LIFE AND DEATH IN ALABAMA A fertilized egg is a treasure, a boon to the barren, a gift of hope. But in sweet home Alabama, the latest law gives embryos a bonus: eternal life. A judge decreed an egg fused with a sperm is now a U.S. citizen, with rights. If kept quick-frozen, zygotes live forever. Sperm donors will pass on. Parents will pass on. But grandchildren, great-grandchildren must keep potential ancestors in liquid nitrogen forever and ever. Amen. Any careless spills or thaws are murder. Any cells lost in the implant process-- serial murder. And murder is a capital offense. These microscopic cells don’t look like people. No face, no bones, no blood, no lungs; no organs, tissues, gender. But one dogmatic judge decreed these cells are fully human. That’s what his Church believes. Our founders erred-- Church ought to rule the State! His Church, of course. Living children aren’t the law’s concern. In Alabama, school-aged kids can work in factories— child labor. Cheap. Children of asylum-seekers? Routinely ripped from parents’ arms and locked in cages. Children of the poor are grudged food stamps, must fight red tape for every scrap of health care. And every day more kids are shot and killed. No, real youngsters aren’t priorities. But embryos—now there’s a righteous cause! Eden’s tree, that bore enticing fruit, has sprouted in the courtroom, promising knowledge of good and evil. Alabama’s judge has tasted insight; his laws prevent Eve’s needy daughters from seeking IVF—lest cells be wasted. Decrees deny a babe in arms to parents out of respect for life. He reads God’s mind, this Alabama judge. Or speaks, perhaps, for someone else that lurks in Eden, hissing… Copyright 2/24 Patricia Doyne
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Clive Gresswell
1)
lingering
1,000 explosions
welcome to
the masquerade.
2)
you trespassed
on my rituals
through slaughter
my deeper dreams
turn to black.
3)
nearly touching
energy expanded
from
melting flesh.
4)
sweet relief
substitute
bones for
reality.
5)
i met you in
the metallic
kiss
your eyes
focused
on
babylon.
6)
sparse infinity
tragedy them rocks
our unfortunate union
leading ultimately
to a death mask.
7)
taking the coastal path
where i left your lifeless
body
in several parts
sand induced
hysteria.
8)
clouds over your hope
ballooning your integrity
lost within virginity.
9)
i have a thousand
internal sons
dividing the world into
ectoplasmic futures.
10)
dripping jewel
you brought me rust
on diamond legs
with frozen epithets.
i climbed into
your empty spaces.
11)
you stretched across my rack
to convince me of your devotion
take your time now
to recall those old days
but take care
as the farewell leaves your lips
the scream of past days follows you.
12)
fairy tales
surround the wooded path
where lurks the foetus
whose curses shatter
on the leafy tongues.
(ends)
Clive Gresswell is a 65-year-old British innovative writer and poet. He has several books out obtainable through Amazon or LJMcD Communications.
Poetry from Kristy Raines
Those Lost Words of Love In your eyes I can still see the shadow of passion that once stormed between us like the force of a rushing river never ceasing Our talks were exciting and our interests were so similar, as if we were one person Then the day came when words became silent and tears told the world our painful tale At times I hope that you will find the beautiful lines of the never ending love story once again Even now, I remember the words you once spoke, and I swear at times you want to speak them again Those lost words that you still refuse to say to me sit on tip of your tongue, yet you will not utter them But I refuse to accept that those words of love for me are not still there Just speak them to me once more ❤ "God! Do You Cry Too"? Today while trying to make sense of it all When I look around and see so much evil When what was created so perfectly has become so wrong, I wonder... Does God cry? When I read He made me in his likeness and He tells me clearly through his word that there is no other love greater than His I think of how sensitive he has made my heart and I can't help but ask... "God, do you cry too?" And when I see a child who has been abused And you have called them our greatest treasures Do you take vengeance on such evil? "God! How do you cope, when you see their tears? Tell me! Do you cry too?" I think He must. Because the One who taught me how to love; Who taught me about faith; Who commanded me to love one another must have a heart as sensitive as mine.. and I think, "God, I believe you cry and grieve just like me." "Because no other could care as deeply as You do." "You count every tear I cry.. But Lord, who counts yours?" Longing for Spring The clouds cried again today as a cold wind blew across a sunless sky of gray. I watch an orange fall off my tree and I wait until the rain becomes a sprinkle to collect it. I walked outside feeling the mist hit my face to pick up the fruit that lay on the wet earth while admiring it's vibrant orange color. As I peel the fruit which uncovers its perfume, I close my eyes and savor it's sweet nectar. I enjoy seeing the green grass in the garden covered with rain, which brightens it's color. Spring is waiting to burst out as Narcissus flowers now show off their yellow faces. I long to see the the blue sky of Spring again; Waking up to the scent of jasmine that will soon bloom, and the gentle morning song of the sparrow that lightens my mood. Once more will I be able to hear the owls call to me while sitting on my porch in the dark, as the coyotes howl an eerie song in unison. I welcome again the warm breeze that lightly touches my skin as it blows gently through the sheer curtains covering my bedroom window. And I will fall asleep to the calming sound of the crickets and the croaking frogs as the stars twinkle behind a bright full moon on a beautiful Spring night. Kristy Raines was born in Oakland, California, in the USA. She is a poet, writer, author and advocate. She has five books getting ready to publish soon, one with a prominent poet from India which will launch hopefully soon called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West", two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Thins and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", and an anthology of poems in English,"The Passion Within Me" and her Autobiography called "My Very Anomalous Life" Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.
Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams
A Way to Go Often I wake up in the middle of the night unable to go back to sleep writing this like so many others We wait for the light on the edge of dawn trying to make sense of ourselves and others with a few words rambling off into the blur of forgetfulness It's sad and silly and maybe smart to be wise in our own eyes giving ourselves a sigh of completeness as we fall and we do fall back into the loneliness of ourselves not knowing what we're doing. Notice the period on the above line that shows a good place to stop but I keep going hoping something comes out of all of this.... Maybe a prayer that I'm still involved and finding my way to go. All of us... finding a way to go. Is that why we wake up in the middle of the night? With Whispers So I'm back with a line of light on the horizon... Do you see it? At least imagine it... Or are little Leprechauns dancing around on the floor pointing at your cold feet old feet that almost never get out and run in the dry soft sand of freedom and where is the freedom we use to read about? Sorry... I didn't want to go back into this... The Leprechauns are nervous now... But think of it... A sunny day at a beach where the waves are gentle and warm and make you believe you're young again with someone walking toward you to love and cry with under the covers of a bed safe and silent with whispers of love lasting forever. Upward We Bend This is the end of another rattle of lines hoping you read between the skips and look up to the sky where clouds move slowly showing the way of how to sit beside all those you love and fly Baby Fly!
Art from Mark Young
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
------------------------------------------------------- simpatico the soft brown skin all the inside jokes no one understands us it shouldn't work love shouldn't be anywhere near whatever this is but i see the look in your eyes simpatico fuck the world stack all the fucking decks against us we will break them all down with glee with love with a never-ending sense of what is right i lick the honey off of your finger and kiss you with all of what i have left to give everything doesn't do it justice rescued an old soul from the bitter edge hopefully now, we jump together ------------------------------------------------------ if we could get away with it i remember being on vacation with the family and my father got us lost while hiking in the great smoky mountains it might have been the first time i ever thought i wonder if we killed him here if we could get away with it trust me, it wasn't the last as the dysfunction grew, the vacations became crazier and crazier eventually, i was driving and the thought became a notion that i actually had a say in never did kill him but i sure was a happy motherfucker when he did die i'm sure his family reads these poems part of me wonders if they ever understood the monster he became the other part of me is pretty damn sure they don't care which is fine not everyone is cut out for the family life one of the genes my father has passed along to me ---------------------------------------------------------- like a beautiful woman i treat my pain like a beautiful woman it will kill me and it is a race to see who gets there first i'm just a bystander along for the ride sometimes, i even get to participate the pills never seem to work but jack daniels is always in my corner every once in a while i'd love for that beautiful woman to grab the shotgun in the corner and use me as target practice somewhere, burroughs is shining up an apple a soft embrace on a sweaty night two lost lovers trying to make up for all the moments that have escaped along the way, the pain became love and love will kill us all -------------------------------------------------- the endless temptation hopelessly devoted to the last beautiful soul i ever want to know longing for that kiss the look of desire the endless temptation on the tip of her tongue dancing under a full moon the autumn crisp in the air she whispers i love you into my ear my heart starts to skip a beat if i'm lucky i'll die in her arms before either of us get a chance to ruin the moment -------------------------------------------------- mister right now remember the one that gave you the stevie nicks vibes? the one that you had the most sexual chemistry with i was only mister right now for her she never was going to settle for anything less than forever, with whom she is still with welcome to the other side of the coin where you are nobody's forever, at least anymore hell, mister right now hasn't seen the light of day for years now there comes a time when you can't deny how much reality fucking sucks sometimes losers are the glue of society you remember writing that a lifetime ago? sure, still believe it still understand my place in it all more people die alone than you happen to read about in the newspapers J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is slowly wasting away in the suburbs, drinking away the pain from arthritis. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash Quarterly and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Story from Ellie Ness
We arrive in Rome to the Ryanair fanfare that really means “You’re twenty-four miles away from your destination,” and not “You’ve arrived on time”.
I have pre-booked the coach from Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino which will take us to Termini Station in the city centre which is just as well because there are wildcat train strikes and taxi drivers have joined in unexpectedly.
It’s charcoal dark by the time we arrive at Termini and painted sex workers are beginning to ply their trade. Hectic hustle and bustle of unloading cases segues into other coach passengers melting away into the darkness and, when it’s our turn, I try to ask the driver how we’ll get to the hotel near the Vatican but he shrugs and suddenly doesn’t speak any English. My Italian is inadequate for unrehearsed conversations.
It looks too far to walk at night from my tourist map opened up under a streetlight and it’s in the days before smartphones and Google maps.
I am swithering about trying to get a room at the seedy hotel on the same street when a small man appears and asks, “Are you looking for a taxi? I can take you.”
I could take him in a fight, I think, so let him put our cases into the boot and we buckle up in the back of his tiny car.
Any feeling of relief disappears quickly when a huge, thin man squashes himself into the front passenger seat and childproof locks click down.
Trapped!
I grab my teenage daughter’s hand as she gives me the side eye. I want to remain calm for her sake, but my hands are clammy and there’s an acidic burn in my throat. My head throbs.
The driver and his partner chat away in their own language, and I stare out of the window trying to get my bearings. It suddenly twigs for the driver as he catches my eye in his rearview mirror and he starts to tell us where we are, pointing out the Colosseum, and “That way to the Trevi Fountain. You’ll get nice gelato there.” Il Vittoriano, Monumento looms like an old fashioned typewriter in the distance, the men laugh.
He drives too quickly through the cacophony of city streets. He seems to be an expert at driving too close, too quickly and weaving in and out of lanes without signalling. Horns scream and shriek and brake lights burst and spark in front of us. We seem to be washed by red light inside the car, faces eerily devilish.
I weigh up whether it would be preferable to die in a road accident or murdered in a strange city.
Finally I see a landmark close to the hotel – the rotunda, Castel Sant’Angelo – that I had been looking out for. Hadrian’s mausoleum looming above us might signal that this car ride isn’t as dangerous as it seems.
Miraculously, we arrive at the drop off point for hotel reception. I give the driver a twenty Euro note over and above his asking price.
The driver’s just been a chancer trying to earn extra during a strike, not a murderer or slave trader in cahoots with his lumbering friend.
€20’s a small price to pay, I figure.