Jean, dansant It was a temp- oral regression from which he returned singing La Marseillaise between mouth- fuls of an egg & lettuce sand- wich. Arch- ival footage shows there were times when he had all four feet off the ground. Later the Holy Roman Empire would come to be regarded as the first successful franchise. Initially, however, it didn't seem to have a hope of making it until Emperor Constantine finally paid attention to the local cuisine & replaced the basic communion wafer with bite-sized pide. Working on a capsicum farm Way before television, up & down the main street on a Saturday night. Olive oil heated in a large sauce- pan, a high energy production. Unanimously well received. Great feedback for a never say die team. "The intention is to allow people to stay living in their own homes," Carol explained. "We're hoping those people who want to become train drivers will wear white on the night − lots of lace, no denim. "It's so rewarding to see them once they step out of their comfort zone." Out & About When last heard of she was said to be running a clinic & outreach program for theo- dolites made redundant by an uptake of GPS devices. No- one can pinpoint its location. Now that the voices in my head have deserted me, who is there left to talk to?
Poetry from Hongri Yuan, translated by Yuanbing Zhang
Three Poems By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Yuanbing Zhang Another Me From The Heavens If blue is namely white and black is namely red and gold is transparent as crystal and light makes the soul smile forgetting the sun moon and stars and you were filled with wisdom, drunk for thousands of years and back to the prehistoric giant city and that giant is just like another me from the heavens by the lotus throne in the golden palace. 天上的另一个自己 如若蓝即是白而黑即是红 而黄金透明若水晶而光芒令灵魂微笑忘了日月星辰 而汝醍醐灌顶一醉千年而回到了史前之巨城 而那金殿之莲花宝座上的巨人宛然天上的另一个自己 The Azure Sea Tonight I thought of the platinum city above in distant space Where there is no day and night and the giants are interstellar travellers by spaceship Their words have the dignity of God and create the holy Kingdoms So that the pictures of the soul in the maze of memory lasts a billion years Standing by the azure sea near the great palace with swirling sweet music in the city of the gold 3.4.2017 蔚蔚之海 今夜我想起那遥远太空之上的白金巨城 那儿没有昼夜巨人们乘坐飞船在星际航行 他们的词语拥有上帝的尊严而创造圣洁的王国 亿万年的时光是一幅幅灵魂的画卷在记忆的迷宫 黄金之城橚矗那飘洒蜜甜乐曲的巨人殿宇之蔚蔚之海 2017.3.4 The Bath of The Cool Breeze Prehistoric words of the gods are waking up in my body The platinum city from a strange planet is as if in a fantasy on the blue coast The giant men and women who walk by the light do not know trouble or sorrow There where the temple of the gods is in their heads, whose light is like wine flowing in the blood And the music of the stars sways gently around them, which is like the bath of the cool breeze on the earth The huge ship of stars which they have ridden can arrive at the other side of time To let you get a glimpse yourself yesterday in the future and in the divine light of fragrance 12.23.2016 淸风之沐 史前的诸神之词语正在我体内醒来 那陌生星球上的白金之城在蓝色海岸上恍如梦境 那乘光而行的巨人男女不知道烦恼或忧伤 他们的头颅里有诸神的圣殿光芒如酒在血液里流淌 而星辰的乐曲在身边拂荡犹如地球之上的淸风之沐 他们乘坐的星际巨舰可以抵达时间的彼岸 让你一睹昨日未来之你神性之芬郁之光 2016.12.23 Bio: Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet's Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization. Yuanbing Zhang (b. 1974), is Mr. Yuan Hongri’s assistant and translator. He himself is a Chinese poet and translator, and works in a Middle School, Yanzhou District, Jining City, Shandong Province China. He can be contacted through his email-3112362909@qq.com. Address:No.18 middle school Yanzhou District ,Jining City, Shandong Province, China Yuanbing Zhang Phone:+86 15263747339 Email:3112362909@qq.com
Poetry from Joshua Martin
Napkin miscellanea Following a footnote abridged to engross Japanese standard spellings gravediggers translate promotional resources as autumnal studies useless links condense their informative relations. humbled razor sharp Zen winter coat symmetric PVC pipe head a flowerpot earlobe an extension cord fleeing flea circus attitude adjustment cucumber cart telephone bra strap app scratching iron shackle papal smeared lips volcanic ash pile style smile cesspool HorroR escape hot RoD stone cold malfunction sprain backend that burps & slides so close to bearing shed farther than a ski slope swirl salamander can of shoefly pie leagues before JULES VERNE marathon a con a palm swan that sprays to play / / / / / / / / and no other than another bundled cut & razor shaped well-versed & terse & tenses a parody of electronic hearse screwing lightbulbs from exterior Reside where danger lies Geysers originate artificial weaponry on the imaginary look of future temporarily shares dimension shamed Greco-German empiricism mainly a latter gift aiming inheritance into the discourse of irredeemable anthropology specters pave the epochs blind emancipation backwards dwell on media theory legacies enveloping essential non-endeavors conflating forbidden w/ jealousy preserving diffuse critique the center of the every day Pragmatic convolutions hotbed of MONARCHY the human wart blasted feathering itinerant quarrels & unleashed furious press from their rejected ramparts came sighed relief hunted by runaway laity but one CRITIC presses play while another MOUTHPIECE repeats
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press, 2021) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had pieces previously published in Coven, Spontaneous Poetics, Ygdrasil, Expat, Selcouth Station. RASPUTIN, Train, Fugitives & Futurists, Otoliths, M58, Punk Noir Magazine, Beir Bua, and Scud among others. joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
Poetry from John Culp
Shards of color from Broken Dreams It's all that's meant by Time it seems Our Love stands TALL Above Our clouds And drowns the Lakes Beneath gray Shrouds to mend the nights & heal the Days Where songs Reach out & ARMS swing High And Lofted Breath I'll rise I'll rise the Breeze catches the wind exhales an earthly mist I'll walk the plains and sweep the grasses until I forget to count the Dawns ♡
Poetry from Oona Haskovec
They are tired too The pained crunching Echoing like voices Down the stained hall of my old apartment. Beneath the soles Of my bare feet, Those heart-shaped leaves are confined To a rough powder of broken shapes and pieces, Those crushed artifacts harshly prodding At my exposed heel. The crumbling vines holding The once vibrant grape leaves, Grasping at the decomposing trellis that Continues to be their supporting factor, The one thing keeping them from dissolving into the rotting wooden slats below, Cheering them on from the not-so-side lines as they Cling with all the might contained in their frail limbs, Once thriving but now, That ancient, tea-colored beige, like the dust that clings to the windshield of her old Mercedes as the wheels grumble across the trembling metal bridge, like a game of “will it hold me.” the only game those broken pieces of hearts know how to play. Silky sandpaper, my fingers dragging along in the muddy foliage of the garden, coating my fingertips with the texture of life, only in a childhood background. Almost feeling drowned, drained, in the lack of moisture, the lack of care the ignorance thrown upon their once-photosynthesising faces i stand by, not interfering with the natural order of the way things always seem to play out, the branches scrape at my shoulders as I pass, opening new wounds that I'll leave for time to heal. yet both the leaves and i seem to be defeated by something. maybe just the heat of this smoky summer afternoon, giving false hope at comfort as it smears into shivering shoulders in the evening light. exhausted by that never ending cycle of hoping, my spine buries itself into the dirt, liquid seeping down through my roots, nurturing the vines, bringing life into their pretty faces. i lay here, fading, they thrive.
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
organic suns the frogmouth’s argent my letter opener broth froth the winning egg mu mulberry after anchor in a chair, cheering grass / elementary silo norm NORAD wolves awash in crows us---a burger, uh, grapes o.o.o.o walk wall wauk waul bio/graf J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://www.MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the money was tempting though i had a woman send me an email today offering me three thousand dollars a week to be her sugar boy i congratulated her on finally reaching rock bottom ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- an empty church parking lot mothing makes me happier than an empty church parking lot on a sunday morning i'm sure if a few things would have gone different in my life my thoughts on god would be totally different although, i can't help but think god played a role in all of that so, the least of what should happen is all of the sheep going broke ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ under a tree i used to write poems under a tree across the street from where my girlfriend at the time used to live she saw me one morning and told me to stop stalking her i said just a few more stanzas to go the cops didn't understand that either ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- have it both ways sometimes i feel like not being afraid to die hasn't exactly worked out for me i somewhere lost the desire to still live i should be old enough to know you can't have it both ways but a stubborn asshole doesn't always get to choose his own reality ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- new neighbors the beauty of living around old people is you will have new neighbors every few years of course, none of them will be that lonely housewife you always heard about in the suburbs
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)