Sharp whistle shrieks between stops from December Street to Jan Way— Two, four, eight eye to eye, face to face on a one-way train— thu-thud THU-Thud! THU-THUD!!!
On track to a transitional pause, doors seal all into a lit tube engulfed by black for an extended enough time to get attached— to feel connection while speeding spark-lit rails to a next destination— THU-THUD!!! THU-THUD!!! THU-THUD!!! JOLT!
Meeting eyes break with a whiplash at a platform where all migrate on, off the train. Last looks, farewells, goodbyes, wonders— if any meet again face to face on surface, in train, someday, while simultaneously swapping each out for a fresh gaze— THU-THUD!!! THU-Thud! Thu-thud thu— thud.
Born and raised in Los Angeles, Michael Roque discovered his love for poetry and prose amid friends on the bleachers of Pasadena City College. Now he currently lives in the Middle East and is being inspired by the world around him. His poems have been published by literary magazines like Cholla Needles, The New Yorker, The Literary Hatchet and others.
You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.
When Master-Mistress madcap Jake fishes for veins and waters, This lucent poem-page gets microphoned with ghosts and flashes; And, wherefore a fatalism promotes sex for devishes and lashes, limers Must annoint the birds of the worlds with bustlers and nailering swiners: O, all this damned whored year, we have hardened O, all these slammerings render puffers from adders and severings.
I intended to preach in a cold godspace but my penis daren’t pray. And, these fractionatives hereby sunder-space from dogs on trays. And the whirlers for dementives come sirenising for chronic slain Wicked seagulls come easily for homers and proud slept eye-wind; O, whence slazeners beget hurt from stoners then
To work all the nightlong days we protest for the skies of this mind, Cosmos-made, delvered, shaggering with mad warblers under trees. And, whenever summers snaps, a curtler for cad bumblers will use seeds For some aldening blirter of a cat come loving and listening. And we shall extemporise natural head-rests with shimmerings and tea, And I shall abuse for the utmost best then fade to fucking graves.
These Wolf Eyes
These wolf-eyes will eternally feed mess to the meadows Will, with a winded sun-at-sea gone grey, brokers for gallowers, Shrapnelled, blurted, slammed, Beget cool hard VDs from silly eggcups and teasers and facers And I will send some deadener of a god-mumma come Entissuing after a doubler of a walnut tree come sylvan for squirrels And, whence wenders scrape doos on gut, Me and macadam Eden-Aarons will wash all cups
And it was merely one million years ago when a ripply beauty came Entertaining the all with prehistorics and fossilers and Oh, and I have water-spind weedlers with contumely and distant rain, Creepily enbriding some dodgy moon-flitters And it was just about when true earth burned when hecklers on trains Behested for stoned boys. I am alone in my vocal head-world. I am intended to wed no-one.
We sink under vast rats as pilliory pled pillows with snaps and pearls. I Have to hasten now to some maladies which, Comedy-crafted, happens to die for bitchers as blakers use wits for wide Woollen city-masques; and, oh, as we enbitcher for saviours, Wiveners for dizzy farms will sickler for geezers unfound across sailors And you are the famous child god used to own.
Do sweet memories forevermore affixed to lost valves and dementias Or is it (with all the minds we seize) come charnelising after sickers; O, men Must overturn the utmost sides of a swan-swarm And, whatever the wynd of fears, Me and madam macadam Naplers guested for pickers and lost spawns.
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.
You can find more of Jim’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Impoverished child— for nickels, dimes— bought by beauty. Taught grace, not from love— but life confined.
Glamour-touched teen— trained to speak— to walk for lust-filled eyes. Stripped of name, wrapped in robes, to the highest bidding price— child purity sold.
Woman fully realized— through fog of an aged mind— drifts upstream from cherry-coloured Kyoto to childhood slum on a seaside, the missing sister, the parents long passed. All gone— without goodbye.
Born and raised in Los Angeles, Michael Roque discovered his love for poetry and prose amid friends on the bleachers of Pasadena City College. Now he currently lives in the Middle East and is being inspired by the world around him. His poems have been published by literary magazines like Cholla Needles, The New Yorker, The Literary Hatchet and others.
You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The marvellous winter has come with the most tender Christmas Eve
Klaus Werner Swamp-Man awaits dream august Moment is revealed
Klaus a forester lives alone in a clear home amidst the grove
In the evening praying by table he enjoyed freedom of silence
Oracular characters come after rook has visited his
The rook knows from the black raven that there are marsh-treasure hidden
Next hydra bangs on the window she gives to Werner the obol
He enchants tenderly the guest:
The eternal moor! Dream with us!
Then a Stymphalian’s birdlet comes flying in dazzling-brilliant ways
The bird gives away an obol the man told him the gorgeous words
Eternal moory landscape dwell! such for the ghosts a meek landscape
Hereafter attends – Dionysus sir of numinous moory homes
Third obolus – given away therefor can be valid Klaus’ dream
Oboli are being given
Be the fen full of tender myths!
Mister Swamp-Man boasts of marshlands they are free in eternities
Rook is nidifying in tree the plant stays over the moor-mist
Bewitched landscape and dreamy bog and women dream of moory fog
Two women seem to have been enchanted of the boglet (Paweł’s neologism) plainly in a propitious way.
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
When the nights close in Afternoons and evenings converge, The long summer days having moved on.
Leaves capitulate like flames frozen upon the ember season Gently stirred by the breath seen murmuring around the bough, Serenaded by the nature of contemplation.
We confine ourselves from the numbing cold, Consoling ourselves by the warmth of the fire, Reassured by our reminiscences maturing in ardent grace.
As the perennial atrophy cauterizes the peregrination, Before expectation burns through the vapours of matutinal glamour Reaching across the vault of cerulean restoration.
Rising upon the orient horizon of an aestival veranda, Spreading its symphony of molten nuance Through the apparition of an ocean exhumed.
Climbing the balcony of postprandial pioneering By intervening our denial, As we observe the rumination.
Before surrendering to the season of grievance, Where beauty’s acquired by its more alluring honesty As opposed to more obvious estimations.
The Cycle of Life
Eventually the horizon will burn in turn with the darkened sky And the moon shall shine as a fossil in homage of night, Embraced with sanctimonious judgement of nature’s deceit As stars journey passed escaping those forever still and vacant With such privilege to witness destiny in its proposal As summers arousal becomes weathered by autumnal mists, Clearing for winters serrated breath, Before the brides of benevolence provide many a mellow treat under this raw arrangement, And we occasion ourselves into the clear revelation of calm turbulence, Where time has no age.
Winter Blossom
No sooner has the snow died back from the ground and trees Then the Galanthus and blackthorn blossom Before the cherries shed theirs, Providing a covering of snow through spring, Crowned by the May bloom serenaded by elder With the cow parsley and stitchwort amongst the verges Where meadowsweet froths As the oxeyes watch you wander by Towards the woodruff and ransoms thawing along the riverside.
Beneath the Yew
A robin perches on the grave stone Like a spirit watching out for me, Cocking its body, then it’s head, Before fluttering into the yew hedge, Where a blackbird bounces, Flicking the leaves to the side, Rummaging amongst the decay, To find a worm and end its life In preservation of its own.
Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, and CommuterLit.
Listen to the Children chattering With me. They share seventy Secrets about how Their mothers make meals. They say their Brother is the Biggest brother in The whole damn land. They claim to Have crowns. They say they Never fall down. They are liars lying: Everyone falls before They learn to fly.
Little Lizard
The little lizard licks The wind by my bare leg. His face furrows. It is clear that he Is as revolted of me as I am of myself.
His webbed feet pound the Dusty ground as he Zips off into the Bushy undergrowth.
I can see his little Head poking out, Watching, Waiting for me to make my move.
Slides
The stray cat has A stray heart.
Murder
You stick In my mind like You are hot tar Or golden honey on A spoiled spoon. You are the worst Itch I’ve ever felt. The doctor begs Me not to scratch but Every time I scratch diamonds Scatter in my senses. You have hair, I guess. I have hair too.
Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines including California Quarterly and Taj Mahal Review. His poetry was nominated for Best of the Net by New Pop Lit. His poetry was a finalist in a couple of competitions.
You can find more of Dominik’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Like a cough turning to a sputter of acid spew from wasteland psyche- when it verged on gospel I transferred to oblivion.
Last rites before cracking the safe with colonies of termites teeming, an insight into the black holes you can’t get enough of, never enough-
shoes and starched shirts ill-fitting. The body born outside a factory in a dim-lit alley off a side street from…
Where’s that black hole end anyway?
In the middle of a pitch or field a maiden baking in the sun naked, a victim, a sacrifice, a ‘pick me’ girl in the pitch-black night: common ground for timelessness.
So when the horses go on strike it falls on candlelit vigilantism to rectify, say old van Gogh jerking in a cornfield,
since the cops always appear when you don’t need ‘em and are never there when you do.
But lack of holes won’t complement a face eager to kiss off at the finish line.
Flags don’t fit either, not on moons or ocean liners, at the races or pirated, jammed in some hole to stanch the blood, mucus, sweat, from the bottomed out quake of stormtroop marching-
uniform tight at the pits and crotch, strangling the apple, mutating the core.
Pin a medal on it to witness sudden bursts of supernova.
Old blind Rembrandt astral-projecting from the vanishing point, his varnished panel of mahogany.
Petty Crimes
Keys on the zinc counter with the Renault parked on the roof
Dogs named Socket and Brass
Small dogs, old men Talif the student Kalif the king
El trains, babel of human sewage The urge is to snarl and shred Corner bodega inviting petty crimes
I look her in the eye like from a thousand pop songs there’s been idiocy before too
and when it rains it rains like automatic weapons having a party
Dogs named Eisen and Kreuz Sordid old men
Rear-most chambre de bonne at Le Roi Cold as the walk-in reefer at the 7-11 off Saint-Augustin
the Pekingese patiently watching the sex between Genevieve and Sophie
Later queueing up for apéritifs dine-and-dash being American slang
Jay Passer‘s work has appeared in print and online periodicals and anthologies since 1988. He is the author of 12 collections of poetry and prose, most recently The Cineaste (Alien Buddha Press, 2021). Passer lives in San Francisco, the city of his birth.
You can find more of Jay’s work here on Ink Pantry.
in your mysterious eyes water walking water grows its symbols spoon-fed cubs of tigers, water, the terror of hippos, of water, of mastication, teeth of boulders, war, water, war; immaculate death come home in one piece you breathe inside the box death weighs more than water but to water you return
I am buried in the cliffs of death a solid gemstone chipped from a globe
i wanted to paint myself blue to see if I could match the sky; I could not duplicate clouds; it was a fallen sky it was a bad bacteria that followed as I ran, through the night’s quiet poison; finally a sky black enough for me, Vincent’s perfect canvas
hills that christened themselves black and green; small dignity blank as sun red as tears
How much joy is contained? How much music
still thrills the heart?
Steven Stone has been writing for a long time and has worked with many styles. Steven writes about different subjects, but seems to always come back to metaphysical type work with a generous amount of imagery.
the dreamed winter the storks sitting meekly in Africa the butterfly frozen in the marvellous pond mice write a gorgeous myth a rural boy longs for the moonglow witch apollonianly bewitched a stunning world in a moony way I am full of druidic wizardries You are like a dragonfly We are singing
the dream-like spring the storks are coming home so tenderly the butterfly awoken in glory but sitting mice write ovidian songs a rural girl yearns for afterglow in addition hex enchanted a dazzling world in a starlit way I am shrouded in this cool mystery You are such a firefly We are trilling
the dreamy summer the storks are nesting mayhap peacefully the butterfly flying over becharmed garden mice write Dionysian ode an auntie is bent upon blue hours the enchantress is conjured amusing world in a starry way I wrapped in plethora of sorcery You are Dionysian spider We are chanting
the dreamful autumn the storks are going to fly off musing the butterfly dreaming just before coming death mice write Apollo’s hymn an uncle muses about cool star the sorceress enraptured such a cute world in a moonlit way I stay under a spell of tenderness You are like a charmful bee We caroling
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s work here on Ink Pantry.
when I think love, I think crosswalks. crosswalks at an intersection. intersections folding into home. bakeries. picking up sourdough at a le pain asser. crosswalks folding crisply like the crackling of sourdough starter. I think rich. downed & drunk on awkward street signs. korean spelled to sound like fancy french. out-of-business oscar motels. napkins bunched under rolled-up pasta. poor imitations of gelato. restaurants dedicated entirely to seaweed soup. restaurants that live. restaurants that forgot to live. overhyped soba noodles & udon. people. visiting from other intersections. people standing in line for cheap coffee. people overcompensating richness with cold yogurt blends. mothers with their children. children with convenience store rice triangles & unauthentic yellow banana milk. mothers with half-assed plastic cup white wine. crossing a crosswalk. at night: unlived underground karaoke bars. sweaty men slapping backs & smoking through tobacco teeth. I think love in day & night. intersections licking corners with stray cat piss stains. a dog barking somewhere a streetlamp lives. women enjoying unadulterated drunkenness. businessmen that kill neon streetlights. children in bed. adults slipping into each breath. the people of montmartre; in this moment they are everywhere all at once. we wander like strays. I am born as a stranger in a new intersection everyday.
Flower Language
Gone, I whisper and walk towards the bed of belladonnas, close enough to listen to their gentle
inquisitive conversation. I listen to their arms fan widely above and over their mystery fruits:
magnolias, singing. They indulge in noiseless chatter while I swaddle in dahlias overwinter crisp
newspaper. The children have made a home out of miniature sunflowers— only ones that could afford real blooms
instead of the silk imitations sold in the supermarket. The wind praises the gray foliage and the knee-length weeds.
Lavender: the height of a spine and the way it tickles the sky on a whim grounds the stalks into more purple
than they are. The pine with hipbone steps turns enwrapped in a fragrance— breathe. The garden is nothing concrete
but a moment all at once. I bury my nails in clay ripples thoroughly spoiling myself
with Earth.
Praise
Praise the stories. Praise the stories I read and tell, subtly.
Praise the night. Praise the night beneath little black shell bodies.
Praise the waters under the caps of my shoulders, under consciousness.
Wrap real rain around my finger, let it sluice down the sidewalk.
Praise the parting of eyes and the turning of the sea, they are altering
my world.
Yoon Park is a dynamic high school student enrolled at Seoul Academy in Seoul, South Korea. She channels her creative energy into writing and visual art and finds joy in expressing herself through these mediums. Additionally, she has a passion for music and spends her spare time playing the piano or the guitar. Her dedication to her craft has earned her recognition and admission into the prestigious Iowa Young Writers Studio, the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program, and Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop.
