These Words

Inhale on an impale, stale gale
Wind pipers piping light
Lubricated lyrical spirit fear
Fused amusement bemused barking
Inward swarms of pulsating prose
From embryos born for the beat,
Beat, beat of a feet shackle rattle
And cul de sac cattle nearing
Atmosphereing held so dear oh dear
Forever endeavours near temporarily
Weather clear steering, clung to
To acidic tongue less bananananana split
You were a poet and you didn’t
Know it
Down sulphuric streets
And cyanide cities sizzle pity
For peroxide prose sprouting
Roses for gargantuan razor
Behaviour eyes wander the big
Big, big blue ponderous came
Methane planes blowing fire from
Bulging bowels belated burns
Steaming cup of couplets and
Palatable plates of never late
Late, later si o nara see you
Never been scenesters blow it
You were a poet and you didn’t
Know it
Deprived dives surviving
Smoke spiralled gravel why oh
Why un ravels to manic melody
Making way for eroding doors
Exploding twinges form lyrical
Laden havens shaven sheared and
Awaken for brief spells of
Torturous teeth galloping for
The gallows of narrow headed
Sparrows carrying crieless
Cringes from tightened fringes
Abysmal whinge syringe
Intravenous on shores of Venus
Lures soul searching besmirching
The verse rises, the verse, verse
Verse rises from caricature
Curses and bullet proof hearses
Clogging holes in citrus souls
Forming storms of high pressure
Wit you were a poet and you
didn’t know it
Amidst dawns
Born the crack, crack cracking
Scorch of snapping wrists and
Pen fist kissing page after
Page in ink filled rages to
Old salty slurs squeezing brazen
Breezes and spiteful sneezes
Muscle tearing bag bearing
Coffee closeness inspires the
Fire once again, inspires the
Fire once again round the bend
To endless ruts and ifs and buts
Unleash great barrier grief’s
Falsetto stiletto walking endless
Lines breaking spineless refines
Silent ways and new dawn ages
Spitting peroxide prose
Forgetfully trodden in sodden
Grit, never know, never show it
You were a poet and you didn’t
Know
That these words will tame
You, these words will maim you
These words will shame manifested
Membrane pain the same you fell
Over feeling peeling on pulsating
Skin spinning on nonchalant knees
Spurring
These words will stir
Mountains counting blow after blow
After blow stones sew scintillating
Socked rock flock the airways
Ferocious fairway for pursed
Lips dripping sounds hounded
Down high pursuit stratosphere
Chases forged faces on brainwashed
Birds these words heroic
You were a poet

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Drifting the Delta

Fishes draw the man to water: the spider to the fly, the bee to the pollen, the bird to the Huckle-berry, the dog to the scent. The man is searching for fish secrets. The man wonders at the frog, the minnow, the slippery eel …the water moccasin. The alligator swims as he has swum for a millennium; an iceberg made of flesh and teeth in the savannah. Stealth – unapproachable – an omen! Consume or be consumed. The man stumbles about providing chaos. The man wants to trap time: the current moves on. He wants to catch an evolution, a vertebrate of the inherent. The Fish Hawk screeches at the man to look overboard – a reflection from that watery grave. The sturgeon jumps: a misguided missile from the depths. The log floats downstream: two turtles astride like tourists baking in the sun. The schooled shad make their way up river. The man drifts with nature. Kingfishers skim the water in harmonious ballet.

Time drifting the delta.

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-Ryan J. Hodge

For someone who enjoys a great story, is there anything better than a narrative that engages you from the very start? Imagine a world so rich you can almost smell the scents in the air, a delivery so clever it forces you to think in a way you never thought you would. I’m Ryan J. Hodge, author, and I’d like to talk to you about…Video Games.

Yes, Video Games. Those series of ‘bloops’ and blinking lights that –at least a while ago- society had seemed to convince itself had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. In this article series, I’m going to discuss how Donkey Kong, Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty and even Candy Crush can change the way we tell stories forever.
What the Silent Protagonist Teaches Us About Environmental Storytelling
If you frequent any of the industry enthusiast sites for video games for any significant length of time, then you’re bound to run into one or two “Best Games of All Time” lists. While, like film or literature, there is no complete consensus; one will find certain titles appearing with some regularity. Titles like Half-Life, Half-Life 2, Portal, Bioshock, and some variant (or multiple variants) of The Legend of Zelda will make an appearance somewhere on these lists (and usually very near the top).

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This series of ten fables is from Laura M Kaminski’s last penny the sun (Balkan Press, 2014). It is dedicated to Jeannine Burton.

Fable One: Separation

The climbing rose, much-loved with blossoms of many
colors, Joseph’s Coat, took a strange step, a leap

off some evolutionary cliff. Each blossom-bearing
stem began to show a pinch, as if some invisible

tourniquet was tightening, each stem a long green
earthworm now dividing. And every rose, red

or gold or peach or something blended in between
was pinched off into alonedom—each grew its own

toes, small new feet, stepped down, began to wander.
Some were excited, some uncertain, slower.

After only twenty minutes the novelty wore thin, toes grew
tired of the unfamiliar and each of these strange creatures

sought a place to stop for rest and reassurance, a place
to feel comfortable again, fit in. They flocked like birds—

all the mostly-yellows grouped under the tomatoes, reds
gathered by the potting shed, oranges, peaches, splashed

or specked—all gathered into their small sets with those
that looked most like them, a scurrying, divisive migration.

No scissors needed now when you step out to gather
flowers for the table; they are not connected to their roots,

might even voice objections if your bouquet-collection
deigns to use stems from other color-coalitions, goes

full-spectrum, representation, comprehension. They are not
connected to their roots, some might even spit pollen

if you mention that, to you, the variation in their hues
makes them, in combination in a vase, more beautiful—

if you mention you suspect them of having common
origins, if you dare say they all smell the same.

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