Read Poetry: Eerie Sea, by Patrick Turner-Lee

Awkward silence: the peace a violent under performing scream
Slicing cobwebs from the ceiling 
Feelings crumble in just about time to make the clock

 

Busking bravely to earn a crust
If you must
Bust the bank with crowbars to get an ounce of sense
Not media just a fact for frustration 

 

Break in glass slippers: Just bits left behind 
Never mined the shattering; illusive, baking hot, tin roof reason.
Flat you lent is parting the cheeks
Flapping the wind swept alleyways of leaves.
In the eaves flicking seaweed at the passers by.

 

Clever tricks never opened the window to let in some air
As if we care
As if we fidget when poked with a sharp prick
A needle in the vein
A sharp instrument to flush the chained up latrine
Obscene and relentless

 

 

November 28th 2017

Read Poetry: Poem by Anthony E. Perillo

Oh, the whispering night,
The whispering night.
How softly does it speak
Of twinkling stars,
And pale moonlight,
And the rustling of the leaves.

Now it makes no sound
As it gathers round
All the things that earth contains.
While its soft caress
Leads the heart to rest,
Where the gentle stillness reigns.

From the realm of the day
Where King Hectic holds sway;
The night comes as a foe.
Brandishing its cloak
All of ebony smoke it
Sweeps the harshness away.

And the clouds as they glide
Past the moon in the sky
Make a candle aflickering
It seems. As if to remind
The deep darkness in time
That the sun in the heavens still beams.

Oh, the whispering night,
Oh, the whispering night,
A melancholy caller is he.
Though he sometimes brings dread;
When we’re snuggled abed
It’s as cozy as cozy can be.

by Anthony E. Perillo

Read Poetry: Blood Manner Panache, by Robin Carretti

Everything was playing so “Gusto”

Like he became Heavenly blood brothers

“Maestro” at the London Metro.

Having hotter than hell fling

But people were more than blood things

Feeling like a substitute or big “Hero”

What happens to some of them

they weren’t waking or O or B- cups

drinking

But a style of panache

The style of grace or disgrace

showing deeper how it cuts

like the “Reaper” all circumstances

Fewer but true redder romances

the evidence got flown away

but miraculous something has to give

Like a stewed “Hungarian Goulash”

miracles time for hot fetishes

You just felt eclat what a cliche these Vampires and

their maidens. With the raw bite of her bodice

styles were becoming. But a bigger blood manner

was moving toward her so risque

Dances storing more blood trances

of a repertoire

Their necks were suffocating watching another

lover was mating like a web server

“The Others” were sleepwalking deserter

Like another language takes over

a code talking nevermore

Back to life a style forming another soul

to capture, but the wrong type of blood

failure whats to prevail?

Like self-murder so red

Vampire’s attached bloody email

Some were at the spa-like looking wolf-like

howling that strip of a face peel

so habitually like blood uses

The best collection of blood choices

So mainstream another erotic dream

Like a style or seeing hot gesture

So popular stream forevermore

At the concert, he noticed who she was

Knock dead bloody Tis the holiday features

That maestro what style Panache

Like a french Brulee bite of toast

He was the hot bloody roast he

got her blood the most

Read Poetry: Via De Cristo, by Marc Libidinsky

I watch You pray upon Your knees

In the garden of Gethsemane,

And hear Your voice, both sure and meek,

Travail in earnest agony;

Still, wondering at Your sweat and blood –

Is strength in this and is this love?

I watch in silence as You stand

In silent protest, a just man;

Watching, see a man so wracked,

Without help, so attacked,

Until death brings some peace,

If not a just and sweet release.

I watch the faithful lay You down,

Anoint with myrrh Your bloody brow;

And, one by one all disappear,

Fearing as the night draws near:

Yet, with the morning mourning flees

As You ‘rise and bring sure peace.

Your Grace is strength and purity;

So, when I wonder at its reach,

From Heaven’s height to Calvary,

From life to death to victory,

From first confessions to the last;

I find Grace equal to the task

Your crucifixion posed to me,

So bare my cross as pleases Thee.

(c) Marc Libidinsky, 2017

Read Poetry: Too many questions, too little answers, by Juan Miguel Idiazabal

All things said and done,

I’m still looking through the shattered stained glass for a solution,

a brighter day may come,

but unless I tune my ears,

it will fade away,

like a little sister who drowns in tears of despair,

her pink bunny transformed into a dildo,

her dildo transmutated into a womanizer,

her womanizer turned into a confessor,

her confessor converted into an A-bomb,

her A-bomb changed into tears of despair,

like a little suicidal sister who drowns in sweet virginal blood,

a real solution for imaginary problems?

an imaginary solution for real issues?

The world keeps spinning round and round,

a week ago, thousands of children died of hunger in Africa,

six days ago, another Qom cried because he/she was no longer free in a democratic country,

the next day, 5 CEOs moved the clock down to extinction for marlins close to 0,

four days ago, nothing happened?

three days ago, another one bite the dust while sending a tweet,

the next morning, police raided a theatre looking for drugs, while a judge bought it in the courthouse,

yesterday, 523,245 million dreams and hopes fade away,

today, a little sister was sodomized, while I was writing this poem,

an answer knocked at my door,

I wasn’t the proper question for it,

she went back to the world crying in despair,

no one believe the story we told,

she bleed herself alone and ashamed to death…

Read Poetry: How to walk on the moon, by Micheal Ace

Your arm needs to be strong
If you wish to neil your dreams to trees
And watch as they mock the wind.

To survive is to walk out of fire
With wet skin and damp cloth.

How do we know you’ve spelt survival
If you do not send your ashes home-
To burn is to become a new being.

Mother punished my brother last night
She rubbed pepper over his prick.

I heard him groan; fighting for peace.
I heard him say he’ll grow up, find freedom
And watch mother starve, in pain, to death.

He knew what it means to seek vengeance
But not survival- he left home at dawn.

Do not cut yourself if blood startles you.
You cannot win a war without wasting a soul
And you cannot lose without being a wasted soul.

To survive is to eat a neighbour’s flesh
And drink from another man’s blood.

But there are already footprints on the moon
You do not need a strong arm anymore
Or need to neil your dreams to trees

You just need to write a suicide note
And set to walk on the sun- live

Breaking new boundaries

Read Poetry: AT THE PARK, by Ariel Westberg

A low-slung mist

stultifies the LA sunscape, setting the stage to play

the part of a rainforest’s cupola.

But rain doesn’t come

even though I am ready.

Boots and sweater, and a nameless

heartache to accompany

my attire,

hibernation

at times suits me,

but these days, these years,

I can ill-afford the luxury

of wallowing, of pining, of yearning.

Today, through the trenches of a familar

yet unknown abyss,

I cradle myself,

filled with a boundless love,

as intricate and vast

as the stuff of dreams.

A runner, springy and supine,

passes as I sit.

I feel catatonic but my soul,

a burbling brook, joyously knows

the routes of God.

Knows the loving hands that hold me

like a child holds a love-worn doll,

perfectly beautiful to eyes

that have seen all its years,

limbs gone missing,

hair brushed out of its head,

a marble eye rolled down a drain,

smudges that have turned to stains

forever,

I am loved that way.

– Ariel Westberg

Read Poetry: A Forgotten Scent, by Curls

A flower fussed her scent in the vast of a drought field.

Craving to lure an amusement that surely will strengthen her built.

Leers peculiarly to subjected attraction yet moans an impassioned lilt.

She naively guarded herself with her own thorns to feel the comfortable guilt.

Stagnant cycle of season slithers past her unascertained heed.

Leaves, petals, and even her stigma flourished brightly to be curtsied.

Rattled by edginess by mused idea of affection grunts harder to concede.

Utterly unaware with those luxuriant insects who meanders around quite honeyed.

Kismet turned dearly frazzle as her stack’s delusion and realization bleaks to morose.

Professed stipulation to weave off shadiness of other insect to propose.

Her gorgeous blades started to cloak as her desire substantially discompose.

Hatred consumed her entire sense that even her resented fragrance fizzles as overdose.

A moment clinched as she confined herself while lurking inside her sepals.

Felt sudden annoyance to the bizzare guise of the wild flowers acting like crystals.

“No bees, butterflies, nor bugs shall descend on how you ramble.” she jabber thus bestial.

All smirk shifted to fiery glare as she expresses mockery dry down and dull.

Colony of bees roamed fully while she rested deeply in her own stems of lair.

Awakened by the empathetic drone then made her furious even if it’s just to stare.

Witnessed the riot over some nectar that she ever dreamed expression to be fair.

“I am dazzled with beauty, glamour, else perfection. Am I not attractive enough?” she begged to differ.

Miserably hid in silence to avoid the spikes forming in her cold dark heart.

“Enticing yet delicate” blasted by the butterfly whilst completely amazed by her come apart.

Startled by the curious gesture which also made her feel uplifted and continued to impart.

They both felt the strangest and strongest connection implicates that something is yet to start.

The butterfly spent his day to twaddle, gawk, and make her smile with just a distance close by.

“It’s my pleasure to see you bloom, finally.” He divulged. “Come closer.” She excitedly imply.

“I can’t.” he muttered as his face immediately explicit fear, anxiety, and inability to try.

Tension arises as her in-depth wrath constantly spoiled as her stutter outcry.

Day after day, the flower regrets the harsh doubts that made him left without a trace.

Weakened as the eroded damper enchants her entire system to wilt due to haze.

She began to slowly incline and shattered every hope to another phase.

Shock bonded her eyes as she sees the deteriorating familiarity deface.

Unaware that she liberates toxic nectar that harms other insects to death.

All of those who attempted and falls by her enticing scent will soon lose their precious breath.

Around her were diversified possession formed as a tragic beautiful wreath.

All of them will soon be forgotten just as how dust gasts in the isolated brooding heath.

~Curls

12/24/17

Genre: Sadness, Death, Love, Fear, Anxiety