Read Poem: Scars by Carmen Rambally

Sharp, piercing and an unforgettable shine
Fierce and poignant, never missing
Flashes of red, dripping and dripping
No escape and surrounded forever
By a scar you will regret later

Is my body scarred?
Or is it my vision?
Is it the memory?
Or is it the feeling?
Staring back at me and into my soul
My soul, now left with a huge hole

But I’m reminded
About the vision, memory and feeling
All through a scar
Or should I call this
A stolen moment of my worth
A worth which I left alone
Leaving myself to sit and condone

Now my scar has left me with a lesson
Dear myself, always win against depression

GENRE: Society, depression, self harm, anger, sadness, painful, motivational

Read Poem: Ode to the Rose by Julia Nicole

Rose,

your beauty,

millions upon millions of petals,

how deep do you go?

Coloring of blood,

feel of velvet,

symbol of love,

though pretty,

like a prey,

you’ve got your defenses.

The way you fade,

into the color of poison,

it warns all the others,

need not inhale,

need only touch,

for with just such,

the little blades will sink,

through their pale thieving hands,

and real blood will flow.

Beauty you can’t touch,

you’re all tricky sirens,

you attract bees,

with your color,

your scent,

your intricate patterns,

enticing,

how you dance with the wind.

Genre: Ode, Love, Flowers

Read Poem: The Spiderman by Paul Wood

My neighbour was a strange man
He kept himself to himself
I saw him once in the garden
We talked across the fence

I couldn’t see him properly
He hid himself amongst the shadows
There was something strange about him
He had many eyes, legs and elbows

He spoke really eloquently
And wheezed while he conversed
This was the first time I had met him
My strange neighbour all grungy and cursed

“My name is Spiderman
I am an arachnid friend or foe
I don’t get out much at all these days
And live here all alone”

We spoke for ages that morning
About politics and food and wine
He told me all his favourite dishes
Which sounded rich, exotic and divine

“Come for dinner”, said Spiderman
“Come at half past five,
I will bake you some tasty cakes
And make you a special pie”

His strange expression did not falter
As he stared into my eyes
His grin revealed disbelieving teeth
His mouth spouted a stream of lies

“That would be really lovely”
In hindsight I was a little naive
He smiled as he slowly retracted
Into an unusual hammock he had weaved

I came to his house that evening
In my best suite and tie
The front door was already open
As I went in, the door shut firmly behind

I was conscious of music, the walls echoed it’s sound
Of a classical masterpiece a familiar stirring symphony
The needle it popped and jumped and scratched
Melodically filling the air of a hideous stench of sympathy

A voice from the end of the hall
Quietly hissed it’s demands
I headed through the last door on the right
I couldn’t resist It’s demanding charm

“Come in, come in, don’t be so shy
The table is already set
A place for one, is just as much fun”
It was a decision I was soon to regret

The room was dimly lit
With wax spilt candles of varying size
The walls adorned a shade of red
I didn’t recognise

It was un-inviting with little furniture to fill
I noticed everything was encased in dust
Other than a table, a chair, a leather couch and mirror
There was a strange and powerful odorous musk.

I sat down in his dining room
I sensed that he was near
I could see him lurking in the shadows
It was all becoming frighteningly clear

“Are you not joining me?”
I nervously enquired
“Oh yes of course” said the Spider-Man
As he poured me out a glass of wine

He danced weirdly about the room
His many limbs moving poetically across the floor
Using items of furniture to pirouette and duck and bow
Until I he stopped at a large wall mirror

“I find the aggression of each instrument, played till fingers bled,
An erotic addition to my dangerous thoughts,
It makes me aroused to what I plan to devour”
Said Spiderman to his partial reflection in the mirror.

There was no cutlery on the table
No plates of fresh baked cakes
I was all alone inside his house
I sensed a huge mistake

Before I had a chance to move
He wrapped around his legs
In my ear he whispered “don’t you struggle my pretty”
As he softly kissed my head

I trembled with fear and loathing
I was hypnotized under his spell
Around me he quickly spun his silky thread
And licked my eyeball jell

His thread became tighter and tighter
I was unable to move
I screamed at him “let me go you beast”
As he darted around the room

The Spiderman laughed hysterically
I was bound up in a webbed cocoon
I was at his mercy
Licking his lips he slowly picked up a huge spoon.

His legs darted out into the blackness
As he held onto me once again
He said, “ I invited you round for dinner’
“But I feel I need to explain”

“The cakes I never cooked
But I did say I would make you a pie
You are my lovely ingredients
It’s time to say goodbye”

He spooned out my brain juice, nibbled on my legs
And mashed up my heart and liver
He sucked on my bones until he was full
And finished me off with a stomach churning liquor

It was all too late for me I am afraid
But for your own safety you must always consider
Never ever visit the Spiderman’s house alone
If he decides to invite you round for dinner.

.

Read Poem: The Courting of Death by Devin Burger

Genre: Dark Romance

I have crossed Death’s courtyard more than once,
In hopes that she will keep my heart for all the months,
For Death does love me so recklessly,
In her hesitance to claim me, accidental immortality,

What she considers reward,
Has become my double edged sword,
Every time I’ve tried to die we’ve danced through her orphic kingdom,
Before I utter once, her amaranthine lips again return me to life.

I’ve returned to the horrid living land,
Wandering lost I find myself a bench for I can barely stand,
This insufferable quandary has finally consumed my soul,
Doubled over now crying into my own hands,

Why can’t I die, why can’t I say,
That I would stand beside her every day,
How troublesome it is my hollow solitude,
Of heartbroken eternity,

For I so loved Death that I found no luster in life,
What will it take to finally end my repeated strife,
How is she so blind to how I feel for her as I’ve gone to her near ninety times,
My condemnation has reached its tantamount,

As if in answer to my tribulation, a stranger has come with murderous designs,
Against the waning moonlight his knife shines,
To commit the most apprehensive of crimes,
Thanks to this miscreant a barbarous scheme I have devised

If you should take my life, I have but one request,
Take your knife and carve a message upon my chest,
Do this deed for me I plead,
I shall give you all that I’ve accrued and sign the rights over to you.

With minor coercion, he set about his bloody work,
In finding my intricate solution, I died with a pained but knowing smirk,
Closing my eyes, I hoped for the final time,
In so few hours, I again returned to her.

In shock she saw me so freshly arrived,
My clothes matted with my blood for what I’d contrived,
Worried she rushed to alleviate my pains,
With my finger I halted her resurrecting kiss.

In her confusion, I removed my shirt so covered in gore,
That she might witness the scarlet cut message I bore,
As her gaze did alight upon my sigil,
Her lips began to quiver, and her courtly visage did fracture

Collapsing to her knees, she began to cry with such labored breath,
For unbeknownst to my most beautiful lady Death,
That I in turn did yearn for her,
And she grieved for all the decades we had lost,

I took her hand into my own and pulled her back upon her feet,
And held her close to know that we were finally complete,
I held her in a rigorous caress,
She unperturbed as my garnet ichor stained her from crown to corset,

Now she knows it’s her and only her that I admire,
For all my wanting she is all that desire,
For if I could not be with her,
Than life itself I did loathe,

Even as I bled on her, she grinned thrillingly up at me,
With my blood upon her face I wiped her red stained tears of glee,
And standing up on to her toes, with her amaranthine kiss she cured me,
Of my mortal wound and mortal heart,

This time though she kissed me with such fevered passion,
As was never before her fashion,
That I might know her answer to my question,
She pulled away and joyfully outcried Yes!,

Now our lonely eras ended, we rejoice in our finding,
That this redamancy was eternally binding,
All it took were these three words carved into flesh,
Let me stay.

Read Poem: TRUTH BE TOLD by Singleton M. Tate

Walking down the Boulevard,
making reality fiction,
watching living pictures
of tragic lyrics, enabled
by ruthless cowards…

I wait at the bus line,
wondering in these
sad times, why does
this cancer of despair,
thrive in our air…

Thousands upon thousands,
waning their existence,
looking for a piece
of the fabulous life,
yes, fame at what price…

Hearts without feelings,
our economy is reeling from
drugs, alcohol and murder,
corruption’s game name your prize,
brute force empty sea of lies…

Spurious, I’ll look for a
‘Glimmer of Hope’, as I’m
choked by the tears, that
stream in the
‘Era of Bling’,
let the ‘Truth Be Told’,
as ‘Humanity’ sells its soul…

by Singleton M. Tate

Read Poem: The Fat White Lady by Michael Quaintance

the fat white lady is no longer fat,
she is the full bodied and robust expression of her decision to see, to be and to be seen
she is, the open—self-actualizing unfolding
of her unrestricted and unparalleled self.

the fat white lady is no longer a dependent,
she is the will and the way, the empowered self
given voice and invoice
permitted a seat on the south bound bus
she suffers for those she would save
but never suckle
for those we need to watch… suffer
for those we need to have…. suffer
for those we need to deny… have ever suffered
those, who have never
will never
live next door to or lay naked on the lawn
the neighboring lawn
the adjoining lawn
licking and leaving the stains and scents of their private and
culturally curious
pains and pleasures.

the fat white lady is no longer an assumption
she determines the route—the line to be taken
according to
in accordance with
designed and designated by
“I have always found her work to be so insightful
and his words, so uplifting—transformative—humble and yet, so utterly universal,
she determines and declines the design;
wearing her costly but non-descript raiment
for meetings at the tables where Starbucks is no longer served
she appropriates normalcy and re-conceptualizes
the terms and meaning of incarceration.

the fat white lady is without color, is beyond color
refuses to condescend to or be swayed by notions of color,
having mastered the weight of weight
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(has she not been an object and survived?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(was she not relegated to the back room and
frequently left naked on tombs, denied and discarded?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(was she not all too often the after-thought and the apology–
the condescension and the eulogy?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice
(the barely tolerated step-child of preference and the preferred,
did they not refuse to let her sell or be sold?)
all things are seen as a matter of choice.

the fat white lady celebrates the once intolerable
challenging our notions of tolerance
calling to question
his-story and her-terectomy,
no longer blanketed, she consumes the bed
of roses
of equitable inequity
strapping on intent
she impales
all those promises
that were once lies
shared only by the slender and the thin
rhythmically
piercingly
brutally
she invades the hollows
taking everything but the echoes
leaving everything but the floor.

the fat white lady dances
trance dances
Isadora in chains
breasts unleashed and permitted to swing
from one locked door to the other
freedom is the illusion
she is empowered by her understanding of
by her memory of
by her recitation of
the ten commandments of the undesired
and now when all things are illusions
she is free to be
whatever we are afraid to see.

the fat white lady is no longer fat.

michael quaintance
quaintance.michael.k@gmail.com