Non-Playable Character

I am the NPC

in someone else’s reality,

a side character

in someone else’s story.

There is no dragon

to slay

and no maiden

to lay

in the castle dungeon,

just a prison.

There are no quests,

no mythical and magical lands,

no courage in my chest

and no powers from my hand.

There is no consequence

for my absence or presence,

as just another glitch

in the matrix.

Exploding Head Syndrome

In my tired mind,

Chris crossed wires

create copper currents,

infusing blown fuses

with stuttering static

synapses shocking

the senses into

hallucinations

of white noise

black outs.

Proud

Supremacists

are so proud

of their race

and western 

skin that they

never hide 

their hate,

yet are so 

afraid of being

replaced they 

mask the

shame of their

anonymous

face.

The Little Tribe 

The sons of the Sun,

mourning each morning

whilst patiently awaiting

for the Father to awake

and rise above

the horizon,

bringing rays of life

to all the world,

taking its daily stroll

across the pompous,

cumulonimbus clouds

of heaven,

finally settling

for its daily rest

in the west.

The daughters of the Moon,

helping the Mother

shine through the darkness,

cycling through its various

forms of crescents,

halves and wholes,

enlarging for the harvests,

birthing new life

between periods of blood red

celestial bodies,

only eclipsed for moments

by earth’s birthing dirt.

This is how it has always been,

and always will be until the end.

Deathbed

When you die,

life doesn’t flash

before your eyes.

There is only

the void at the end

of delirium’s tunnel.

The surge of

vital organs

powering down,

oxygen deprivation

strangling the brain

and intravenous

morphine drips…

…illusions,

delusions,

and auditory

and visual

veridical

hallucinations,

feels like spiritual

transformation,

providing false hope

when one experiences

and witnesses

ghostly gods

who blame your ills

on your sinful life,

accompanied by

apparitions of

angels soaring around

the room like doves

trapped indoors

in a world of invisibly

clean windows,

and loved ones lost,

promising a second

for reunification

and reconciliation,

coaxing you to follow

the burning light,

at the top of the

never ending staircase

that is revamped into 

an everlasting slide

of terminal lucidity

for eternity.

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet and an anorexic starving artist. His 10 book “Poems of Pain” series, including Artsy Fartsy (Alternating Current Press), BUMMER (Scars Publications), Neurotica (Down in the Dirt) and DOOMER (Ethel Press) was completed in 2023 with the publication of the final collection in the series, Beatitudes (Dakota Publishing Company). He also co-wrote a book of poems, Dead Beats, with Dr. Randall K. Rogers. He has been the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal since 2015.

WHEN LOVE IS DUMB

Stillness

tears to pieces

no questions

Everyone around me is an inanimate being

just me as a Samoyed

I walk the deserted streets

A notorious lie in people

past tense focus

remains trapped forever

And all my hopes

that it will be much better

I know he won’t

People are vain

but I hope for better

a new beginning

The meaning of life today

when love becomes dumb

a trace of eternity remains

etched into images

Cover of life

curled up in a corner

the trace will live

in the infinity of time

Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 24 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world. He is world 44. poet in the world and five in the Balkan. He has over the 10.000 successes on Facebook.

Fadwa Attia from Egypt wonders, do the arts now in all fields need identity?

Yes, it is the difficult equation from ancient times to the present time. We need identity with its features.

These features were formed by different cultures, which It started from the ancient civilizations of the ancient Egyptians. Until we reach the present time, all of this, as I said in my previous articles, made identity formed from ideas and culture, so it became a cultural reference.

The identity thesis became important in theatre, cinema, fine art, and others.

But after I presented solutions to preserve identity, which is one of the basics of heritage, cultural heritage and other things, we need a lot to know the importance of our identity that we have missed, and to continue our dialogue.

About the solutions necessary to preserve identity, after training cadres and developing systematic plans for the coming years through strategic planning by specialists and researchers in these various fields, various seminars to introduce identity, in general.

Then, there is a taste of identity from the receiving audience, whether it is trainees from the cadres who carry out strategic planning.

As well as the public that we educate through cultural and artistic seminars, producing short and documentary films about identity.

As well as holding conferences from which it issues,

Books and exhibitions calling for the preservation of identity, its elements and features. 

Also, the media coordinates with him through the responsible state’s channels through various programmes.

Which demands the preservation of identity, its history and culture.

Through the Internet and also through satellite channels and television programmes.

This makes the preservation of identity continuous and never-ending.

Which brings us to one truth: Identity is a homeland that we cannot do without. My identity is from within my homeland, from within the cultural and artistic heritage. From within our features, our art, and our heritage are like an inexhaustible river. We need a lot and a lot so that our identity from which our art emerges is not lost, and so that there is not a crisis in the loss of our identity. We are peoples with civilizations that have roots. We cannot dispense with our civilizations and our history. We need to support ourselves by preserving identity by all possible means.

Therefore, we continue our simple, enjoyable dialogue about identity through true, sincere art, and we have a new dialogue that we will continue in new articles later, with you with love and respect from our beloved Egypt.

My Lifelong Lover 

I have waited for you so much, my beloved, and I have hope that your love will be like the sea whose waves do not calm down. Your love has become the focus of my life. Do you feel me or not? Your distance has increased a lot, and my days have become lost to me and I have become no longer the one who loved you.

Come back, beloved of my life, to my warm heart with your love. Come back. You will find me waiting for you, wandering in love during your days, and getting lost with you in the moments of my life, my lifelong lover.

.

THE SUN AND MAMMOTHS


The sun was shining three days ago.
Today it is raining and people in Copenhagen 
are drinking Spanish wine.

A thousand years ago, the sun was shining 
and mammoths lived on Earth.
I never ate mammoth meat, but I drank 
Spanish wine often.

Cortes once conquered Mexico.
The sun is needed for corn to grow. 
Just like rain. Mr. Jensen carefully 
observes the sky and the stars.

Old Sputniks fall into the oceans.
(You need to sleep at least six hours…)

This is a beautiful poem, isn't it?



CARP


Roses and tulips are a favorite topic 
of poets. Or mysterious cats. 
And of course, love after the sunset. 
Teleportation to Venus is also very 
popular.

My uncle never wrote poetry. 
He drank vodka every day 
and told me about fights in dirty 
restaurants. He was always 
authentic. 

They killed him once 
at a pond. 
There were carp in this pond, 
which we ate 
every Christmas.




WELLS


Life is (incredibly) interesting sometimes. 
Potatoes can be eaten with mushroom 
sauce. 
Friends & lovers are smiling traitors. 

That's why we have great literature. 

In case of war, there are basements 
and concrete shelters. 

I've never seen an angel. 
However, the devils hid in black wells. 
Not bad. 
It is shock-free, i.e. neutral.


Grzegorz Wróblewski was born in 1962 in Gdańsk and grew up in Warsaw. Since 1985 he has been living in Copenhagen. English translations of his work are available in Our Flying Objects (trans. Joel Leonard Katz, Rod Mengham, Malcolm Sinclair, Adam Zdrodowski, Equipage, 2007), A Marzipan Factory (trans. Adam Zdrodowski, Otoliths, 2010), Kopenhaga (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Zephyr Press, 2013), Let's Go Back to the Mainland (trans. Agnieszka Pokojska, Červená Barva Press, 2014), Zero Visibility (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Phoneme Media, 2017), Dear Beloved Humans (trans. Piotr Gwiazda, Lavender/Dialogos Books, 2023), I Really Like Lovers of Poetry (trans. Grzegorz Wróblewski & Marcus Silcock Slease, Červená Barva Press, 2024), Tatami in Kyoto (Literary Waves Publishing, 2024). Asemic writing book Shanty Town (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). 

Harvest

at night the brain loves to torment me
talking to the one not here

in my body I’m trying to crawl out of my body
I’m coming to get you

night draws a bow across the brain
throat bores a hole into everything I say to you

in my body you’re trying to crawl out of your body
room piled to the ceiling with thread

the brain loves to be tied up
fireflies disappear in late August 




To do

well tomorrow there won’t be any beautiful distance
between you and the still lives of hours

at least today the brain’s not watching
far above your head a jet squeals as it splits the sky

if you’ve got time to think about
the sky and what harms it
maybe you could walk farther away

maybe you could stitch back together
what’s left of the ground under your feet




The day Pan died

the day Pan died it sunshined
then puckered up like I insulted her

alright I’ll let you cut me

the day Pan died wildflowers rioted in ditches
foaming stalled white over deer bone grin

when she smiles at us broken animals
when we smile back with crowds of teeth

I tried my best as a sullied tongue
seeking what the pipes implied
soft piles drifting

we had to make everything with our hands
even our hands


The novitiate

in sleep country we count stars behind our eyes
dark engines that gasp and spark over our heads
on a pinched afternoon I’m lazy with cloud-cover

in the dark I pause at the screen door
drenched in longing from the beat of crickets
everything I will never be just out of reach

what god could be trusted with the color blue
that didn’t slip out of the woods
what novitiate lilts in bourbon-bronze fumes

on the hissing roads of sleep country we billow
our gods made of the blood of dog days
the willow sobs on my bare chest

everything I’ve ever been runs down our legs
waiting for you to fall out of the woods

As a child, on interstate trips, Lewis LaCook thought the moon was following his family’s Econoline van. Upon reaching adulthood, he couldn’t tell whether the truth disappointed or relieved him, so he started writing things down. Some of these things looked like poems, and they may have appeared in journals like Anti-Heroin Chic,  Lost And Found Times, Otoliths,Unlikely Stories,Whiskey Tit, Lotus-eater, Synchronized Chaos, Argotist Online Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen, Reapthrill, Exist Otherwise  and Slope, among others. In 2012 BlazeVOX published Beyond the Bother of Sunlight, a book-length collaboration with Sheila E. Murphy; previously, Anabasis published his book-length poem Cling. His collection My Kinship with the Lotus-eaters was published in 2022 by BlazeVOX.(http://wp.blazevox.org/product/my-kinship-with-the-lotus-eaters-by-lewis-lacook/) Lewis can often be found wandering the wilds of Western New York state with his wife Lindsay.