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.

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).

[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

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.

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.

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.

WATER

So this is what 
we need to survive.
I’d have said blood,
the red stuff that gushes out
whenever I cut myself.

But, if water it’s to be,
then at least I can turn on
a tap anywhere in the house
and it does flow.
It even flushes.
And it spins like crazy
in the washing machine.

I do drink the stuff 
from time to time.
Like a penance.
For the stuff is the ultimate
in tasteless.

But the flowers seem
to like it.
As do the birds.
And it keeps me clean.
So it’s definitely 
a player in my love life.

And I must confess
that I have this
romantic attachment to rain.
Inside is never cozier
than when it’s pouring 
on the outside.

My lover and I 
sit by the window,
watch it bucket down. 
We sip our wine
in full view of the weather.
A great Chablis gives water 
something to aspire to. 



CURFEW NIGHT				

Real Gothic night.	
Cops are circling like vampires.
Kids are in their virgin clothes,
t-shirts, jeans, grins on faces,
dirt under nails.
Transylvania Main Street.
Ignore the Hardware store,
the McDonalds, the movie house
showing adult romance.
Be afraid. Tremble.
Feel your clothes on your skin
and your skin on you.
You're on foot, in summer garb,
even though the knives of Autumn are out.
And the cops are Winter grim.
"Why aren't you at home?”
The river's gray and sour.
Lights betray the garbage of civilization.
A bar shakes like ice in a glass.
Here men gather for protection.
The grim adulteress approaches
each in turn like a song from the juke-box.
Cheap lyrics are Shakespeare to a drunk.
Cops don't bother them.
With the right uniform, the perfect fangs,
drunks could be cops themselves.
But the kids are without rooms,
without ceilings, alcohol, cheap talk
and last year's orgasms.
They're as vulnerable as burgomaster's daughters
in the twilight woods
crossing the shadow
of the crumbling castle on the hill.
They try for the rhythm of grownups
but end up darting here and there
like sting-less wasps.
Any lighter and the breeze has them.
Any smaller and they fall through
the sidewalk cracks.
Meanwhile, Dracula has had his donut.
Count Yorga has parked and dozed enough.


Time now to sate the hunger	
or push some weight around.
"Hey there. What are you up to!"
Kids stop in their tracks.
The cops’ “Go home”
is up-close and sharp.
Kids feel like 
they’ve just been bit.



JOSEPH

Joseph was as slow at realizing the truth
as he was getting up in the morning,
and, even when he did arise, 
his brain took its time registering 
the purpose of all that surrounded him
from the ceiling to the walls, 
to the floor, the stairs and the coffee pot.
And that’s why he didn’t realize, until midday, 
that his wife, Anita was not in the house.

And then, only at twilight, did Joseph
find the note she’d left on the sideboard.
He didn’t read it until it was time for bed,
when he was so drowsy, 
he had a hard time deciphering
the meaning of “I’ve left you.”
And her mention of another guy, Andrew,
who was twenty years younger,
had him shaking his head,
and saying, “I don’t know any Andrew.”
He fell asleep without even noticing 
there was nobody under the sheets with him.

Joseph dreamed that night of a tennis match
where his opponent was a much younger man
named Andrew with a strong serve and wicked backhand.
The only one in the stands was his wife.
Andrew totally destroyed Joseph in straight sets
and the victor flung his racket high in the air in celebration 
then ran off the court and into the arms of Anita.

When Joseph awoke next morning
and, after his mind and reality got in synch,
he looked in the mirror at a plumpish, 
long-faced, gray-haired reflection,
muttered to himself, “Joseph Andrew Sullivan, 
you’re sure not the man you used to be”.



IN TERMS OF AUDIENCE

Far out in the waves,
you screamed 
as an undercurrent 
took hold of your foot
and pulled you under.

Flapping arms 
and kicking feet
propelled your body
out of danger
and into calmer waters.

As you coasted on a wave
back to shore,
you began to imagine 
throngs of people
awaiting you there, 
welcoming you back to life.

But fat man on the beach
was all who noticed you,
and not while you were 
in danger,
only as you made your way
out of the waves,
and strode up the beach.

His belly was 
bright red and as round 
as a prize-winning melon.

You envisaged it
winning the blue ribbon
at a harvest festival.
You wanted to applaud
but you checked yourself.



JAKE AND THE CIGARETTE MACHINE

Jake needed a cigarette badly,
so he put his money 
in the nearest machine,
though it didn’t carry his brand.

But when he pushed the button,
nothing happened.
It took his cash all right
but no pack popped out below.

“Damn,” he cried out  
before waylaying some guy 
who worked at the place.
“I don’t got the key,”

the employee said.
“Write down your name and number 
and I’ll give it to Artie
when he comes by next Tuesday.”

Jake was in a rage, grabbed the guy 
by the collar, screamed, “I’m dying for
a fucking cigarette!”
“I’d give you one of mine,” said the other 

through his violently restrained
vocal chords. “But I don’t smoke.”
That’s when Jake clocked him
in the jaw, then grabbed the 

nearest thing to come to hand,
a fire extinguisher. flung it 
at the cigarette machine
with such force, the front 

caved in, cracked open, 
spilling cigarette boxes everywhere.
Jake breathed a sigh of relief.
Violence had been good to him,

calmed his nerves, satisfied cravings.
He left without taking
the freebies scattered across the floor.
He no longer needed a cigarette.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.