The Gossip of the Gulls by Oliver Kleyer

What cicadas are to the South,
seagulls are to the North,
a constant soundtrack for the coast,
joyfully chatting away between
bites of stolen fish sandwiches,
scolding their wingless neighbours,
sometimes sounding like a monkey
house or my alarm clock.

I’ve been listening to them
for all of my life, until
the point where I believe
I understand their Gullese
and know what the gossip
of the gulls is all about:

“Hey, this is my territory!”

“Look, there are tourists,
they are eating fries and
haven’t noticed us yet!”

“Listen, the guy over there
just tried to scare us away.
Let’s all fly over and
crap on his car!”

-“Have you seen Eveline’s new frock?”
-“Her first adult plumage.”
-“I think, less glitter would do her good.”

-“I am a seagull. Sqawk! Sqawk!”
-“Excuse me, Mr Raven, are you kidding me?”

This is why I sing my song to a seagull.

Fly on, my little seabird.
Fly on to the horizon, to where
the rainbows come from.

Be somebody’s sign for land, somebody’s
soul, somebody’s dream, somebody’s hope.

--

Oliver Kleyer is a teacher and poet from Northern Germany. He teaches German as a Second Language in a refugee camp. He writes in Geman and English. His works have appeared in 101 Words, The Creative Zine and Bubble as well as in anthologies like FromOneLine to another or Dadakuku 1.

Passionate Soldier's Story by John Winfield Hoppin

Passionate Soldier
Tell you what he saw
Passionate Soldier bleeding money
Tell you what he believes in
And all of the people
He left behind

Passionate Soldier tells you what he believes in
Passionate Soldier tells you what he saw
What he got into and
All of the people
He left behind
Or who stayed of their own volition
Gassed from carrying someone else's expectations

About the look of dreams drippin' down the inside of some straw hut
Dreams drippin' down
The consistency of grits
That is one way how to put an end on it
Passionate soldier
Gonna tell you all about it

--

Emerging from intersecting social, environmental and physical catastrophe, John Winfield Hoppin is an artist and poet living and working in San Leandro, California. In 2001, he received his bachelor's degree from the California College of Arts and Crafts in Film, Video and Performance. He has multiple sclerosis and in 2016 created the What’s The Matter With Me? Podcast to find support and explore disability theory. Chernobyl happened on his seventh birthday. he/him

Dessert by David Sydney

After dinner, Sheila scraped the mac & cheese from their plates before loading the dishwasher. Little Ralph was allowed a half hour on his cell phone. It was a school night.

"May I have some cookie dough?" he asked

Who doesn't want cookie dough ice cream?

"How about vanilla?"


He was confused.

"You promised cookie dough."

She looked at her 10-year-old son.

"We've got only vanilla."

"But you promised."


"I know," explained Sheila, taking out the vanilla. "I forgot to get it."

Was little Ralph more upset than confused? He could dimly understand some things about the world. His father, for whom he was named, not there for the past six months, for example. His mother, budgeting so carefully what she spent. But cookie dough? They were talking about ice cream. Even if she had enough for only a quart, who would ever choose vanilla instead?

--

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, Entropy Squared, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, Pocket Fiction, R U Joking, and Rue Scribe.

Gravity by Alan Abrams

Buzzards amuse me, so ugly, at least
to my eye, it’s a wonder they reproduce.
Yet these creatures that feed on death
are plentifully alive. Sometimes,
scads of them aloft.

It’s how they soar that really gets me,
the way they rock on the axis of their flight,
wings tipping up and down, like the arms of
a drunk struggling to walk a sidewalk seam
before a suspicious cop.

All this, in effortless defiance of gravity,
that ever-present, omnipotent force
that gives us jowls and causes our
breasts and buttocks to sag, and at
time’s end, draws us down into the earth.

Yes, gaze at them and marvel—there’s
likely one in view this very moment. So I
beg you—fling this book into the air!
let its fluttering pages be its feathers, then rise
in rebellion—against gravity’s dominion.

--

Alan Abrams has worked in motorcycle shops, construction sites, and architecture studios. He has lived in the heart of big cities, and in the boonies on unpaved roads. His poems and stories have been published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Rat’s Ass Review, The Raven’s Perch, Bud and Branch (UK), LitBop, and many others. His poem “Aleinu,” published by Bourgeon, is nominated for the 2022 Pushcart Prize.

My Safety Net by SOUM

If you die I will kill you
spoken with sinister undercurrent

In the abyss of winters despair
I cling on selfishly
hibernating under fluffy blankets

Body depressing mattress
Thoughts depressing mind

--

SOUM (Screams of Unfettered Minds) is a newly-formed female trio whose poems explore the darker aspects of life championing awareness for mental health and social issues. These private Kiwis consider their style to be raw, unapologetic, unfiltered, cheeky, but always heartfelt, using their poems as their mouthpiece. Twitter/X: @SOUMpoets

Panama City Beach in Spring by Jake Sheff

The irises are breaking free from
Non-being into being everywhere
Today, like poetry according to
Diotima in Plato’s Symposium.
Ceteris paribus, I will arrive at
The border like tomorrow’s synonym.

How many fatalistic parties let
The uninitiated die of thirst?
Oddly, 2 might be the number, when
My body feels tied to some dead hints…
How do I speak to only you, my
Body, and everyone at once?

Duende gets denuded by the sea
Of college kids. Big Muddy keeps walking
The walk, talking the talk, and the whole
Fucking lot of them emotionally at
Arm’s length. During Monday Night Football,
The season gets its house – and lack thereof – in order.

--

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and US Air Force veteran. He’s published a full-length collection of formal poetry, A Kiss to Betray the Universe (White Violet Press), along with two chapbooks: Looting Versailles (Alabaster Leaves Publishing) and The Rites of Tires (SurVision).

Stitching Together by Lynn White

There’s no fabric under the foot
and the machine isn’t plugged in.
It doesn’t need to be now.

She’s dreaming of her treadle
and the hand turned one.
Both dressed her
in her youth
cheaply
and sometimes
eccentrically.

She reads a note from the past
a piece of paper
a tiny fragment
but full of awakened dreams.

She thinks of that girl
sitting there sewing
then.
And now
stitching together
pieces
of a life
well lived
making
a patchwork
of her time.

--

Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes.

Poems Written Inside a Coffin by Ivan de Monbrison

why need to know anything in the end
it makes it so much more painful…
– but the girl is already dead
so it does not matter
like hanging wet clothes on a rainbow made of sharp claws
– I can't tell you this…
– I am scared too in the dark so I sleep with the lamp on all night even if I am not a kid anymore …
it does not matter
– why?
because me I like to smell my anus

~

apprehension of desire
scarcely met
– I need to cut off your fingers one by one with my teeth, or your dick, your choice…
[no text here]
– once I was raped by a group of men after class…
I can't remember if I ever told you this
– it was no reason to slap me
– I was drunk…
– I know I always pay for what other men did to you in the past
– I am sorry

~

there is a third dimension somehow to all this but I can't precisely tell you what it is all about
– I saw a specter in your bathroom in Marseille, so I just can't go back there
– me I like to watch tiny birds chirping on the bare branches of the trees when those look like limbs in the winter, and now that I have quit smoking my penis is hard in the morning
– well… it’s good news I suppose
– I saw my mom yesterday she was such a bloodsucking vampire
– yes I know and I hate her too

--

Ivan de Monbrison is a bipolar French poet and artist living in Paris, born in 1969.

I Hate My Body by A. R. Tivadar

I hate this flimsy vessel that I must navigate
The only one I shall ever have
Breaking apart with every new age

I love my body and what I look like
My crooked nose, my big teeth
My bad posture, my nice legs
I don’t remember feeling insecure

I was too busy crying from dread
Wondering why my lungs couldn’t work
Why I couldn’t breathe if it rained
Or if I lied down at night to sleep
I will die in my sleep this time for sure

Why my chest always hurts
Why my sinuses always leak
Down my throat and making me choke
Why my skin always itches and stinks
Comorbidities
Because why the hell not

I never hated the outside of my body
I hated the inside, unfit for the world,
Always making everything harder
Always making me miss
Always making me fear
Always making me wait
In waiting rooms for doctors

“Try exercising more and avoid allergens”
Oh, she keeps getting pneumonia, over and over?
Keep shovelling antibiotics into that 9 year old
It will pass eventually
Yeah
Thanks a lot
I hope you rot in hell
I hope you use your inhaler five times
Yet still can’t breathe past midnight on a school night

I hope you have nightmares as you try to rest
The only time I ever want to be in a hospital again
Is when I give birth or I’m dead.

--

A. R. Tivadar is a hobby writer from Romania and a graduate of the University of Oradea. She has been published in underscore_magazine, the Aurum Journal, Motus Audax Press, Firework Stories, miniMAG, The Expressionist, Pink Heart Mag, Cathartic Lit Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind & Alien Buddha Press.
instagram: @a.r.tivadar | linktree: /ARTivadar | bluesky: @artivadar.bsky.| social twitter: @artivadar

Tits by Wayne F. Burke

someday we will go to Mars
and colonize, and colonize the
Moon too, but
never will we duplicate a tit
because though the size and
shape of it may be right, the
motion is wrong: the fake
does not move right, and
never will.

--

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He is author of 8 published full-length poetry collections and one book of short stories. He lives in Vermont (USA).

Different Strokes by Jerome Berglund

Edward Bunker has discovered a terrific way to read five books a week and write hundreds of short stories while keeping a roof overhead and food on the tray if it’s not without certain downsides...

hostas

along the fence

caulking cracks

--

Jerome Berglund has published many haiku, haiga and haibun, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, and Modern Haiku. His first collections Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

Trinkets by Erin Jamieson

This is what’s left of my mother’s life:
a locket with a rusted chain
miniature garden gnomes
landscape paintings
from places
she never got to visit

I pack them up
one by one

--

Erin Jamieson (she/her)’s writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottlecap Press and her most recent chapbook, Remnants, came out in 2024. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) came out November 2023.

In This Cold Weather by J.J. Campbell

stumble in the neon lights

the fog all around, the hawk
is out tonight

pretty sure jesus forgot about
me as soon as he got off the
cross

paper bags don’t last as long
as shoes in this cold weather

the left eye never recovered
from a hidden right cross

some dick left pennies
in my coffee again

the shelters are too dangerous
and none of these abandoned
homes have any heat

tried setting the rats on fire

that didn’t last through the
night

there’s an old building
on fifth that leaves
a door unlocked

place smells like piss
but so does most of
the world

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor, The Beatnik Cowboy and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)