Thursday, July 18, 2019

David Pedersen "Always, Forever, Since First Thought"

David Pedersen is a poet, filmmaker, park ranger, union rep, doggy daddy, husband, friend, and typewriter enthusiast. This piece was written on a Hermes 3000. You can purchase the Kindle version of his book Love Is Meat  at Amazon

Saturday, June 22, 2019

Poems By Giorgia Stavropoulou

Giorgia Stavropoulou is a poet, writer of absurdist fiction and a former clinical psychotherapist trained in systems theory and Lacanian psychoanalysis. She was born in Athens, Greece but raised in a bilingual home in multilingual Belgium, and now lives in Southern California. Her work has appeared in City (Journal of South Asian Literature), Journey Curves Anthology 1: writers reading in Athens, Zombie-Logic, Out-of-Print magazine, Clockwise Cat and Entropy. She also holds postgraduate degrees in Anthropology, South-Asian languages and literatures and Creative Writing (Manchester Metropolitan University).

hurricanes of fire

under the sleepless
black soil
of the pacific ocean

a spur
puffing itself up

by your dead heart
beating in
arrhythmic rocks


dwelling in alchemical lakes
of cobalt & amphibian 

in these dead waters
aquatic flames
of frozen fire
thinking themselves more alive
like unborn placenta
they want to form a human hand
they want reach out of the dark
in black lotus movements
ploughing through pale or
nostalgic corals

picture submarines at full speed
or fighter jets circling above gigantic tremors of salt
there are warships moving full speed ahead in the pacific 

their mission?
to inspect 
dwarf suns
being born
at 36 000 under
from a womb of archaic fire

accompanied by
seventy-seven underwater 

with turquoise-lightening sparking off in murdered water
and vibrations encapsulating the whales of regret

yes it thunders 
my friend 
deep down in the pacific ocean

isn’t your floor trembling and shaking?
hasn’t water told you
how exhausted it really is?

sea salt is plotting its next step

but don't worry
just take another sip
from your cocktail
at manhattan beach
while you still can

at your horizon

the polymorph perverse
hurricanes of fire began their ritual eruption
swallowing the disheveled pigeons of desire 
blurring the neat divisions
between above and below

you know

there’s a demon
inside you


to rearrange  
your plastic organs 

only $2.50 


an ant colony of shades of brown

in banaras

at the shores of the holy ganges

where corpses are crisp

and human ashes are mistaken for the heavens

an american breakfast is only $2.50

the view you get for free

bon appetite

no need to tip 

in black city’s invisible auschwitz

in black city’s

invisible auschwitz

i meet the angel of death

about to execute jazz music

my eyelashes adorned

with electroshocks

and my legs open:

clitoris erect

i sit like a real man

my corpse marching  

on whole notes

and half notes

when prison guards


behead themselves

with samurai swords

and sound waves

attach themselves

onto my silicon skin

like termites

wriggling melodically

into my pubic hair

when my liver

escorts improvisation

to resurrect itself

when that happens

mermaids armed with condoms

and automatic rifles

will swim through the soft music

of city lights

staring at burning butchers

and all suns will

hold their breath

while the color red

sets foot again

in black buildings

and giant spiders

will menstruate on my hands

female robots

will burst out

in loud laughter

their silver teeth dancing

in bordeaux blue ecstasy

(hysteria gone overboard)

till the butchers

are finally buried

then the sirens will

piss out of joy

on their graves

and bob kaufman

will recite seven of

his jail poems

in black city’s

invisible auschwitz

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Jimi, Jim, Patsy, Hank, Woody, Blind Willie, and David J. Thompson

David J. Thompson goes places. And he takes pictures. And writes poems.

Rub This Poem

Next chance you get,
rub this poem
on the chest
of a sick child.

I’m not kidding.
Go ahead.
See what happens.

I dare you.


I have a job
sorting lentils
at the local convent
of the Poor Clares.
Minimum wage.
No benefits.
Better chance
of salvation,
the Sisters say,
than promotion.

Past Due Bills

He’s in the post office lobby
holding a baby girl; you know
the look – ex-frat boy in his late twenties,
white Polo, pressed khakis, and stylish
stubble. I hate him already, but I see
he’s wearing a Boston Red Sox cap,
so after I drop my past due bills in the slot,
I walk up to him like I’m admiring the kid.
He gives me his best Matt Damon smile,
and then I punch him as hard as I can
right on the nose. I hear the bone crack,
see blood spurt out, watch the baby fall.
I just keep walking out into the parking lot,
thinking what I might have done
if he was wearing a fucking Dodgers cap.

I Guess You Could Say

Every English major knows,
with a wink and a grin, that
Lord Byron, the great Romantic,
had more than a sibling relationship
with his half-sister, Augusta,     .
but it turns out that his father,
Mad Jack, as he was known,
was lovers with his own sister, too.

A chip off the old block.
Like father, like son.
I guess you could say
incest runs in the family.

I Have Sinned

No matter where we are
in our lovemaking, if
my new girlfriend hears
church bells ringing,
she stops whatever we’re doing,
crosses herself about a hundred times
and keeps repeating, Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned.

The next time I go to CVS
to buy some condoms,
I’m going to pick up
some ear plugs, too.

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Friday, June 7, 2019

Five Poems By David Spicer

David Spicer has poems in Santa Clara Review, Reed Magazine, Synaeresis, Hamilton Stone Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Yellow Mama, Flatbush Review, Circle Show, The Phoenix, Ploughshares, American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. He is the author of Everybody Has a Story and five chapbooks; his latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree (Flutter Press).


for the Purple Bike Lady

Tell me, friend, is Australia angry?
America is. I don’t know why—it has everything:
natives’ stolen land,
enslaved black people,
brown children separated from their parents,
despised yellow people laying ties.
The lynched are angry—their ghosts haunt our history.
Tycoons are angry. I don’t know why—they’re billionaires.
Yes, I do.

Anger, do you have daddy issues?
Do you wake up red-faced every morning
because he favored your brother Jealousy
with his purple-green face?
Did he egg on your sister Fear to boss you?
Did you ever try to please him and couldn’t,
so pimples grew on your cheeks?
Do you adore your cousin Revenge, Anger?
Do you have a heart that’s made of testosterone?

Someone told me Anger is bad for my heart.
My heart isn’t angry.
My brain’s angry.
Angrier than white men losing power.
Angry as innocent inmates with jackal mentors.
Angrier than hungry farmers.
Angry as a girl trapped in a boy’s body.
Angrier than an amputated marathoner.
Angry, like caterpillars sacrificed for butterflies.
Angrier than mothers who’ve buried ten children.
Angry as the man trapped on the moon because he’s lonely.
The man in the moon had a family.

Sometimes I’m angry I don’t get laid enough. That saddens me,
more than a melting chocolate ice cream-ginger-ale float.
more than gazing at the Guernica figures contorted
and cubed in their shades of sad silver, immortal.
Why do you exist, Anger?
Are you Love’s surrogate?

I was born angry, I arrived in the doctor’s cupped hands
ass first just before he spanked it.
But that pissed me off less than my old man’s belt slapping my
butt bending over the bathtub.
Did you have anything to do with that, Anger?
It hurt worse than my mother making me kiss a cactus.

I love you, Anger.
You’ve led me into the clouds like a zeppelin.
I can breathe you, Anger, guiding me, a kite over the Burj Khalifa.

I love an angry woman, too.
Anger’s kept her heart pumping like an overheated generator.
She lives for tomorrow to kiss her like no man can.

Have you looked forward in Anger?
I love you, Anger.
You’ve helped me survive like a commando in quicksand.
He was pure then, a long-haired chanteuse with an eight-girl band,
jet-black hair flowing like Niagara Falls at midnight
with the man in the moon watching.

By the way, the man in the moon’s still angry at the sun
for stealing his light.
Poor man in the moon.
Anger, will you plant a smacker on his mouth sometime?

Will you lead me to the confessional
and help me forgive my little brother’s molester?
Guide me to holy water that tastes like grace?

Anger, I’m done dancing with you:
not another cha-cha about my mama,
no more twists of my psyche—
we’ve tangoed too many times.
You’ve possessed me long enough, my man,
King of the blues guitar I’ve played all my life.

a n t e l o p e

Over poker a hunter told a tall tale:
I knew a woman so fast she was never late
She said she wouldn’t have a wedding just elope

The next guy decided to up the ante
Well, I loved a woman so fast she’d peel
off her clothes in 15 seconds with a rose petal

I passed and rubbed my head like a teen-
age handyman who can’t find his plate
compacter much less his duct tape

The lean blonde dealer with smooth skin tone
said, Guys, I’m so fast you didn’t hear my cards pant


Everybody on the assembly line believed in Ramon
the boss we all liked with his legendary name

King of the hours and lord of this bottle factory manor
when he recited a prayer we chanted an Amen

Ramon our burly master of the conveyor belt form
solving personnel problems far and near

We asked to work less he wanted more
we whined then relented out of fear

Sometimes we clacked bottles and he rocked out the clock from
his hellraising heart and red guitar that bolted like a wild mare 

After all Ramon was a roadie not a Ramone

q u e r u l o u s

To hear them tell it, I’m ugly, mean, and sour
as underwear soaked in pickle juice. Family lore
tells it that once I ate a long-stemmed rose
because my wife said I didn’t know what eros
meant. They all laugh at me, call me a user,
but every one of them has a stinking soul
that smells like a tarred-and-feathered louse.

Yes, I whine like a beat-up punk, I fret, but I rule,          
pouty patriarch I am, aware of my role.
I’m the King of Sore, that’s for damn sure,
and when I’m happy, they call me Loser.

j a c k k n i f e

i carry it whether i’m in a cafĂ©
or in a bath house with my fiancé

i feel safe as a birthday cake not fake
like a clod named Bobby Jack

whose face was a mask of gravel-acne
he knew I knew he was a fink

then one day he kicked my dog Jane
in her big tummy with his red Nike

i said man that wasn’t nice
you’re lucky you carry that cane

I aimed Skinny at his neck

Note: The preceding anagram poems were written in the style of
Terrance Hayes.