Goran Tomic is a Collisionist Autodidact Artist from Sydney, Australia who has exhibited his collages, video installations and performance art over the past 25 years. Raised on Rauschenberg and born posthumously he Flaneur’s the urban decay searching for his Wilderness robe.
light and bitter sunday lunchtime with my father in the cemetery wind striking stone beating conflict bearing down scratched on a head marking the days four poems prowl as i fly into deeds that bought me up for change to bring me into line to put me in these lines the imagery awakes and in this mist of time this son of york moves effortlessly ‘mongst the pines a slicing of anxiety that lies most pale in the moonlight witness the nervous prayer vistas that were there for us a very useful sunset once more cut adrift lover-to-be – begin sex and secularity show boats in the drink adolescent agitprop revisited a really low shuck scuttle across the backs of daunting zebras leap or they’ll come for you get down on the blanket then harsh noise too dark once i was a walking erection entitlement personified lewd passions break neck runaway class runaway signs sonic experiments ranging from riffs exclude ecstasy include instances you know she whispered you do know gentle then gentlemen we are subjects of the author of his latest and the world won’t end oh delighting one after all you will after all you’ve seen full-lotus on the mantelpiece a technique to be admired move on to more familiar hypnosis twist yourself into a tree incendiary personal collections consisting of salacious clips behaviour can be useful a fortune on the pools north carolina is drowning and she is a million years old in his pocket lies your breathing modern psychology fries wavemakers made off with my waking red brick telephone lines yes sir she does have two kidneys racists are usually thick the meat grinder has read your note but you are not excused a hundred-thousand potbellies can’t be wrong and personal chemistry can only take you so far this blend of surreal chicanery is remaining weaving opening pieces and having to make do so cease your fashionable scuttling i also find that quite contrived we held we necked as first rains hit the carriage we decoded the typology and oh what fun we had live streaming the event simplify and exemplify or you will be disturbed try to exercise begin to form softness sink into self-defence only partly consume yourself more profit for the shucksters out ways means way out sullen leaps from the parapet my stares have been changed and both are rather weary now coffee brews with queer desires following which and taking it on take what you want and get it to shore farewell yearning cobra cats that ridge their backs time to find the dreamlike frame mind abiding buttered cool blue-tiled pools and pixled fools furnish them with everything be unconscious mind i said call it out then mother-hen and this is what that feels like it creeps into you backwards with its bug eyes on your feet on a tight leash fold and unfold as the woodland comes to life in surroundings i wave she waving must run rice cake wars once factories made sure still jolly reader really bad got bored rather than wait the creature stirred who would have thought of virgin lands with ringing crystals so debauched who then is watching this unprecedented growth through a soft lens reach for a cigarette vodka this world has become a dark world murdering catamites behind a white picket fence what is on offer we bring you plate ransom note thought circuits bathed in flaming gravy simple weird moments in a deep bass slot fine dimly wondered march acoustics sirloin beef broils there bypassing breath this infernal whooping through my mucus has transformed the cold machinery of war break out the psalms and trance-like simul- ations before the god of winds caresses your last breath counting your sleeps in a sound-proofed chamber recycling waste for a jollier death my knees have turned against me and now they’re spreading so there’s little else left here for me to do oh damn your dreams fish don’t want air and many more besides a little bit of ghostly’s gone astray go check for mail and mow the lawn and throw your groceries in the bin this must we see it cannot be it flows through graduated forms a stasis tube containing light a play with something different new concerns providing stranger personal effects aesthetic coffins ripened love buds please dear uncle am i then the one am i a shade of energy pulsating in and out of love of time not out of hate of signs but talk of peace that mimics all the body’s core and fights what should have made a difference and yet appears in more and more degrading revelations force fed into my conscious mind it’s what is endlessly desired discover walks and roots in forestation that renew then take up huge amounts of time – the moments must so easily slip by be still and concentrate as best you can with myra hindley on your knee a flash of bottled radishes pressed uo against your spine that so inflames the rash that your humanity decries irrational darkening dream status a sinistere mouths and my glass eye rolls left arm draped in a short space stake gibbet and cross and repent base pernicious and degrading fire and sword from lip to ear crystallised into a creed prenatal memory cognition black fire town once there was a red hot poker now there’s only central heating shadow travellers offend a sort of rising for a few like-minded friends and what is left is postmarked quarantine daisy gristle welts green gnomes here lie and their chunks anastasia was disposed of lady chatterley's a broken tuba now her topical mouth is a gift shop but it’s closed whose contraption am i strapped upon the master-key is in their hands and i believe they watch my dreams through apertures extending into space Eddie Heaton studied innovative and experimental poetry under the tutelage of post-modern poet and educator Keith Jebb, achieving a first-class honours degree. He also won the 2021 Carcanet Award for Creative Writing. His work has been extensively published in a number of prestigious literary journals.
A hazy familiar abstraction....
Like a decoupage painting
Designed as a distraction
Like watching you dreaming...
Mesmerized by a wistful whiff of
Melancholy and underlying yearning
for the joy of a blossoming aliveness.
You, a relay of impressionist painter Claude Monet
All while in the deep end of steep sleep;
I was transfixed and transported in your succoring still,
Even if for a sparkly shine of a firefly
Nestled in the arms of the numbing night,
Like the brevity of life itself...beautifully rendered
Even if only in your dream state;
Until daylight swallows the night
And dreams come AWAKE!
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him here.
[tan-renga, untitled] deciduous conifers the secret not enjoying it
seabreeze lifts
a mini skirt
Jerome Berglund& Christina chin [rengay]
Shane Coppage & Jerome Berglund
Light Mana
fooly electric shoals of koi live live neon
winsome bird
before the blur
virtual fall the numbers behind purple rain
faraday cage
color coding
french ballets
data castles arabesque in replica dreams
singularity
fake it
till you make it[split sequence]
Marjorie Pezzoli & Jerome Berglund
Throw Down
Sisyphus smiles
high John
the Conqueror
swine keep disappearing
daisies cheer
moonbeams laugh mannish boy dreams petal drops
rock-paper-scissors
Nana Buluku
no way to contact directly
submit a support request
Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry 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.
Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet. Her work has been featured in numerous publications online and in print: https://haikuzyg.blogspot.com/ https://christinachin99blog.wordpress.com/
Shane Coppage is an emerging writer with a fine arts degree. His words have been published in Humana Obscura, Cold Moon Journal, The Japan Society London, Shadow Pond Journal, and The Winged Moon Magazine. Connect with him on Instagram @shane_coppage.
Marjorie Pezzoli is a silk painter for 25+ years, visual artist, storyteller, and poet. Her writings deal with grief, hope, cosmic wonders, and stuff that catches her eye. Her poetry has been published in numerous anthologies since 2019. Many of her writings are inspired by her photographic observations taken while walking Beau, the dog with Betty Davis eyes. Marjorie looks for words that are worth a thousand images. wwwPezzoliart.com
and we all know whose fault it was
ask her if she fools around, if you
can get her number, and
she laughs, and you ask if she has any x,
if she has a friend who puts out and
get it where you can, right? and it sure as shit
wasn’t creeley who told me that,
wasn’t cirino or eliot, cuz all the fucking
poets ever did was lie
all that asshole tony ever did was
keep the acid for himself, and it was your father
who taught you how to pull the trigger,
sure,
but he would never let you
take the blindfold off
would never tell you who you’d hit
and he had that guitar autographed
by pettibon, had that girlfriend your mother
never found out about, and did you
cry when he died?
did you go through his pockets
of his sunday jeans
looking for cash or a credit card?
and i remember you kept telling me he
owed you something, but you were
always a pussy, always thought you were
missing out
always thought the future was
just around the corner
said you wanted to be ready for the
moment that would change everything,
but the moment had already
come and gone
no religion
my whole life spent waiting for
everything to go wrong, and i end in this
house, on this day, setting fire to the
past while the roof collapses
i end up too old to die young,
and with mixed emotions about it
i end up terrified of the fact
that i might not live forever
that i might end up nothing more
than the person i’ve become
defacer’s blues
and all the pretty girls dead of
accidental overdoses, and all the
parties you were supposed to
meet them at
the ones where you show up alone
already drunk and stoned,
where you fade into the darkest corner,
and it’s a gift, always being the
ugliest person in the room
it’s a thankless job traveling everywhere
with a shovel and a holy book,
with a can of gasoline and a book of matches,
but none of these corpses are
going to take care of themselves
none of your freedoms are going to
last forever, and it always feels strange
pretending to give a shit
about the state of the world because,
seriously,
what the fuck are you possibly
going to do to stop war,
to put an end to starvation
or genocide?
who are you going to kill to
assure the rest of us a
lifetime of peace?
seems like you should’ve
thought of something
by now
in the garden of dying stars
or junkie truth,
which is not the truth
a victim’s idea of power
grey sun in a grey sky
and this old man sleeping in his
hospital bed looks like me,
like my father,
like the spaces that grow between us,
and hope matters,
of course,
but let’s not fuck around here
the false king is a dead man
the poet without a gun
really has nothing to offer
and i remember telling you this on
the day before your lover’s suicide,
and i remember all of the reasons
you gave for hating me
i remember silence
young boy crying in the middle of
main street, and
then the scream of brakes
only a small loss,
right?
gotta look at the bigger picture
gotta build better bombs
the poor can take care of themselves,
and tough shit if they can’t
no one starves in
a nation of corpses
no one needs god
when a holy man can
fuck them just as good
understand this, and you might
just turn out okay
[we danced to save them all]
this boy with the knife in his throat thinks he
has something to say,
but he is beyond words
he is a prince and a king and a corpse,
and we are all trying to
forget his name here in the kingdom of nil
we are tell his sister
we love her
we are telling her she belongs in movies,
but she won’t take her clothes off for us
she won’t get in the back seat
and the blood is on our hands,
is in our smiles and our dreams, and
none of the bibles we’re given ever
have anything intelligent to say
none of the children
playing out in the streets
have parents
none of them have homes
and the soldiers laugh as they hand out candy,
and they laugh as they open fire because
no one can ever get revenge if
no one is left alive
no one sings as sweetly
as the hangman’s latest lover
no one’s life ever ends up
being worth very much at all
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism which, as luck would have it, has all the best bands. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).
the humans come out & so do a few loud crows after the snowstorm — tail end of winter pretty warm in the sunlight too cold in the shade — green buds have appeared on Mom’s lilac hedge out front first full day of spring — two deer & then three in someone’s yard on Iris missed the bus again — slept all day & night I wake up past eleven disoriented — bio/graf J. D. Nelson’s poems have appeared in many publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). Nelson’s first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
“Things Unintelligible but Understood”: lines from Wallace Stevens, a found poem Consider the odd morphology of regret Note the decline of music The grapes are here and now Starry voluptuary will be born At least the number of people may there be fixed There is no such thing as innocence in autumn Machine within machine within machine The cabinet of a man gone mad No man shall see the end Naturalized: Lines from Hala Alyan’s, The Moon Turns Back: a found poem He plays devil’s advocate. May father plays soccer. In dreams I am in Nevada. Half-life in exile. I’m not your side bitch. Those fucking K-Mart towels when did we give them away? I loved them. Pink as slaughter. You can’t put a corpse back together again. I type all the metaphors I can. I can’t keep pretending to love. Patti Smith Photo Album #1 Mundane objects imbued with deep, personal meaning: Bolano’s writing chair, Hesse’s decrepit writing machine, Virginia Woolf’s tarnished walking stick, Jim Carroll’s narrow, single bed, Fred Smith’s recovered childhood toy; all their owners gone. A woman with a camera remembers. 736- Spy of the First Person. Patti Smith and her day book. Sam’s Old KY home Adirondack chairs on the back lawn facing the hills. Empty now. 737- Patti Smith punk rock star or stay at home mom. Surrealistic pillow maker or Rimbaud re- incarnated. As a woman Collector of memories. Just Us Kids or a museum of dead things. On the M Train. Or off. Babel or Coral Beach. I. She. Contains multitudes. Patti Smith Polaroid Sequence Nov/Dec Pasolini Monument: two doves intertwined in stone Genet’s A Man Contemplating Death on Mapplethorpe’s Birthday: A Still Life Editing Sam Shepard’s last manuscript A white horse head in Wales Dylan Thomas’s grave with plain wooden cross Rimbaud’s elaborate headstone Sharing coffee with ghosts of Camus, Sartre, and Simone in the Gallimard garden A solitary bird sings of the death of Proust Jim Carroll’s well-thumbed Penguin paperback of Schulz’s Street of Crocodiles The bound twig broom used to sweep dying leaves from Mishima’s grave Sam Shepard’s Depression era Gibson Puccini’s composition piano Photo of Rosa Parks Dec 1, 1955 Joan Didion: pure writer The guardian angel near the grave of Bertolt Brecht Patti Smith at the interval contemplating Tosca: “ I have lived for art, for love.” A letter in the hand of Emily Dickinson Dante’s headstone Zappa’s ‘Hot Rats’ album cover Ralph Fiennes on the set of Coriolanus The ruins of Hadrian’s library After Reading Burchfield: December Moonrise, #8 Flat saucer shaped clouds in gray blue sky are pocked by puncture wounds shining bright as fallen stars or creatures like birds of another species. Irradiated seeds sprout plants that only bloom at night. Moonrise over distant hills make the landscape more unreal than it already seems to be. Blistered cones of light where the moon should be