Carol Sneed "Punk Is Not Dead"

Would I?

Manuel Adrian Lopez

What would have happened if we had stayed?
Would I have become acquainted with Diana Vreeland?
Would Nina’s voice ring in my head as it does?
It’s hard to say if my tongue would have experienced a foreign language.
But I probably would have defected from it in time
La Akhmatova would have never been idolized.
It’s most likely that I would have jumped on the bandwagon:
Either offered tours of the ruins of the island
Or sexual favors
In exchange for a minimal fee:
A pair of jeans
A piece of Wrigley’s Spearmint
A flying carpet.
Would I’ve remained lost?

Sitting on the shabby rocking chair on the front porch
Staring at the sky,
Aloof, waiting for the promised rocket to land.
Would I have become a dissident?
Would I’ve hurled myself at sea?
So many questions swimming in this pool of thoughts
Unanswered, contaminated with mold and debris.

Robert Vonkepner

Room of Poets

Jeff Musillo

The room was a rehearsal hall.
Inside the rehearsal hall were twenty poets,
including myself.

The poets sat in a half circle
facing four actors
and a stage director.

The other poets
knew one another.
They worked together before.

I had never worked with any of them.
I was the odd man out.
And I felt like it.

The actors recited the poets' work,
rehearsing for an upcoming 
stage show.

Also in the rehearsal room
was a table of wine and snacks,
and a fake fireplace against the wall.

A fake stage prop that didn't light.

The actors continued reciting the poetry,
belting out lines with
great energy and flare.

Everyone's poem was fancy and
exhibited elaborate metaphors
and danced off the actor's lips.

Not mine.

My poem was about fake tits.

An actor read my poem
and everyone in the rehearsal hall
laughed a peculiar laugh.  

I couldn't tell if it was impressed laughter
or laughter that said,
"Ha! Look at this little man. How amusing!"

The actors moved on and
read the other poems.
The other poems with beautiful lines and
outstanding imagery that seemed to be
plucked from the clouds above.

I really wished the fireplace
in that rehearsal hall was real.
I wished it contained an actual blaze.

The size of that fireplace was perfect.
I could've fit my
whole body in there. 

Mia Lucarelli

R. L. Croft

Run Fly

Regan Perry

Darbs Crash

The Lady Love

Regan Perry

Floater "Tesco Field"

Makayla Hughes "Risograph Print".

Lionel Bumbakini

What To Make of Tomorrow

Darbs Crash

 The Jungle Of The Heartbreak Eyeballs

Have you?

Kevin Kelley
How many times have you knocked at deaths door
and stuck around to see if it answered?
Will it respond to the squeak and thud of the cast-iron knocker?
Is this the day it answers?

“That is not what is going to kill you.”
Then he says “But I have a life to live before it does.”

He has found himself standing before,
He has made his way back
To the door once more

He watches all of us bewildered beside him,
but you and I don’t see it.
He knows we all stand side by side.

All so afraid, we don’t break our eyes from latch
so we refuse to notice we stand together.

(P.S. What happens when your aspirations
And your demise spring from the same source?
If the life you’ve wish for, and your death was held in a box,
Would you open it for the life inside,
knowing death would come for you?)




Darbs Crash

Robert Vonkepner


A fad

Manuel Adrian Lopez

We are back in the limelight
In style
At the hands of the white man
The Hilton heiress returns
Talks galore
Plenty of smoke in the air
The in-crowd at the fiestas
Sip yesterday’s forbidden rum
Politicians negotiate
On both shores
While el pueblo sleepwalks
Scrounging for a piece of bread
Red meat gets you jailed
Cats turn up
In daily feasts on the dinner table
Crumbling is the word of the day
Not just buildings
Souls prowl the streets
Zombie-like doing the rumba
Wrapped in rainbow flags
Sporting tiaras from Woolworth´s heyday
Deals accomplished
Behind everyone’s backs
The powerful white man returns.

Lionel Bumbakini


The Creative Vagrant: Freelance
by Sam White
Roaming the internet, thesaurus bookmarked, hungry for empty spaces.

Temporarily fired up; equipped and calibrated to block up empty spaces with black sans serif inverted clauses.

Emitting positively charged ions, listening to trap, a bit pissed from that afternoon can.

Running out of ions, flicking a lighter, resisting urges and satiating impatience with football opinion. Other people's opinion, other people's content, other people's black blocked non-empty spaces.

Never quite getting it right. Always eluded by that elusive middle ground. Puzzled by people- what is it that they want anyway? Too far out, too safe, doesn't make sense, over familiar, sounds like something that famous guy wrote in the paper the other day. Everything sounds like that famous guy.

Because everyone sounds like everyone else to the creative vagrant.

Everything sounds the same.

You want original? You want safe. You don't know what you want, but he does. He wants a paycheck. He wants someone in Berlin to bump a photo so there's room for his name on the internet. He wants empty spaces to fill with a broad brush and a brickbat block of black. He wants a decent internet connection but still doesn't understand how wireless works. He wants to do what they're doing but still doesn't understand how work works.

And on to the next list.

5 Ways Civil War Changes Modern Life.

8 Reasons To Panic For The Coming Year.

1 Cold Reason To Mainline Acid Through Your Eyeballs And Quell The Modern Derangement Forever.

It's a journey into the unconscious mind of an entire generation, conducted and adjusted by the subjects themselves. These lists are plumbing the depths of a nation of naifs, oblivious to unknown unknown unknowns. We're fracking the cracks in the web, trawling the labyrinth, eyes screwed shut, strafed by the obscene, terrorized by a triple amputee swinging an iron hammer.

There's a whole substrata of humanity barricaded into a room at the centre of it all, emotionless and shattered, catastrophically self-sealed in a cocoon of pure desperation because the technology doesn't work, but it could, and it's all we've got now.

The other stuff remains out there in the wild though, in the part you think is rough. It's different out there, but in the echo chamber...

Junk's unfashionable, and music doesn't pay. It's out with scowling, spitting, raving like a twat, losing yourself, surreal and insane, chained to a DJ.

Out with 808s and 303s, stolen guitars and sitting in a bar, exasperated, how does everything work!?

Out with new romantics, out with the goths, out with junglists, out with the junkies.

Out with bikers, out with 60s revivalists, out with it all because the geek shall inherit a dearth, created of their own code.

At least, that's what the creative vagrant told me, but what does he know? He's hanging on by a hashtag. #hashtag

I must kill the dwarf
Manuel Adrian Lopez

I must kill the dwarf
The one inside me constantly
He winks
And I run towards him.
That I can’t ever reach him
That I can’t ever keep him long enough
I must kill the dwarf
That lingers seated in the leopard print sofa
Or was it the mauve suede bought at the Goodwill
No… it was a dark brown one
With cushions and cushions
To sweeten my buttocks
At the same time
It was working on my thoughts.

Seth Bracken

Father, I left on the 20th anniversary of you leaving your wife.
A woman I too have abandoned, no longer calling "Mother".
Bloodline no longer connects us only a broken clavicle never set in place.
The gap resembling abandonment and neglect.
A family doomed before the eggs were fertilized.

I wanted to live free.
Refusing to wear training bras.
Confined to your image, I declined.
You, only concerned with my mammary development.
Insistent they would help me attract boys I never wanted.
You chained me to womanhood. 

The night I came out to you is strained with violence.
Face enshrouded  with tears, tasting blood.
Your blood sweltering in my veins, exits flesh.
I longed to spit at you.
To force-feed you bitter sweetness.

I wore bruises matching the color of your most prized shirt.
We mirrored shades of masculinity.
You silenced me with lies on a doctor’s clipboard.
"(S) He fell"
I kept quiet, stitched my mouth shut, saved you from the faggots in jail.
"I fell"

I ran away and never looked back.
Left  nothing but a suitcase on your front porch filled with forget-me-nots

The last time you saw me, disgust.
Appalled by my bound breasts, realizing those glands would never nurse your grandchild.
Plaid boxers and cologne.
Signaled you never raised a daughter.

Do you remember the boy you silenced?

Break Free / Go Beyond / Go Back and Dance again:

Kevin Kelley

You are standing in the middle of the swaying:
Hoop / Holla/ Hoopla

Every time you try to:
Step back / side step / walk
centripetal force pulls at your center.

You’ve been doing the dance for as long as you’ve known the path.
These sways were your attempts to:
Dodge / stave-off
the end.

Until you can stop the:
mechanical movement / repetitive oscillation / the decaying orbit:
It can’t remain/ a stasis you can’t sustain.

Think not of how to:
pre-occupy the mind from / cultivate a rift in:
the encircling fate.

Take note / reach out / grab hold / cease the gathering momentum
And let it fall.

And then you will find yourself:
capable to dance free of restraint because you are free

of the fear-shackles. You will find freedom from the

heartache you will be free from what obstructs from


the Now.

With the Now,
go back and dance a dance to show the others how.
Help make their hoop fall.
Go back, show the others how / help make their hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make their hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall
Go back, show the others how / make the hoop fall