my room is dark, save for the glow
of my computer screen
& i’m moving to music
moving with music as if
i were no longer human
but a verdant leaf or hydrangea
or a pile of dried earth that lifts & twists
from a burst of hot wind
i touch
the air behind the air & finally
remember the space
between my lengthy dreams
& you weren’t there
as you had previously always been
& perhaps
this was simply a chance
to be the person i was
before
before
Resolven
My nan died and we sold her house
Losing a part of my past
Hours spent in the surrounding woods
Vibrant and alive
Suddenly I’m back in 1995
VE Day anniversary
Dressed as soldiers, marching up mountain road
Aunts , uncles cheering
Waving the jack
Lost in the woods
Little brother crying
Sunlight fades
So like the memories
Nostalgia rush
Tarnished pale photographs
Dog eared yellowed scrap books
Hidden in draws
Monuments of what was
And what can never be again.
Judas Kiss
I often ponder looking back at you
A disarming smilie, the playful twinkle in your eyes
What were you hiding, what secrets did you keep
Faux begging,
unapologetic apologies
Smell so sweet, hiding the rot
Lost in the dark pools of your eyes
Forgetting the Judas Kiss
What lies did you tell me, what secrets did you keep ?
Longing for the pain, the venomous tails, missing the hurt, missing you.
Scottie Pippen
I’m sweating so much I’m dripping
I’ve taken so much I’m tripping
Blocking out the world, distorted face you look like Scottie Pippen
Am I to old to dream
My life comes apart at the seam
I’m stuck down in this deep dark hole
Looking for the scattered remains of my soul
But I am man
I don’t talk about these things
Keeping secrets and all it brings
But Truthfully I’m getting farther
A sad reflection of old
Pictures like Dorian grey
Rather melt away
Back to the pot I’m whipping
Air filled fumes heavy I’m tripping
I can’t look in the mirror all
I see is Scottie Pippen.
James “Lights Out” Lilley , Father of three. Working as an Arcade and Casino Engineer, has numerous works published to date and was named Versifications Punk of the Year 2020. He is the author of The Thousand Ghosts of You and The Blue Hour. James is the British Bare Knuckle Boxing Champion and an active Bare Knuckle FC fighter. Find him on Twitter @jameslilley1411
it was an ordinary crash
each car tangled into
a web of metal and shards
maybe there was a fire
i walked out
and you got on your knees
to give your life to christ
the hotel had a full-length mirror
and for the first time in nearly a decade
i looked upon my own flesh
and said it was good
i’m almost certain there was a fire
in kindergarten i remember the drills
devise a plan
get out
you can’t stay in a burning home
humans are so primal
they see an inferno and their pupils
dilate in desire
but my hands are on fire
flames licking back my skin
to the bone and i’m honestly
too tired to even care if
you touch me and the fire obliterates you
You feed me fables
While rocking me to sleep
In this abandoned building
Where ghosts appear and then fade.
The church bells ring outside
I can here wanderers of faith
Talk about life and its terrors
And the way it can torture you.
To hear men and woman of faith
Talk freely about the end of the world
And the blackness of death and the bleakness of a fruitless future
Tells me that we are living in desperate times.
As I lock on to their words
You can pull me back
And you can become a monumental pillar in my life
Talking with wisdom and clarity
While all seems to be decaying.
The people of faith are no longer there
It is only us and the ghosts
I open my eyes and see a room
Bare and common.
The room has no colour
You shine though, shimmering in vibrant strips of gold,
while I appear to be sitting in a trusty grey,
I am used to it.
So as the fables become imaginative
We do not need to feel God’s immediate
Glow or touch, we only need each other,
To fight this war, this unprecedented,
Misery.
And I must admit
You are my saviour of the broken.
CRACKED
Who hasn’t,
at least once in their life,
looked in a cracked mirror,
only to realise
the mirror is smooth,
their hand already in motion
to touch the cracks
before noticing the truth,
before seeing their face fall
from sight, the vision of their eyes
the last thing to go, the shock
on their face remaining in the air
like a shimmer of heat
of a hot summer’s day?
Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His play ‘Wall’ was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection “Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge” was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
Find him on Twitter: @edwardleewriter
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
A dirty joke before you understood,
Genetics predestined a young girl who
Wanted to be good to forfeit childhood
To the first man you ever knew.
By elementary school, bend over
Or reach for ploys, paper airplanes, one
Boy who beseeched your lips to hover,
Part for a succession of classmates’ tongues.
You heard the snide whispers about yourself
Young
Stung in the cafeteria
Dill pickle betwixt virgin lips
By stealth
Little snickers
Scurrilous quips
The site of you always seemed to provoke
You were never as dirty as their jokes
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal). She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com
“Ain’t No Sunshine“
In the stair well
Of a high rise
Grey monolith stretching into sky
Poignant acrimonious stench
Ain’t no sunshine
The place is home
For those on the
Boundary of society
Searching for warmth
Atop cold concrete
Ain’t no sunshine
At least there’s no rain.
“My Baby“
Not my baby,
She screamed hysterical
Hand outstretched to the heavens
Begging skies with no answer
Not my baby
As they zipped up the bag
A boy not yet a man
Slain in the Steets
Not my baby.
“The Long Drop”
He took the long drop
In the morning in May ‘58
Twelve people watching
Chaplain whispered did
About confession
But he wasn’t sure what was going on
Through the gates
You can see golden sands
Sun rise over the bay
Did he see the ocean before
He swung
“Forty Five”
Andy was twenty nine,
Lived with his Ma
Walked home from work
Just a few blocks
Until a group kids started
Hanging
On the corner.
They spar names
And threw empty
Beer cans,
Flicking cig butts
Still smouldering
Oldest was about fifteen,
He started taking
The long way home
Even though it took an extra
Forty five
One day his mother
Tripped and fell
Laying dying on their vinyl floor.
He was too late
So he walked his old route
With the weight of
A 21oz Glock
In his pocket
He got off a guy in work
When the kids came
He emptied the clip
This is for you ma.
He didn’t hit a soul
Now he’s serving twelve.
“Back of Class”
She used to pass
Me notes under tables
At back of class
She showed me how to kiss
And roll a joint
I let her paint my nails
Black once
To match hers
She cried when she showed
Me the scars
On her legs
James Lilley, 34, Father of three. Working as an Arcade and Casino Engineer, has been writing for year but the 2020 lockdown saw him submit and have published his first work. Has had numerous works published to date and was named Versifications Punk of the Year 2020 and has secured a deal with Close to The Bone to have his poetry collection The Blue Hour published in Jan 2021. James is the British Bare Knuckle Boxing Champion and an active MMA fighter. Find him on Twitter @jameslilley1411
In amongst
the hood rats
loose gats
prison tats
back to a life
on the wrong side
of the cracks
gotta get paid
any way you can
laid off
cut loose
your American dream
vamoosed
swirling the gutter
diving back down
at first sight
of crumpled dollar signs
doped up smiles
for watered down vials
wrong avenue
wrong time of day
roaming any territory
no guts, no glory
no gang ink
just a white boy
scrabbling
to put dinner
on the plates
unlikely
to end great
we all know
which pandemic
goin’ to end first
only question
you gonna
take the time
to read the rules?
Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a writer until recently, but turns out he has some stuff to say. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Bristol Noir, Fevers of the Mind, Versification, Close to the Bone and Shotgun Honey (upcoming). Catch up with all his misdemeanours on Twitter @tummidge
the family patriarch sat
at the head of the table
presiding over the
Thanksgiving festivities
he carved the turkey
he said the prayer but
didn’t believe in it
and when the subject of
his thrice-divorced grandson
the wayward black sheep
and his bastard children
came up (in hushed tones)
the old man laughed
like a velvet thunderclap
“that Joey’s a rolling stone,”
he said. “ain’t no moss gonna grow on his balls.”
J. Archer Avary is a chameleon, a product of his environment, a restless wanderer. In past lives he was a TV weatherman, punk rock drummer, champion lionfish hunter, ocean conservationist. At age 44, he still doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up. Maybe a poet?
J. Archer Avary was born in Albuquerque, NM. He left the United States in 2014 and now lives on a tiny island in the English Channel.
Find him on Twitter: @j_archer_avary
That’s All Her Life Was Worth
They came through the kitchen door
She didn’t stand a chance
She was cooking my favorite meal
Waiting for me to return home from work
One quick blow to the head
Is all it took
Her precious life stolen by opportunists
Junkies looking for their next hit
I found her lifeless on the tiles
Eyes open
Hair soaked in blood
The only comfort I take is that she didn’t feel a thing
All they took was some jewelry and petty cash
Just enough for weeks worth of brown
That’s it
That’s all her life was worth.
Anxiety!
Heart racing like beating bass drum
Chest tight like hangman’s noose
Beads of sweat race from my forehead
Gasping for breath like drowning waters
No warnings, no reasons and no contrast
Anxiety is a right bitch!
Find Wayne Jermin on Twitter @waynejermin
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