thoughts between the 4th and 6th glass of bourbon we killed the poets, we murdered the writers, we burned the artists on the stake, letting their bones rot under the unforgiving sun. graveyards vast littered with shallow, nameless graves. no one to carve a tombstone, not a single word of praise, or love, or even compassion uttered. only few we kept near, those who were too important to be forgotten; even them, we disregard wildly, reading them only because we termed them classic, vintage, what else have you. it’s the era of decadence, the desolation has begun, there’s nowhere to run. dry tears in dark street corners, every empty needle a reminder of a dead childhood dream, talent drowning in the bottom of bourbon bottles, vision burned up inside cold glass-pipes. it's alright, the rainfall comes, streets flooded, cars not moving, stillness, perfect fucking stillness. no one breathes, no one thinks, no one lives, we altogether smile in unison, a chorus of emphatic victory, singing the songs of childhood, remembering dreams that were written down in white papers and with red pens, smiling over the possibilities that would never be. someone somewhere throws away the trash, someone's watching a movie, another reads a novel and feels enlightened, despite the retardation of the human mind; a bonfire is lit at some distant beach, primal dancing around the flames, whilst elsewhere, someone runs away, speeding into a highway without a destination, only a sacrilegious purpose; a single tree in the middle of the desert, alone, standing tall, fearless, sturdy, stubborn; no lumberjacks, no birds, no rain. only the sand, the tree, the storm. the bartender pours me a bourbon neat, I down it, I ask for another; it's on the house, he says—after four paid glasses, he finally gives me one for free. bring me the sixth; this one, he says, you have to pay for. Bottle Thoughts drinking once more in solitude, the music keeping away the whispers. every sip, another memory of something lost, a year wasted lies in the bottom of each bottle, and I do not miss the nights of sobriety I forced upon myself for her sake. it's alright, I tell myself; I didn't quit the drink for the one that mattered, why should I cry for the one that turned out to be irrelevant and insignificant? memories, mistakes; have I ever done something right? NO, the unified answer of all the ghosts and it manages to be heard despite the loud music through the headphones. one more dark, empty night. alone, yet never lonely. every sip tastes like different lips, as in front of me I see all the pair of eyes I once stared into during cold nights, as we laid under blankets made of snow. every sip, the reminiscent of yet another false promise, of lies muttered in dive bars and strip clubs. it’s alright; another sip, it’s all gone. I’m once more concentrated on the darkness. on finishing my business on this planet, dreaming still of the bar I saw only once, when she thought she had lost me to the needle. I was already given to the bottle, at 14 I had my first real sip and ever since I never wished to escape. it's all a dream, an acid-trip; the forest, the mist, the ocean filled with hungry sharks. the shipwrecks. I'll awake suddenly, in a different bed. next to a stale wife. a teenage son will curse me under his breath during breakfast. I'll lecture him, when he comes home drunk on a sunday morning. I'll scream at him, when I discover a pack of cigarettes in his backpack. he'll wish I wasn't alive. and I'll lay down next to my wife, knowing she hates my fucking guts. and I'll seek refuge in dreams, but be visited only by nightmares. another sip, I'm still here, still plaguing the world. still not giving a damn for all the tears I've caused, still unable to shed real tears. the graveyard, it comes back; threw my very first poems into the hole, over the coffin. nobody has ever read them, I can't recall them. she was taken from me by the needle, along with a baby that will never grow old to hate my fucking guts. I see her on a bed that isn't mine, kissing lips that aren't mine; she's happy. and I'm happy. I still drink, and I would have ruined her, like I ruined her. and somewhere in this ugly town still lives the third one, the cheap substitute of the other two; potentially back in the arms of the one she betrayed for my sake. I don't give a shit. another sip, and she becomes, again, the bad acid-trip she truly was. another sip, hundreds of kisses all at once swarm the soul; there's no warmth, only the coldness of the lies, the falsity of the promises. another sip, time finally to embrace the darkness once and for all and stop tormenting a heart that got tired of beating. Gone into the Dusk daydreaming of embraces doomed to remain unfelt. more promises to be broken, more lies to be uttered. shadows on the couch, reminding me of the yesteryears I wish never were. empty bottles on the floor, soon I'll be gone; the stains will remain tormenting whoever moves in next, pity the poor clueless soul. former loves, moments the heart did skip a beat; all gone, forever lost. trying to recapture the magic, no strength left in a broken body. the wheels keep on turning, no reason to run. a syringe on the coffee table, junk heated, the vapor penetrates the nostrils, back to the colors, the music; time to chase dragons once more, nothing else to do. nothing else I excel at. memories overwhelm the numb mind, the hazed heart skips another beat as images pierce the haunted dreams, lambent smiles of someone who’s been dead for 6 years now, lustful kisses of someone that forced me to break the junk habit. gone, forever. all alone I sit in the absolute darkness preparing for my departure, the return to the collapsing streets of childhood. visions of the nights, wine dreams, I’m gone. forth one final ride, alone in the sunset towards a destination unknown. fueled with all the necessary, the desert filled with a crowd most bizarre, a carnival most grotesque. forests, oceans, metropolises, all and nothing rolled into one, for in the last ride you’re both alone and surrounded. friends and enemies alike, strangers and acquaintances talk, laugh, and bicker, for there’s nothing else to do. some beg for you to stop, others plead for you to go. nowhere to run, but forth as behind lies all that must needs be forgotten. one final ride, and it’s long, seemingly endless, destination elsewhere but via vagueness grandness is born. nevermore time shall matter, nevermore love shall torture. one final ride, it commences, and all’s left behind, dreams unfulfilled, dragons uncaught, people unloved. one final ride, and it all starts anew, for only without the old survival can ensue. Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside (Anxiety Press) and Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press). His words have also appeared, amongst other places, in Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Cajun Mutt Press, Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Outcast Press, The Piker Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.
Poetry from Peter Magliocco
The Hip-Hop Mermaid Risen from the warring shore comes what survives the night’s blear of human shards scattered over earth’s sallow brow. Fate clinging to my barnacled flesh for the watery bower dawn breaks over us, she said, snapping her tail. Somehow she got into the pool When nobody was looking, with beaching sepia flotsam bubbling, what bespoke ineffable old rose–tinted morning crags from another clime & century. While sea worms its way into My backyard, drenching me into some searing sex scenes with this nubile & naked mermaid? I’ll leave it to your imagination, For we tell lies beyond reason in swirling sands of mud frost turning like dark pudding as the hungry elements yowl. I devoured the battered remnants Of her glistening fins, I plunged into grief’s plundered port of sin. I searched for music in her body in this bed of tangled seaweed songs do not linger anymore to tantalize the jazz singer’s lips: swelling the tide of my dementia where we are now dissolving & borne by lingering pathogens only shallow sea gods are bitten by, I feed the bloodlust’s swishing vein Sinking my shipwrecked sullen craft ========== Spiked Heels of Lunar Light Does the echo of light fading still reflect the concrete wave before a silent sound banishes candid movements about you of rainfall smearing streets. While your red glossy high heels staccato-tap glistening sidewalks before mist slithering dawn comes: a moment’s elocution of elements finer than your own existence as a precious filament ignites your eyes the angels of death dissipate before. You are the chosen one, Moon Dog trailing ire over jaundiced time nearby my gibbous hidden body your heels excavate heavenly flesh blood-red under moonlit rays, & beneath distant overhead clouds Hot moisture cuts the Velveeta you spread over perfumed breasts before imbibing my fallen presence. Food for dirty thoughts feeding Old moon-dust beneath your feet, My yearning cries now echo across another walkway where footfalls stop in soundless shadows beyond black mascara slashes your sightless eyes redress in naked night’s cruciform raiment ========== Eulogy for the Analog of Lost Desire Only my sex in the ellipsis of your mouth equals the sum of my disenchantment reading your scurrilous epiphany at 4 a.m., & knowing how fucked it is for you to post a revealing ad on Craig’s List in order to write a book later about it; & all your forays into the lusty disorders, As weeds dying on the lawn of your desire devotees of all lost amour aspire to, hoping to escape banal boundaries by extolling perversions to greater ends. You text my acolyte unscathed by hate, forsaking pristine years of bygone innocence. Now the cock crows at the death throes of one’s trendy sex life in empurpled drag. No pill or superlative drug resurrects the banished truth of old renegade heats when there’s nothing left to betray us, just your once revered cocky-capon god sucking love’s mitosis of invisible microbes ========== Symphony with a Severed Head White light glistens in a vase of shadow buds suspended by watery phlegm Of the intoxicated grandpa: I drink the syrup of palliating Scotch Listening to domestic disputes outside a window dust-splotched by faulty sprinklers. The squatter snoring nearby the tool shed isn’t exactly a meditating guru for quietus! No, his curse-ridden dreaming is a diatribe of bad rap lyrics damning his Jezebel. (The one with a bustier so silver-spangled with nipple rings, all very shiny Under his mental door mat of nightly stupor). Blue light in a bottle of 100% ambrosia, forever amber this Thursday evening Marred by police sirens & screams. Outside cops investigate the premises, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go out there Like a concerned citizen of Twitter with my cell phone video recording all. Let the complex go to hell in a handbasket bulging with the last dead rapper’s head, Severed & still bleeding-out dumb aqua until the saints come marching in. Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active in the small press as editor, poet, and artist for years. He has recent poetry in Pulp Poets Press, Literary Yard, Dyst, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Jellyfish Whispers, The Pangolin Review, and elsewhere. His most recent poetry book is Particle Acceleration on Judgement Day from Impspired Press.
Poetry from Nosirova Gavhar
Winter The fury of winter stirs, It's snowing, white snow The wind increases to blow, Frost is coming in a hurry. Filling the earth and sky This soft snow is scattered. The tree bowed its head, Strange snow spread. On the face of the long corridor Bent trees, On the stooping branch, Birds twitter. It shakes in a row, Quiet wind branches, Snowflake hits, Stroke the faces. Caressed by the soft wind, Laughing in a circle In the winter air, It's fun to spend time. Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina;s «Multi Art-6», Kenya's «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.
Poetry from Sabrid Jahan Mahin
Selfishness Everyone seeks self-interest, Wants to make someone fail If he does have the will, He will not fail. Sabrid Jahan Mahin is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Muntasir Mamun Kiron
The Best Language Bangla In the land of rivers wide and green, Where history's tapestry is woven unseen, There lies a tongue, melodious and sweet, That echoes through the ages, a heartbeat. Bangla, the language of passion and fire, Whispers of freedom, soaring higher, In its syllables, tales of courage untold, In its verses, dreams of old. From the banks of Padma to the hills afar, Bangla's essence, like a guiding star, Unites the hearts, in love and in song, A melody that's ancient, yet ever strong. With every word, a story unfurls, Of triumphs, struggles, and pearls, A language of poets, thinkers, and seers, Echoing through time, conquering fears. Oh Bangla, in your rhythms, we find, A symphony of the heart and mind, In your letters, a nation's pride, Forever in you, our spirits abide. Muntasir Mamun Kiron is a student of grade 10 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Faleeha Hassan
The Wagon So Like a man inured to failure, We climbed aboard the wagon, And The driver, only the driver, Began to listen as the cadence of our deprivation —Thud. . .. Clunk. . . and so on- -Infiltrated the wagon’s pores, Starting with that first dirt road. Our lives’ parasols disappointed us When we shared sorrows Without fancy titles, while Reaping lethargy and frustration. It wasn’t only the driver, or The horse, or Our heads That looked meager; The wagon’s outlook did too. Translated by William M. Hutchins She is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master's degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is the Pulitzer Prize Nomination 2018, PushCart Prize Nomination 2019. Member of International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021) One of the Women of Excellence selection committees 2023 Winner of Women In the Arts Award 2023 Member of Who's Who in America 2023 SAHITTO AWARD, JUDGING PANEL 2023 Cultural Ambassador - Iraq, USA Email : d.fh88@yahoo.com
Poetry from Mahbubul Alam
On the Sights All must not be outer sights Some hidden in mind Lay before us vivid By closing the eyes We like to look before Like to look after What is driven by us today Represents tomorrow reflecting another way Recollection is pathos or happiness It's like a mirror to make the future better In this glorious world of thought We always try to overcome the problems Like swimming under water to cross the border This way or that ---- The stars over head always guarding us Guarding from back to the front I think today for you You think tomorrow for me The roses are blooming The love sights awakens us the sense of growth The sea-beaches, the hillsides, the tea gardens Like the different culture of the world They are talking something hidden That we understand or not. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh, 14 January, 2024. Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been being published in an International Online Magazine - Synchronized Chaos from America for seven years.