The Bogger is Mimed, by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

If you imagine a tale
chronicled well
the protagonist may come alive,
God, omnipotent, and
a few thousands years later
people may kill in his name.
So you write?
The names written on the walls,
comrade, fade with rains.
Is it about your reign
that fire crackles,
lit with the waste of the land,
mind, shape and size of our hearts?
Imagine, your temples throbbing
with the summer sun, the trident
of rays seeking the resting roofs,
doves and pigeons all vaporised
to reform when the breeze cools the blaze.
I read your myths written
in the papers, rocks, scissors,
on those half torn pamphlets,
burnt slogans, interviews, debates.
I forget what I read, all but the gist,
and then that too- pardon me-
what was the lesson?

 Edited the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’.
Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press…

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Six poems by Mark Young

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

A line from Childish Gambino

I count each square. The use
of hemocytometer trypan blue
exclusion tells me which squares
are occupied by something other

than holographic images & which
are able to populated by house-
hold items. Vacancy is everything
in my job. I got furniture to move.


Two geographies:

Be’er Sheva

Back then, working out
where the miracles occurred
was an hallucinogenic night-

mare. Now every full color
44-page bible atlas has clear
plastic overlays of modern-day

cities & towns to permit a seam-
less studio-to-home experience.
It’s called adaptive immunity.


Was to be found hauling
his concertina up Shota
Rustaveli Street. Swallows
swept beneath his feet, in
some kind of toccata &
fugue pattern, dispensed
in the pitter patter plague
proportions that would
later come to be so well
known as the signature
intro to every performance
given by Johann Sebastian
in his…

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Four poems by Kushal Poddar

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Crumbs On Your Metro Seat
Your ex called you a whore,
although only as a metaphor-
a slap of leather on the days of tearing lace.
The metro asks you
not to have a quick lunch.
Your crumbs on the seat widens their discomfort.
Your ex called you last night
and apologized for calling you by mistake.
The station you alight is a Sunday clouded to loneliness.
Paper Monster
The monster lives in the papers
my father writes on my life.
Come to the basement,
meet the bushy cats, asleep.
In the cabinet, in the bureau
drawn by the years
the life sprawls deep.
We must tip toe. We must see
it from a distance so the ink
may remain blurred in
the cage and sky of obscurity.
You must be curious, and I desire to show

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Four poems by Dah Helmer

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky


Without knowing
our beginning
we do not know
how far we have come
The first seed sprouted
as wordless space
Yes, we have named it
many times
and still
we do not know it


If only to drift away
to another universe
that knows
no objects
no boundaries
no suffering


We are like rocks
held in
deep agony
Sealed inside
the high pitched squeal
the shuddering heart


I say this softly / Man,
a forceful creature / a living
and misdirected


Dah’s seventh poetry collection is Something Else’s Thoughts (Transcendent Zero Press)
He is a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor of the poetry

critique group, The Lounge. Dah’s eighth book is Full Life In The Day Of A Poet
(Cyberwit Press).

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Six poems by Alisa Velaj

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Poetic Credo

I have always known where I come from, and I have always wanted the path on which I must go. I am not talking about visible paths, on which we travel every day, but those paths where the winds rattle and go crazy. I want to apprehend the language of those winds, their unknown tongues. Then, when I lie to myself that I have translated something from them, even a little bit of that rattle, I sit and throw it down on paper. There are other kinds of visible winds, the tangible and inglorious ones, though these cannot be compared to my original inspirations. They are faint but revolutionary; they incorporate the air of the cities and my breath. In them, they translate me and throw me down on paper as poetry. Yes, oh yes, I am their poetry. But as inglorious as they are themselves…



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Three poems by John Grey

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky


Some memories are thin air.
Or they take vacations,
for years, some of them.

And they’re lazy.
Not workaholics like
the ones I’m pleased to remember.

Or they’re restless
like the people in them,
don’t stick around for
when I want to recall.

Or they’re considerate,
slip away, knowing that
a mind is limited,
and room must be available
for ideas.

As to why
you’re a stranger to me,
some memories are good
at taking orders.


The day is long but not long enough
for now the dark grimly enters the picture.

My lights come on automatically,
to mimic my breath and my heartbeat.

The closer I am to my destination,
the more endless the journey feels.

Earlier, the horizon guided me.
Now the road ahead disappears into oblivion.

Even though I know where I am
and where I’m going, the night is…

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