Do Nihilists?* Do nihilists believe in God? Do nihilists fall in love? Do nihilists believe in love? Do nihilists have morals? Do nihilists want to die? Do nihilists hate life? And the ultimate - what’s the purpose of nihilism? *Google questions Death to… Death to poetry collections Death to politics Death to golf Death to tea towels Death to garden trowels Death to tempests Death to cheap wine Death to digital self-optimisation Death to tennis balls Death to iPhones Death to pornography Death to weeds Death to weed killer Death to fresh fruit Death to decaying fruit Death to bigotry Death to satellites Death to aphorisms Death to potatoes Death to politics Death to sunglasses Death to gilded assertions Death to magazines Death to guitar picks Death to clocks and watches Death to death… Amen.
Poems from Michael Reich
Humans They give you happy pills to make you "feel" safe while they manipulate you with cookies to steal your mental freedom so that you trust people you never met or will meet. Humans. Porn blows your trust Porn uses the ancient Oxytocin trust building blast in this day and age as a tool to build trust with media you shouldn't trust, rather than building bonds with real human beings that want to live together with you instead of through a screen. Unconditional Love Unconditional love: love beyond measure. the worms eating your flesh as they crawl into your casket: be their nourishment end their suffering, let them take your body. True love What’s More Insane? What's more insane? Shamanic wisdom, Choosing a direction based on the way a stick falls, the earth's rotation, and interaction with living DNA? Or "Culturally accepted knowledge," choosing a direction based on some A I embedded in a digital map whose very existence was created by corporations who want to turn you into an Orwellian product? Prepare the youth The APA recommends babies remain alone on their back in crib not for their health persay but to prepare them for an isolated cold digital future, "warming them up" for the lonely digital winter to come with no human connection: the singularity TBHQ for Freshness Keep the citizens marching alone, getting their comfort from food grown to ensure the most satisfying pain, sweet to the taste buds: The members of a preserved society don't know pain and death give life. TBHQ for freshness, keep the citizens "fresh" and asleep unaware of the suffering embedded in their tasty treats, how the American dream, the dream of comfort, is always realized at the expense of someone else's pain and exploitation. And don't you dare let the citizens know. Keep them meek and asleep, yet alive -- marching forward in the game of trading death without rational consent.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
beat me to the punch i got my nerve up once to ask this woman to marry me i never got the chance to find out the answer i guess her wife beat me to the punch and on days like these cloudy, gloomy a forlorn sun dying on the horizon hesitation has cost me plenty in this lifetime luckily, my patience is finally starting to wear thin ------------------------------------------------------------------------- missing the batteries watching the people again got an old john prine song on repeat in my head the minutes slip by like a clock that is missing the batteries i see little glimpses of a dark future in each of the strangers that go by i remember a little boy that never wanted to get old he knows now suicide was the only option to make that possible ------------------------------------------------------------------- these old hands of mine you can cut the tension with a knife her smoldering eyes and these old hands of mine i gave up on these dreams years ago the tragic romantic in me never gave up hope hopefully this one breaks me for good ---------------------------------------------------------------------- flows the brightest open your third eye and sink into the void at the time the neon flows the brightest it's a journey you have to go on by yourself the most beautiful woman of your memories will greet you there and explain your failures in a way that you no longer will find the need to hate yourself -------------------------------------------------------------------- the evil spirits within my imagination likes hard liquor the best anytime the proof gets over 100, the evil spirits within me like to start dancing trace every scar with their tongues sometimes i'll close my eyes and i can come down from the cross and actually enjoy the view
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from J.K. Durick
Family Tree
This time of year I envy the treeless families
Their empty yards, dying and dead grass
Waiting for the winter coming on and
Spring not far behind
But us tree families spend our time trying
To clean up after our family tree
Our ancestry, its ancestry on display
So there we are, rake in hand
Piling up the debris left behind by just being
Being there
My family tree with its high branches
We like to look up to, and
Some low branches, so low I need to
Bend almost in half to get by
And then there’s that part we’ve cut away
Over the years, a regular bald spot looming
Larger and larger
Something I’ve inherited, like trembling hands
And these malformed feet
This time of year, walking backward raking up
Conjuring up connections to this
Mysterious ancestry, piles of leaves
So much to clean up
That
I envy treeless families.
Leafmeal Lie
At 10:06 this morning a leaf fell from the maple
Out front. Saw it from the couch, looking out
The storm door. It fell, it floated down ending
Its season, its cycle on the ground under its tree.
It must have started like the others, a bud-like
Growth, the kind squirrels will eat in the Spring,
But it survived, grew, felt all the Summer heat
And the drought, the wind, the heavy downpours
And then this Fall weather, the chill, the falling
Away of its many companions. Then at 10:06
This morning it ended its cycle, its seasons, it fell
Floated to the ground to await its fate. Perhaps
It will be the mower turning it to mulch with
The rest, or maybe it will blow up the street, mix
With other leaves, get raked, get bagged, get
Carried off and composted miles from here, miles
Away from its tree. Or it could just blend in, lie
Flat, avoid all of my attempts to get rid of it, and
Then lie flat as it gets colder, begins to snow, and
Spends the Winter wet, frozen under the snow
Till Spring returns – and I’ll be sitting here on this
Couch looking out the screen door, waiting for
Something else as momentous to happen.
Cramped
No need for an alarm anymore
Or any of the other sounds that
Used to wake me: the sound of
My sons getting ready for school
Or my wife crashing away, trying
To fix our world before heading
Off to fix the world of her work.
No I don’t need any of those any-
More, this morning I woke up to
Leg cramps. My left shin, or was
It my right cramped into a pain
Strong enough to wake me, get
Me up hobbling around the room
Hoping to end it, to satisfy what-
Ever imbalance that set it off. It
Worked, I was up and the cramp
Toned down enough to walk on.
It was morning and I was up for
The day, without an alarm or any
Of the other distractions that played
That role. Online they say that my
Cramps are common for aging adults
And athletes. Never was an athlete
So I fall into that fifty percent of sixty
Plus year-olds who suffer these cramps.
It’s good to know I fit into the statistics
With about half of my group. I’d like to
Picture a chart somewhere, some med
School showing the percent and perhaps
A diagram of an aging cramped shin
Waking an aging adult instead of his clock.
Hotel Eternity by Rus Khomutoff
Hotel Eternity TO EXIST BETWEEN ETERNITIES WILD NOTHING LIKE THE EYES OF THE SKY AXIS INFINITY DICTIONARY OF OBSCURE BLISS COME FORWARD WITH YOUR VISCERA AND VIOLENCE AND SHARE MY WINGS UNLEASH YOUR SPIRIT BENEATH THE RAMJET ALLEGRO TEMPLE OF THE NIGHT SKY A NEED FOR MIRRORS AND COUNTLESS SKIES SHAKE YOUR INFINESSENCE SLOT CANYON HIGHBREATH NARCOTIC ERUPTIONS CLOUD NOTHINGS EXOTIC PULSE A NAME BEYOND DESIRE SEMAPHORE SIN PLAY AT YOUR OWN RISK TALKING TWILIGHT INTO A SPHERE OF YOUTHFUL SYMPATHY RIDES THE THIEF OF YOUTH THIN AIR ADDICTIONS MELANCHOLY BODY SACRILEGE TATTOO HIGHWAY INSOMNIA PUNK TEENAGE BLOOD REPETITION OF A THOUSAND HUNGRY EYES SOMETIMES WE ARE ALL ETERNAL IN THE CONSTELLATION OF MIDNIGHT MOSAIC FACTION MY GREEN UNQUEEN GALLERY CRUSH HYPERRITUAL AUTUMN CRY OPULENCE LIKE A TRIANGLE AND A DUEL SOME TALK TO MEN WHILE OTHERS TALK TO GODS DANCE IT VISCIOUS RIDDLE OF THE SANDS CHAMELEON CHARADE STAR CODE CHALICE ASK THE DESERT ORACLE THESE POISON DECLARATIONS THE REAL UNREAL CONVERSATIONS WITH A NEW REALITY NATURE’S SYMPHONY DRAFT INTOXICATION
Poetry from J.D. Nelson
spinach lego the sheep rock was a milo the salt of the feather that dart is a broth of the coin the true eye of the ironing head the shamrock shoe monster the walter koenig of the island the wheel of the montgomery is the clue the rainbow of the motel meal the wolf warns us of the war a nike of the world is the camel of the brain if this is the green rope in the dollar book of the charmed breakfast the healing episode of the martian letters the corner of saturn’s face the nine of the winter the sun tree of a while ago the clean motel of the raisins the apple of the white squall I’m gargling with pennies cape sanka (the tattle is the bough) in the moon morning thru the window, parmesan a real rain garden is the color of the music I wiggle my toes in the magic sauce when I do nothing to stop that apple of the iron a toad is the now the ankh of the heart of the salmon that hum is the name of the grumble scopey toe, a rowe a glimpse of the sugar bowl the pollen of peculiar pointing this is the shield of the shamrock ceres is my name I plug the draft of the wig I eat the honey of dawn I was standing, understanding that planet is the pear of the game the known world is the suffering noun to learn of the nothing the science is the nearness google a number 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://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.
Poetry from Stephen Jarrell Williams
The Water Tower Trilogy Nightfall Outside of town perched on a hill Past the reach of the highway And the sounds of the neighborhood Sliver of moon not enough for light Strange the fence surrounding the water tower Gate left unlocked by the watchman You were no longer shy that summer Since you had met that guy from LA He was just passing through our little town The steel ladder had chips of paint hanging loose A high and narrow climb You leading the way like you had been up there before You had promised me another sexual adventure You were becoming more and more of an exhibitionist Surprising me as to how far you would go You had changed me from a boy into a nomad Those nights we snuck out from our parents Somehow I knew this would be the climax The last night before you would leave You stood on top of the water tower roof A slight rise to its metal dome I crawled up to you and marveled at your daring You slowly stripped gazing down at the town lights And me on my knees. Dust Town I’m still here All my friends gone Faraway cities consumed them None ever coming back Not a letter or phone call Those foreign cemeteries full The night always calling me out Long treks into the desert Whispering wind uplifting Over a town with a population of zero. Dream Fulfilling No solitude in Heaven All forgiven Millions of souls Freedom of flight Finally awakening On top of the water tower’s call The height a mere step off. Teaser She’s a quiet teaser Addicted to her cause and effect In control of every move Long lost in epic delusions Practiced sashays and stance Picture-framed Body brazen Captivating nude Collecting shadows For self obliteration Scream sigh Cry spit Strip cover Smile wink Unbound energy Surrender fake I find myself loving her With all that she is A madness to squeeze her Into the She Beast she craves to be And maybe then She’ll be free. Guitar Man Guitar man strumming the strings On his corner sidewalk Cars passing with cheering honks Everyone bobbing in their spots A few dollars given Into his open guitar case His notes still dancing in his head In the middle of the night Beneath a scan of stars His bed cradled nightly In a trash dumpster.