How far are we really from Havana? by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Tell me, how far are we really from Havana?

I hate poisoning, but I always forget. When you invited me thinking we ought to drink to my obliging cross, I looked through the window. The damp birds looked brighter along Malecon. You said, forget, simply forget, and the far off tomorrows seemed suddenly washed away. The books that lied open on the table were turning into a tender smoke that one can see across the frenzy flesh of all those cats sitting on the extreme edge of the cornice believing in sweet lethargy of gravity. The guava juice came in an oval jar as if bringing my death of my own accord, and I asked again, tell me, are we really a long way from Havana, forgetting I hate poisoning. You had to sigh over the bay of juice and whisper, forget, forget the hollow, and the scarlet kiss kept…

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Inaction and Distraction by Elizabeth Robin

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

delightful wisdom pulls from tightly folded cookies

unblocked, on paper strips inscribed by ancients

Trust in the love of a handsome stranger–
The mask hides the truth–
Wherever joy lives, so do children–

fortunes tied into some thin belief
in the magical property of just-write phrasing

now a typographic charm
a pound sign–four crosses–the sorcerer’s hashtag
thrown before a flippant remark or clever slogan
signals our bit for social justice is done

#BringBackOurGirls
#SandyHookPromise

we create anonymous support groups
#amwriting, #shoutyourabortion
or nonsensical holidays
#firstlinefriday, #throwbackthursday
catchy campaigns to #makeamericagreatagain
affirmed by hits and retweets in headline news
where most-tweeted tawdry gossip floats
on the global intercom, vessel overflowing
with prurient repetition, spam and food porn
hash into nothingness, and after two years
two-hundred seventy-six missing girls fade
under their hashtag, and the murder of twenty
first-graders loses the pound-key promise
drowned by a Kardashian baby or Minister’s affair

#payattention…

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Twist n Turns by Dominic Albanese

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

there is no “exact” form
to what I scribble babble saunter or sashay
here there an every where
here
a few times a day
it is not stories or “epic master piece”
by leaps n bounds in electrode
flagrant attempts at
broken chain link fence post
scatter shot…”I do have an idea some time”
I have read so many crime
novels
I could be charged in half of em
with decelerate lassitude n a fkd attitude
my idea of poetry the few times I try
to be serious
n not delirious
is for you…..to …fill in the blanks
leaving both a mystery a touch of history
an
these almost go to sleep time wonderings
about things
here that are both
real n imagined….like clouds…women
walking before sun up in
some hazy crazy place called
my brain

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4-15-16 by Dominic Albanese

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

wanna know a not so secret secret?
all this
crime bill bank bill over the
hill
Monica an Bill
not a bit
of it
amounts to shit
here my dear
is
what is popping…hopping in dog bone trash bin
at any cost win……
we have to know they will
destroy any
clear…..not spun…half done
chicken little n Henny Penny
got nothing on
this bill that allowed Radio and TV
stations to own news papers
n control the flow
n
have it go
not where it should
but were it could
keep
ya…confused not amused
and of all the hand wring
bell ring …badda bing
bout…this snail darter that spotted owl
TRUTH IS NOW EXTINCT
as population control is not
so much kill ya
just dull ya to the point
of o well…..
funny as a fart in a space suit
says
da fat boy

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dead baby by David McLean

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

memory is a dead baby gray & unnecessary, oblivion is for living children invisible absences dancing

here they have assembled these dancing absences madmen & we have died them invidious missing. the ghosts indefatigable they are dreaming unreasonable // for we have been these monstrous necessities forever ineffable. this is their god & its notness. this is obsolescent & stopping the sleep of reason or a dreamless abortion, this is being

..

David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with his dogs Oscar, Costa, & Wendy. In addition to various chapbooks, McLean is the author of seven full-length poetry collections. The last four of these are from Oneiros Books and called NOBODY WANTS TO GO TO HEAVEN BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO DIE (June, 2013), THINGS THE DEAD SAY (Feb, 2014), OF DESIRE AND THE LESION THAT IS THE EGO (May, 2014) &…

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blueberry orgasm by David McLean

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

the road is blueberry orgasm, tiny suicide is smelly their heaven. the laboring saviors are broken again, boring. we have a wall to stare at once, like Bodhidharma did, but are less than him

the best of them were always already dead & nothing is to be forgiving or forgot where suns come up, where moons are in us still enough

the bone is abject & smoke rising over a battlefield is pointless ecstasy we cannot appropriate as easily as fish burn in insolent waters poorly

there might be flowers or razors, abject their answers are, here is tepid absolution & fuck me a forgotten

i do not care that i do not know the number of insects, or even if it might be odd or even, specific boundaries might make it indeterminate, or heaven again, skin & sullen business so memories are sex & bruises, where i am my…

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The Great Inundation by Jonathan Taylor

I am not a silent poet

After a vision of Fr. Balthassar Mas, 1630

I dreamed of a great inundation, everything swallowed

by a wave moving up the Thames like a leviathan

until only England’s highest turrets and steeples

reached above the flood. The best were saved,

lords and ladies on their battlements, clergymen

clinging to spires, hems of cassocks pulled away

from the drowning and the drowned.

Finally God sent a rainbow as the waters receded

a little. Those left were relieved and arranged

causeways of the heaped-up dead to France

or were rescued by strange flying contraptions

which swooped down like angels and took them

to the fertile lands round the Nile and Red Sea

where they were greeted by many thousands

and went on to found new and better Englands.

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Figures by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

OK I think I got it figured out…..bear (ursus) with me here….you change yr “profile” picture…right an ya wanna wear fake diamonds n pearls galore ya get em st the five and ten sent store an ya wanna look like Za Za Gabor…..ok…so in the bowels of some cubicle warren…either in California or India…where ever…there are these…..(bots real people algorithms or magic fingers)who swap yr photo right?,,,,,,so there is no “private” expressed or implied right?…and I all of a sudden imagine my self in that job…here it comes……….after 93 dick pics 436 slather posts…..763 begging on bend knee “baby baby please come back” bored to tears…..I start to swap em like dealing cards…hahahahah the ace of bayshore blvd becomes the queen of Rochester and of course my own profile pic is Robert Mitch-um or Sam Elliot….and just this morning my buddy was posing a theory bout my luck with women…case…

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In the carpark stairwell by Sheila Jacob

I am not a silent poet

A turquoise mat is fraying

on the piss-stained floor

where plastic bags trail

like discarded ankle-socks.

Foil dishes glint, crowd

cans of empty Carlsberg

spilled across newsprint,

nub ends, crumpled tissues.

A hooded jacket slumps,

warms empty syringes

still as tiny glass birds

who dreamed a skylight.

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Strangers by Kyle Hemmings

I am not a silent poet

Bio

Kyle Hemmings has art work in The Stray Branch, Euphenism, Uppagus, The Bitchin’ Kitsch,  Black Market Lit, Red Bird Press, Snapping Twigs, and Convergence. He loves pre-punk garage bands of the 60s, Manga comics, and urban photography/art.

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