Bottled Laughter
It has been almost seven years
since that forgotten day
in the hobby shop.
Browsing paint brushes
to blush a miniature
dragon’s scales.
Overhearing the cashier’s
gripe about the height
of his new chair,
I approached the counter.
He sat there, spectacles, rosy smile,
weighing over three hundred pounds.
When I gave him the brushes,
he said something humorous.
For the life of me,
I can’t recall what it was.
As he chuckled at his own joke,
he tilted back, and the stool gave
out from underneath him.
By some divine miracle,
I held a straight face
while saying the only thing
you can say in a situation
such as this,
Are you alright, mate?
He clambered to his feet,
cursed and scowled at the stool
with his hands on his hips.
I purchased the brushes, fled the shop,
and continued to hold in laughter.
On the way home,
I recalled the time I tripped
in the rain, slapped my chin and hands
off the road.
How I shot up like some kind
of lightning bolt in reverse.
And it is tonight,
while stargazing,
while trying to find the words,
while accepting absurdity,
that this memory
chooses to flash
my mind’s eye.
I swear, my lips almost tear
as I laugh so hard tears
roll from my eyes.
And it’s not at his misfortune,
the inelegant tumble or the wild,
goat-like cry he gave.
It is the memory
of his little black boots
punting air
as he flailed on his back
like an overturned beetle.
Steven Bruce is a poet, writer, and award-winning author. His poetry and short stories have appeared in magazines, webzines, and anthologies worldwide. In 2018, he graduated from Teesside University with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. He is the recipient of the Literary Titan Golden Book Award, the Firebird Book Award, and the Indies Today Five-star Recommendation Badge. Born in the North of England, he now lives and writes full-time out of an apartment in Barcelona.
The sword serves to cut the knots, and only the ignorant take a sword to an open heart.
They laugh in your face when they hear: I love you!
They do not see for pride, they do not see because of stubbornness,
They renounce everything while crying and attribute everything to the temptations of the Devil, Their souls have been poisoned by religions, they do not know that God is above all religions.
They write love poems that I don’t believe in,
They talk about God’s love but in fact they are wrapped like a silkworm in a cocoon
They have woven themselves and at the end they bless you and call you: Sister, God’s blessing! They use words of lies and hide behind a prayer that contradicts what they feel and by praying
They drive out sincere feelings as sin.
They do not see the golden grains sent by God to transform into golden jewelry,
They reject all that is unknown because love is the transformation from a caterpillar to a butterfly,
If you kill a caterpillar you will never see a butterfly fly.
Love gives you eyes to see more clearly
Fear closes your eyes, the choice is yours,
Do you want darkness and fear or light and love?
SOUL AND SENSES
No one can see or love the soul, that which is of spiritual nature rejoices in the spiritual.
There is no longing, there is no suffering, there is nothing that we feel.
If we have feelings, it is up to us, it is not from a soul that does not speak.
With words we should express what we feel,
If we remain silent it is pride that prevents the words from being expressed.
.
Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci’s statement “Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard” is circulating through the blood.
That’s why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
“Trees of Desire” is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems “Moon Circle”.
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists “Mountain Views” in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club “Area Felix” in Serbia.
the faucet is clogged as if after the verse of death
like the winged word of a wingless crane
like the erection phase of an automatic gun
faucet is clogged but leaking
such a strange dream had a dungeon dispatcher
while the subway cars crashed
into each other at an inexplicable speed
what can god know about the dungeon
if even his only son did not descend to us below
the earth's surface
***
silent weapons shoot louder
a blind butterfly shines brighter
the wingless man flies further
the sky falls on everyone's head the same way
the birds of hell have come to gouge out the eyes with their claws
and I look at them without eyes without a mouth without wings
living corpse along the river flowing into the pipes of war
my late grandfather always told me about the importance of wings in childhood
my grandfather didn't tell me anything about guns and sky bridle in prayer in prayer
hello grandpa
give me paradise apples
in this hell of a grave
in this hell of a live
***
the cash register of the store is the door to narnia
near the rack with comics the cashier sleeps
behind the back of the cashier there is a cupboard from which kafka comes out leading to the path
the path leads to the forest with butterflies in the belly of nature
seminal lobes rush with atoms molecules fight in love
the chocolate hare jumps to the cotton candy stream
the stream by which we will die of thirst with sugar on our lips
***
body in a sheet of cold snow
dead man in sky-colored robe
newborn in naked silence
child in the name as if in religion
teen with dildo like god
adult with childhood in the auricles
old man with body reaching for the sky
***
heart torture chamber
dwarfs of minutes scatter
birds fly like jet planes
wait those are not birds they are jet planes
the fish plays suicide on the dream shore
the bird on the back of the survival stub screams:
hangman here hangman
***
niche industry of porn magazine
a lump with a deity inside the stomach
indigestion of sadness flowing through the veins
myopia of approaching my love
every time i try to touch you
every time i try
every time you leave
soulless beer can niche industry
niche industry of disappointment in people
used can of beer and emptiness on the pages of a porn magazine
***
neural network is called intelligence
I call myself a neural network
I'm just an ant, fill my chest with reflexes
I'm not human anymore I'm artificial intelligence
I'm artificial
i'm not smart
i am a walking reflex
I am a walking disappointment -
and then I woke up and went to clean up the shit after the cat
***
manna from heaven falls
from the sky directly into the mouth
another day of eating wealth
from which nothing will be born
(Reprint by BarBar)
***
cotton candy smothers us with sugar
a stream of blood and tears of the dead flows near the house
we have nothing to eat and drink
(Reprint by BarBar)
***
fire does not give rise to perspective
the birds don't sing
autumn does not come
autumn from now on without legs without god without man
(Reprint by BarBar)
The bats in blacknessI like to find
what’s not found
at once, but lies
within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.
I have always liked those lines from Denise Levertov’s "Pleasures." Have used them before as an epigraph, to an essay written around an exhibition of works by the great New Zealand painter Ralph Hotere, an exhibition that I remember as consisting of a number of black paintings, but within the black were shades, & shapes.
Am reminded of the lines tonight. & the context in which I used them. There is a rugby game being played on the park below the house. The floodlights are on, but because they’re angled downwards, onto the field, the light is focused inwards, not outwardly diffused. Six banks of lights, one at each corner & at the mid-point of the two longer sides. There is a blanket of light beneath the top of the stanchions, but above them, on this moonless night, the black rests. Stars can be seen.
The lights attract moths. They show like sparks, but moving towards the source, a movie of a fire run backwards, the broken vase made whole again. Large moths, have to be to be seen at this distance. In the line of the lights they are all you can see.
But, step aside a bit, hold up your hand or use a branch to conceal that concentrated bright-light patch. Let your eyes adjust. & at the edges of the seepage you see the bats, shapes within the blackness, come to feast on the moths, to pick them off as their arc goes beyond the lights’ arc. An overlap, a Venn diagram, a feeding zone.
Because
of my Anglophile education in New Zealand, there are vast chunks of U.S. writing that I have never explored. Unlike Bob Dylan's Mr. Jones, I don't think I have read any of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books; Faulkner I cannot read — which aligns him with Australia's Patrick White & Greece's Nikos Kazantzakis; Thomas Wolfe I tried after reading Kerouac's The Town & The City but couldn't get (in to) him. I have never read — which might make me unique on the planet — To Kill a Mockingbird.
Perhaps it has to do with the absence of prescribed cultural antecedents (though much of it has been shown to me as Hollywood movie) & so I have no reference points. There are exceptions, most of them self-subscribed. Moby Dick led me to Melville. Poe & Hawthorne I came to through a liking for fantasy. I've read all the great U.S. crime writers & still love the genre. Whitman's two great poems to Lincoln opened up the marvellous Leaves of Grass. The New American Poetry led me backwards to Williams & Rexroth as well as forwards.
So, confessional time. In my seventh decade I am reading Thoreau for the first time, Cape Cod, picked up — along with a number of other books — at the recent second-hand proceeds-to-charity Bookfest.
& I'm liking it.
Instead of a river, a hand grenade Instead of a sown field, a hungry child
Guilty!!!
Can’t stop the jagged voices
With its jaws full of tender words
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE Poet writer from Concepción del Uruguay Entre Ríos Argentina, based in Buenos Aires Licentiate in letters author of 7 books genre poetry. She has been awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Relations of the Hispanomundial Union of Writers UHE and World Honorary President of the same institution. Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. MEMBER OF THE HONORARY CABINET EXECUTIVE OF THE COMMISSION FOR PEACE, JUSTICE AND STRONG INSTITUTIONS OF SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINE CHAPTER OF UNACCC UNITED NATIONS UNIT FOR CLIMATE CHANGE CENTRAL, SOUTH AMERICA, MEXICO AND THE CARIBBEAN, IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION .
ÚLTIMA GRAN PANDEMIA
Por Gustavo M. GALLIANO
Nadie supo cómo, donde o porqué surgió. Bastó su génesis para que se propagara por todo el desprevenido planeta, y ya no hubo retorno. Contagio total, sin tiempo de medicinas.
Me ha contado en secreto mi amigo imaginario Xerafín que el huésped primario fue un humano. Que decidió abrir su pecho y exclamar, en sincero frenesí, las tres fantásticas palabras: “¡Solidaridad, Resiliencia y Paz!”.
Al instante, el virus se propago por el aire, pandémico, vinculando cuerpos, mentes y almas, en cada rincón. El planeta muto, sus habitantes no volvimos a ser los mismos.
Y ese día fue hoy.-
LAST GREAT PANDEMIC
By Gustavo M. GALLIANO
No one knew how, where or why it arose. Its genesis was enough for it to spread throughout the unsuspecting planet, and there was no return. Total contagion, no time for medicines.
I have been secretly told by my imaginary friend Xerafin that the primary host was a human. That he decided to open his chest and exclaim, in sincere frenzy, the three fantastic words: "Solidarity, Resilience and Peace!".
Instantly, the virus spread through the air, pandemic, linking bodies, minds and souls, in every corner. The planet mutated, its inhabitants were never the same again.
And that day was today.-
BREVE BIOGRAFÍA de:
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO.
Nacido en Gödeken, Santa Fe, República Argentina. Escritor, poeta, Jurado en certámenes literarios Internacionales. Periodismo digital. Docente Universitario de la Facultad de Derecho de la UNR, en la asignatura Historia Constitucional Argentina. Miembro del CICSO (Centro de investigaciones en Ciencias Sociales). Secretario Técnico de REDIM.
Se ha desempeñado como Corresponsal Especial en diversas revistas internacionales de Arte y Literatura (Cañ@santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
Integra la Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Unión Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), la Fundación César Égido Serrano, Naciones Unidas de las Letras (Ave Viajera y Proyecto Mundial Semillas de Juventud), entre otras. Actualmente es colaborador especial de Revista Poética AZAHAR (España), Revista Literaria-artístico PLUMA y TINTERO (España), Revista Literaria KENAVÒ (Italia) y Revista OFRANDA LITERARA (Rumania) donde también integra el Colegio Editorial.
Ha obtenido distinciones y premios en certámenes y concursos internacionales de cuentos, narrativa, micro relato y poesía. Publicó libros (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) y participe de antologías y revistas publicadas y traducidas en más de 100 países.
Ha sido designado como Embajador de la Palabra y la Paz por diversas instituciones: WWPO (USA), Círculo de Embajadores Universales de la Paz (Francia / Suiza), Fundación César Égido Serrano y Museo de la Palabra (España).
Reside en Rosario, Santa Fe, República Argentina.
BRIEF BIOGRAPHY of:
Prof. Gustavo Marcelo GALLIANO
Born in Gödeken, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic. Writer, poet, jury in international literary contests. Digital journalism. University Professor at the Faculty of Law of the UNR, in the subject Argentine Constitutional History. Member of CICSO (Social Sciences Research Center). REDIM Technical Secretary.
He has worked as a Special Correspondent for various international Art and Literature magazines (Cañ @ santa, Sinalefa, ViceVersa, Long Island al Día, RosannaMúsica, etc).
He is a member of the Red de Escritores en Español (REMES), Poetas de Mundo, Union Hispano-Mundial de Escritores (UHE), the César Égido Serrano Foundation, the United Nations of Letters (Ave Viajera and the World Seeds of Youth Project), among others. Currently he is a special contributor to AZAHAR Poetic Magazine (Spain), PLUMA and TINTERO Literary-artistic Magazine (Spain), KENAVÒ Literary Magazine (Italy) and OFRANDA LITERARA Magazine (Romania) where he is also a member of the Editorial College.
He has obtained distinctions and prizes in international contests and contests for short stories, narrative, short story and poetry. He published books (LA CITA, 5 AUTORES) and participated in anthologies and magazines published and translated in more than 100 countries.
He has been designated as Ambassador of the Word and Peace by various institutions: WWPO (USA), Circle of Universal Ambassadors of Peace (France / Switzerland), César Égido Serrano Foundation and Museum of the Word (Spain).
He resides in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentine Republic.
730-
Jesus Lizard
Jesus Wept
Jesus’ Son
Judas Hole
Judas Tree
Jesus H Christ Attorney at Law
Judas Priest
Judas Door
Jesus Saves
Jesus Christ Foretopman
Jesus Christ and Jerry Cruncher Resurrection Man at Large
Jesus Christ Superstar
Jesus Camp
Jesus of Montreal
Judas Kiss
732-
100 word review challenge to Howie Good’s
Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems.
Imagine word salads made of image
clusters leaking from holes in a canvas
by Dali. And one by Cocteau. With a
side of Bacon. Or shotgun art made by
someone like Burroughs at ten paces
with a pump action, shooting five-gallon
paint cans, resulting impact something like
forensic evidence. Like blood splatters.
With a side of fileted Pollock. Like Dada
at the MAMA. I mean the MOMA.
Opening night Patrons of the arts dancing
a Lobster Quadrille to a Resurrection Jazz
Band. Dressed in top hats with pink boas
and Robante gowns. That’s a Stick
Figure Opera: 100 words exactly.
733-
The Eggplant That Ate Chicago or
The Ham Sandwich That Killed Mama
Cass. Attack of the Killer Tomatoes or
It Came from Schenectady. The Grilled
Cheese Sandwich with the Profile of
Jesus Christ or The Block That God Forgot.
The Thigh Bone Connected to the Hip
Bone or Zen Bones, Zen Bones.
734-
Exploding Trees
Frost Quakes
Arctic Sea Smoke
Fog Freeze
109 below
Climate Change
Weather events
or rock groups
740-
“When I make a film, it is a sleep.
I am dreaming.”
“Realism in unreality is a constant
pitfall.”
“He or she exists only if introduced
with events in a dream.”
“I have always liked the no man’s land
of twilight.”
“What are you trying to say?
I was trying to say what I said.”
Jean Cocteau, “On Orpheus
743-
Memory is what happens next.
“a memory is nothing/nothing is
a memory.” Bernadette Mayer.
“Just because something has never
happened before doesn’t mean it
can’t happen again.” (unknown)
(Sports Center? ESPN?) “I seem
to remember my future works although
I don’t even know what they will be.”
V. Nabokov, The Gift.
“Shove a slogan down the throat
enough times I becomes an acquired taste.”
Jenny Xie. “I confess I don’t believe
in time.” V.N. “an image of the dead or
the fingernail/ of a new born child.”
John Berryman
748-
You don’t know Jack(s)
Jack(ie) Kennedy
Jack(ie) Robinson
Jack(ie) Jensen
Jack Shit (e)
Jack Off
Jack Rabbit
Jack Tar
Jack Johnson
Jack Spicer
Jack beanstalk
Jack Kerouac
Jack Giant Killer
Jack(son) Polloc
Jack(b) Nimble
Jack (b) Quick
Jack Dempsey
Jack Micheline
Jack (a) Lope
