Johnny Mem

 

Tyranny is a soup best bifurcated by patriarchy.

so old gran always said as she baked the smells of smarm

till the windows ran from the oilskin like old men in need of salad.

Artificial brains always remind me of that dessert

 

with the tentacles and the expiration date

shining in one perfect summer like Nerf bikinis

dipped in dangerous Substacks, the halo of hernias 

lowing softly in the mistrial. If only we could return

 

not to what we were, but to what we would be in a separate discourse

with more engagement and shitposting, more gelatinous rescue

of what Arnold Schwarzenegger terminated before he was good/evil 

or evil/good. But you can’t put your face

 

in the same fire twice, for the fire may pivot to video,

but it is not the same. And neither is your face. 

a tight sweater
 

anytime i see

a woman in a

tight sweater

 

i think of that

night we had

at the farm

 

alone in the

middle of

winter

 

a bottle of

bourbon

 

your tight

sweater

 

and plenty

of time to

go find a

new tomorrow

 

we never did

 

but i certainly

remember each

and every attempt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
pretend
 

pretend you don't ache

with every breath

 

pretend prayer actually works

 

pretend that some woman

will actually love you one

day

 

pretend your opinion actually

matters

 

pretend that voting can actually

change the world

 

pretend the sunshine isn't

killing you

 

pretend the rain doesn't cause

your arthritis to dance

 

pretend that blonde in the

corner isn't telling you to

fuck off

 

pretend those flashing lights

behind you aren't the police

coming for you

 

pretend these therapists

want to see you get better

 

pretend the handcuffs are

just stylish new bracelets

for all the cool kids

 

pretend that you don't think

about death each and every

day
------------------------------------------------------------------
conversations with myself
 

any sense of fun

i had in me was

beat out of me

in my childhood

 

i can remember

conversations

with myself since

the age of eight

 

i once ran away

with thirty-seven

cents in my pockets

 

i came back three

days later with

twenty bucks

and a stolen

carton of

cigarettes

 

others swear they

used to see so

much potential

in me

 

they are as

disappointed

now as my

family was

when i was

born

 

i once had a blood

clot from my left

calf to my left hip

 

i slowed my heart

rate down and asked

to die

 

i'm starting to believe

kind souls don't exist
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
and your favorite recliner
 

they never told

you that doggy

in the window

was never

housebroken

 

so, he will actually

cost a new sofa,

flooring and your

favorite recliner

 

i always liked

cats better

 

which apparently

makes me a

communist

 

i had a friend that

liked humans on

leashes

 

which apparently

makes her

 

popular

 

whatever gets

you through

the day

i suppose
-----------------------------------------------------
the best thing for him at this time
 

the father of an old friend

died this past weekend

 

it wasn't that shocking

to me, but it was unexpected

 

i used to see him at the

grocery store from time

to time

 

the years hadn't been

kind to him

 

so, i figure even though

it is hard to swallow reality

 

his death is probably the

best thing for him at this

time

 

i don't want to go to

the funeral

 

i have the feeling it would

be a high school reunion

i don't want to be invited

to

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 Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.

Dear Past,

I thank you for revealing life’s art,
For letting me taste its every part,
In pains, joys, words unkind or sweet,
You shaped me whole, made me complete.

Stronger now, forged by your embrace,
Wounds and scars adorn with grace,
Etched like art on canvas, body and soul,
Each story they tell, making me whole.
Those scars, in sorrow’s shadow born,
Became my drive, my fires were sworn,
You spurred me on, fanned my inner fire,
Turning pain into purpose, soaring higher.

For every tear, a clearer sight ahead,
Each ache a milestone, towards goals I tread,
Truly, you’re the gift that keeps giving still,
Turning trials into strength, an iron will.
Through trials akin to the inferno’s maw,
Earthly challenges seem but straw,
Betrayals and falsehoods left thorns to find,
Yet deeper pain I’ve met, a crucible of the mind.

Now I stand strong, a conqueror in grace,
Thankful for the storm that shaped my pace,
Thankful for a tempest of lessons and more,
A past complex and layered, its wisdom I adore.


Defined not solely by what’s already done,
You’re a prologue, a journey, a rising sun,
A force that propels me into the unknown,
With lessons as my armor, confidence has grown.


Past, I’m grateful for your steady hand,
Guiding me through this intricate land,
Now I step into Future, arms stretched wide,
Prepared for an adventure, with hope as my guide.

WHEN YOU SMILE BACK 

I am your companion, your lover and friend
You are the heart that feels my every emotion
My heartbeat,  is the wellspring of your life
You seek your home in my arms every night
and in my hands I hold your tender heart
We've both overcoming earlier difficulties 
and have grown in many ways together
Only you truly know the beats of my heart
whether I am happy or I am somber inside
But oh, how easily you can find my smile
And when you smile back.. there is no doubt
that my pounding heart beats only for you.
   



I NEVER KNEW DREAMS CAME TRUE

Far away I may be in distance 
but in my heart you are so close
What I thought was only in dreams
has become reality in front of my eyes
I will never grieve you with my pain
Though I know you'd take it gladly
Just keep me in your prayers at night
The One above us will give me rest
You ask me what is my reality
I think you know by now
But the words are like a wish 
I dare not say it out loud
Or else it may not come true.
Just know that no matter what happens 
in my heart you will always have a place
Every time you think of me, I will appear
And in sleep, no one can take you from me... 







MY CHILDREN... WALK BESIDE ME

Walk quietly beside me
along a shore that never ends
Tell me your dreams and desires in life,
tread lightly through the twists and bends
Make me smile with your beautiful laughter
Experience a distant land
Visit me when you feel lonely
and for a moment, hold my hand
And my children, I promise you this..
I will always walk beside you when you reach a rocky trail
I will encourage you to live your dream, even if you try and fail
I will proudly cheer you on as you accomplish your every dream
I will hold you up when you feel weak
on me you still can lean
Many say they will be there for you
and many may not follow though
But when life gets too hard at times
I'll be there to walk with you
Always help another in need
put yourself in their place
Cause one day you may be the one
who needs to be shown grace.
My children, I'll always love you. Life's an adventurous race to run
Just give me a moment now and then before my days are done
For one day you will walk my path, realizing that time does end
You'll find yourself wishing you had more time on earth, but
time.. it never lends... 






YOUR SILENCE SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

We used to speak almost everyday
Life got complicated and time went by
Before I knew, it became years
I know now that you didn't know why
But I thought you would understand
I needed time to heal inside
without advice or reprimand
never meaning to hurt your pride
When you needed time I never failed
to understand why I didn't hear from you
To me our friendship always prevailed
I'm sure thoughts of me now are few
When I felt strong enough to talk again
You returned my letters that now sit on a shelf…
It was never my intention to shut you out,
and now your silence speaks for itself.
Now I am ready to let go... 

Kristy Ann Raines is an American poet and author born on April 9, 1957, in Oakland California. Kristy has five books which will soon be published. One anthology with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai, will launch sometime around August 2023 and is called, “I Cross my Heart from East to West.” She has also written two fantasy books entitled, “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and The Lion”, an collection of poems in English,” Walking Without You”, a collection in French, “Little Rose Poetry”, and one in Arabic called,  “Jasmine and Roses.” Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.

Bring dynamite and a crane
Blow it up start all over again...

                               (Tobacco Road)


                           Obligation


                     His fly is open.
              His cock is a two-forked tongue of the bell.
Meanwhile, he sharpens a boning knife. 
                     The famulus is skinning the foil off a book.  
       Now the poet is the boss. (Hanging on a hook.)
Mr. Blockhead and Miss Witless complete
the selection committee.
 
After the explosions comes the living revolution 
paralyzed into barrenness      
       (It destroys things unnoticed.) 
The hissing, decaying wreckage of our world: 
       a billion barricades on the river Otter Tail. 

The poet would call the literates of Honeyland 
       hiding in the swamps, 

but they are blind,
deaf and
mute.



(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
 

Bring dynamite and a crane
Blow it up start all over again...

                               (Tobacco Road)



                                   Obligation

                  

                                   Slicc nyitva. 
                                          A pöcs kétágú harangnyelv. 
       Közben csontozókést köszörül. 
                     A famulus könyvfólia-bőrt nyúz.  
       A költő most kápó. (Kampón függ.) Gyöpinger úr és 
                            Ostobenkó kisasszony kiegészíti
 
a választmányt.
 
A robbanások után jön az élő, 
meddővé vénült csend forradalma.  
       (Észrevétlenül pusztít.) 
Világunk sziszegve málló roncs-maradványai: 
milliárd torlasz a Vidrafarok-folyón. 

A lírikus szólítaná  Mézföld mocsarkba bújt 
írástudóit,

de vak,
süket,
némult mind…  

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

Goetia


Legless centipede.        On all four.
                                              

A bloated abdomen split like a gangrenous log.
              (A fissure in a blinded mirror of ice) A shriveled faced pirate with dangling balls
                                        is the late prey of our civilization. 
       The deck is a lifeless quicky, 
where the flayflints of our freedom feast, 
              with their saliva dripping, 
       the laughing Grim Reaper dances like a living shred of meat on the festive table. 

"Go on, leave the wheel, turn into a bottlenose dolphin yourself!"

                     Behold, the hominid, 
              and his ubiquitous sidekick, 
this is what we deserve, 
       some hideous beast, it's holy true. "No, to the trough, 
my friends, but up for puking!" 

Then one day you'll awake in your grave, and touched by the one returning before us, "Come, leave it to the maggots," and points at the wobbling, 
        filmy moon-palm above us -

“you will now move into his body…"

              Freedom is simply as follows: the condemned man can choose the method of his execution. And we telling lies stating that this ever-decaying terminal stage is progress. Three-pronged wand, cudgel, bell, shrunken head of a man,
       sickle, wax rigidity after bloodsucking, catatonic delirium. 
              Fingerprints of our doings on cosmic flypaper. 
              The Earth purged of humanity, and the boisterous oceans are continue writing their history without us…


(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

Goetia



       Épkézláb százlábú.        Négykézláb.
                                   ˙qálzéʞʎƃéN 
                                              

Üszkös fahasábként hasadó, felfúvódott has.
              (Hasadás megvakult jégtükrön…) Aszott pofájú, lógó tökű kalóz
                                        kései zsákmánya civilizációnk. 
       Élettelenné vált tákolmány a fedélzet, 
szabadságunk uzsorásai ott lakmároznak, 
              nyáluk csordul, 
       élő húscafatként táncra perdül a röhögő Kaszás az ünnepi asztalon. 

„Menj csak, hagyd a kormányt, változz pléhcsőrű delfinné te is!”

                     Íme, az emberszabású, 
              valamint a mindenütt megbúvó kísérője, 
amely, 	
amit érdemlünk, 
       valami undorító szörny, az szentigaz. „No, vályúhoz, 
cimborák, okádásig!” 

Egyszer aztán föleszmélsz a sírban, s megérint az előttünk visszatérő: „jöjj, hagyd a férgeknek,  - s a fölöttünk imbolygó, 
       hártyás hold-tenyérre mutat -
mostantól az ő testébe költözöl…”
              A szabadság mindössze ennyi: a halálraítélt választhat a kivégzési módok közül. S fejlődőnek hazudjuk ezt a folyamatosan hanyatló végstádiumot. Háromhegyű pálca, dorong, harang, zsugorított   
       emberfő, sarló, vérívás utáni viaszmerevség, kataton révület. 
              Viselt dolgaink újjlenyomatai a kozmikus légypapíron. Nélkülünk is tovább írja történetét 
              az emberiségtől megtisztult Föld, s a háborgó óceán. 

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: „(szellem)válaszok”, „A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya”, „Kiterített rókabőr” His poems in English have appeared in over a hundred journals. New book about to be published, “Delirium &…The Seven Haiku” (Published By DEAD MAN’S PRESS INK ALBANY, NY 2023). He has been nominated several times for international awards. He is known for being a spiritualist medium and his work explores the relationship between magic and art.

I am marginalised in my own country!

Weeping as a Mutilation of Fear

Today, every face in my community bears tears like a mutilation

All ears of our land are worn out by the

acerbic headlines whistling out from our radio.

Outside, the whole land is becoming a sea of corpse

In here, fear has a large apartment in our bodies than blood.

In this home we cannot home

For we are preys chased by wild raiders

Yesterday, the raiders strike in at midday,

and left with my father’s blood on their knife.

Yesterday, a holocaust ate up my uncles barn of grains and hays

and at the time the day became grey,

another mutilation of fear and tears outshone from our faces.

Nags of gunshots are chirps of birds,

A tragic song we perceive on steady basis.

Perhaps my father’s God said that the day

violence chews the serenity of our land,

we should know we are approaching the butt of life

and so we pray this day not for the end of violence,

but for the kickstart of apocalypse.

“social worker’s lament”

 
drunk chasing herons, 

i pause to reflect—old friends,

open roads, less thoughts 

 

 

“coldblooded prophets”

 
speeding home i pass a turtle 

holding the universe 

inside its shell 

 

 

“distracted by everything”

 
an egret glides overhead—

my watch is at home, 

i wish for autumn 

 

 

“they know no laws”

 
sparrows refuse adhering 

to red traffic signals 

they keep flying 

 

 

“gravity sucks”



black ivory wings 

beat through a cloudy blue sky— 

i am just a man