devil just passing through by Casey Renee Kiser

My nightmare-man comes SO LOUD;
he comes often, bores me and collects
my wrist cuts-
oh he cuts, he cuts, HE CUTS
Promises me I’m in the black book, he checks,
ha! Yes! Top ten mind-fuckable sluts! Cold cuts;
licks his knife and hands me his double tongue
I say, ‘Oh baby, JUST BREATHE’
as I rip out his dreamy lung. Can’t gaslight
a FiRestARTeR, dragon up my sleeve
Now he can’t wake up ‘cause my flames
will never leave
until he’s ready to upgrade

to my dReAm.

--

Casey Renee Kiser is a punk poet who knows how to deliver the horrors of the mundane machine, churning out the emotions that lurk beneath the surface within complicated relationships, most of all, self.

Precipitation by Anthony Ward

It was a rain swept afternoon,
Where a sudden downpour creates a white noise,
As if the programme you were engrossed in
Has come to an abrupt end
A thick and streaky Kurosawa rain,
Drumming against the windows,
The black and white contrasting with the grey.
Consigning myself to doing nothing,
Whiling away to wait out,
Consoled by the external aggravation
Pelting the pavements with applause,
While embezzled in the moment
Something I’ve not felt in a while,
The present not normally permitted.

--

Anthony loves the way words sound through silence. He is inspired by the nature of the world and the expression of art as humanity decrees to discover itself. He writes to express the overwhelming beauty of the natural world with the inspiring admiration of artistic creativity. He has recently been published in Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Dear Booze, and Mad Swirl.

an upcoming dystopian winter by J.J. Campbell

here comes the rain

the hollow ache
of an upcoming
dystopian winter

hope was slain
on the side of the
yellow brick road

any fool could
see it coming

bleeding hearts are
never meant to last
long

eventually, we harden

become these brash
bastards unraveling
whatever the fuck

progress was ever
deemed to be

eventually, that will
become a society
that eats itself

in the distance
caligula is laughing

amateurs

just a bunch of
fucking amateurs

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is a 3 time Best Of The Net nominee and was recently nominated for The Pushcart Prize. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Synchronized Chaos, The Dope Fiend Daily, Yellow Mama and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

A Big Success by Wayne F. Burke

The fortune teller’s tent
was next to the tent
that had a pickled
3-legged baby in a jar.
The fortune teller was middle-aged
and swarthy
and wore an extravagance of color
like a Gypsy.
She held my paw.
I was in seventh grade and
had yet to grow hands.
“You will be a big success,”
she said
after a too quick
I thought
look at my palm.
“But late in life.”

--

Wayne F. Burke's poetry and prose has been widely published in print and online (including in DISTURB THE UNIVERSE). His eight published collections of poetry include the highly praised A LARK UP THE NOSE OF TIME, 2017. He lives in Vermont (USA).

Sanitation Rag by James Croal Jackson

What wrings into drain
never goes away.

I scrub orange-brown walls,
my fingernails scrunched

with other people’s food.
This memory collecting–

another dip
in a murky red bucket.

--

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Stirring, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)

Jeanne: An Ode to Francois Truffaut's Jules and Jim (1962) by Michael Anthony Ingram

I dreamed of my plan to see Jeanne.*
We are below the cerulean sky,
high above the indigo beaches of the Cote D'azur.
She was in the passenger seat.
Besotted like wine in our love.
The delightfulness of Candide still floating in the air.

An unexpected knock on the door.
Charcoal memories had decided to visit me again.
Depressed and lonely, they rubbed against me like mating guinea birds. I struggled to understand.
I cursed in the lazuline daylight.
I moaned in the sable-covered moonlight.
exasperation escaping through my throat.
A feeling of dread crawled over my body.
Becket peacefully slept while I waited for Godot.
Gasping anticipation of a non-existent character in a play.

Perhaps the past will repeat itself.
I breathed in and out of this thought.
I had wrestled obsidian nights before.
Tenderly held my own bloodied defeat.
The deafening silence of an unfulfilled life.
Victory is unattainable in the one-sided skirmish.
The war drum is suddenly silent.
Murkiness moved on and knocked on a new door.
The strains of Lili Marlene in the distance.

I dreamed of my plan to see Jeanne.
We are below the cerulean sky,
high above the indigo beaches of the Cote D'azur.
She was in the passenger seat.
Besotted like wine in our love.
The playfulness of Candide still floating in the air
We turn left onto rue de Temple.

--

Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram, host and producer of the globally acclaimed poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube, and Zoom. He is a retired university professor who champions the arts, especially poetry, to highlight issues at the intersection of power, privilege, and oppression. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, he is also celebrated internationally as a spoken word artist. His eagerly anticipated second book of poetry, Metaphorically Screaming, will soon be released. For further details about the podcast, please visit www.qporytz.com.

Two by David Sydney

“Harry, do you see two flies there?”
“Where?”
“In my oatmeal.”
They were at the counter of AL'S DINER that Thursday morning for breakfast. Otto pointed with his spoon – Otto, who disliked flies so much. Harry stared at the oatmeal.
“No… No, that's only half a fly.”
“Half?”
“Look over there. That's its head floating
over there in the bowl, Otto.”
The fly's body squirmed. Its legs moved. Decapitated flies can do that since they have decentralized nervous systems.
Without a head, a fly can live for several days, moving about aimlessly and even having sex, if it can be called living. While grooming itself, a fly may occasionally knock its own head off. Of course, a spoon inadvertently coming down at the junction of a fly's head and thorax will have the same effect.
“Thanks, Harry.”
He dipped his spoon into the lukewarm cereal with relief, removing first the active body, then the bulbous head.
“You know, for a moment there, I thought there were at least two of ‘em in there.”

--

David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, Pocket Fiction, R U Joking, Every Writer Magazine, Literary Revelations Journal, Sip Cup, Mad Swirl, Hotch Potch Magazine, A Story In 100 Words, and Rue Scribe.