.
They talked
about sports,
or apparel,
or dog vomit.
Their drab voices
were elevator music,
and I was going

they don't know me,
don't wave when I pass.

I am
a ripe garbage can
on the basement level
that sits there
for days without a bag
to collect their droppings.

I am
made of the material
you can't recycle,
but wouldn't want
to anyway.

I am
a mouse
feed to
a snake.

I am
so yesterday,
it might as well have
been last year.

I am
the blurry picture
in the negatives,
or the tobacco remnants
lining the inside of your purse.

Call me, ‘Nothing’,
because it is
better for both
of us this way.

You don't have to try
to remember my name.
I don't have to pretend
that you like me.

Next time,
don't bother
trading steamy
expressions with my boyfriend
across the room
on my birthday,
just fuck him
on the table.

I'll even
try to hold back
the tears till
the party's over,
or they ask me to leave.

“White Chaos”

Winter of '06,
couldn't tell the difference
between the snow and the blow,
as it was both in mass quantity.
An avalanche of white chaos
spewing from the mantel piece.
And when we needed fire
to warm our frantic bones
we turned to the stove
baked skin and apple pies
that no one ate.

We trimmed away the cut
from the powder and our egos,
making sure all we inhaled was clean
and natural.

In our secured crew of fiends,
there was Lane, the Land Lord,
puking monotonous tales he doesn't recall
telling before.
His mind wraps around cold case memories
clings to past glory,
keeps buffing his sports trophies
which reflect the shadows of bags packing
themselves in under his blue eyes.
He reached out to me
but I had not the heart to tell him
that I was sinking too.

We went in rounds
like a confession class
for recovering alcoholics
only we had just begun.
The crisp blanket of white
was our excuse to stay in for the night,
for the day,
and on, and on.

Spilling religious lore into our laps,
threatening our inherited beliefs
shaking a fist in the faces
of those who spite our habits.
While we pushed God further away
like our dinner when we were finished.
It was not as if we did not want anymore
there was just no room for it in our lives.

The numbing drip took hold of our lungs
held hostage in the moment,
and we forgot yesterday,
let go of our promises we had made.
I told my legs to stop shaking
it was my only hope for relaxation,
but there was no release,
no calm after the storm
just endless racing
and craving ravenously for more
until the crystals stopped falling
and realization fell in chunks of hail

“Fuck it”

That sex was as good
as smoking a Cuban cigar
after twenty years of

You know,
I'm surprised
at how some lovers can
withstand each other.
I prefer weeding through
the contestants like, “Survivor”,
finding the worthy one,
then skip the thirty days on an island,
to hump his brains out
on the shore instead,
seaweed tangling hair.

Here’s an instance,
can you see me?
All day legs drawn like
a wide neck V,
on a bench catching more
birds than men.

All day,
people have trains to catch,
dead grandmas to visit,
cops to run from.
Or do they not notice
that I don’t have panties on?
Why else would my legs
be flapping like dry
pancakes if that wasn't my aim?

He comes round the corner
like he'd been stalking me
and didn't exactly know how
to approach me as a smut
or a saint.
He sticks it right in,
on the park bench,
like a cheese pie
sucking up the sauce,
like a smoothie
without all the chunks,
like a rail of cocaine
to the brain,
no snot in the way.

It was a clean route
and it took all day
to make that man cum.
I doubt even now
if I can tell you his name,
but I can tell you
the inches,
the centimeters of
the thrust velocity,
and what I named it.

Bout time
I had that cigar now.
I asked for it
so many lines ago.


A gnarled grin, rancid of tobacco,
rolled or the green seldom sold
between clean hands
greets a stack of ones like Pisa in crippled stance,
like the waltz he makes from
the table to the stage to deliver a one,
A single dollar to justify the means.

His staggered laugh
leaves residue, hot on her breast.
Atrocious it wreaks of last night's unrest,
but commonly accepts
her trade of innocence.
for a haggard stage.

In a trance of yesterday,
She plays the pole
an instrument
constructed from hand grenades.