Poetry from Edward Lee

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SOMETIMES IGNORANCE IS BLISS

 

It unnerves me to know

that every time I remember

our first night together

I am actually remembering

my last remembrance

of that night,

and not the night itself –

or so men more intelligent than I

would have me believe;

and I fear I believe.

 

How far from reality

has my renewing memory taken that night?

How many changes has a precious moment

morphed  through;

a Chinese whisper of the mind?

 

How diluted has it become?

Have diminished have you become,

seeing as no single night passes

without my mind embracing you

and all the possibilities

that never were?

 

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Poetry from Joan Beebe

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Joan Beebe (left) and fellow contributor Michael Robinson

 
A MORNING SUNRISE
Slowly at the first hint of morning,
We can perceive a small streak  of red
Beautifully stretched over the sky.
The sun is starting to make a  panorama
Of color with pinks and gold blending
Across the sky.
When the sun has fully risen,
Our eyes behold the beauty
And majesty of a sun that gives us
Healing, warmth and nourishment
For our fragile nature.

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

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and before the final thought was done

J.J. Campbell

to the sweet lips
i know i will never
get the chance to
taste again
to the lonely nights
on the phone until
three in the morning
to the hushed moans
and muffled screams
of just the right words
and just the right
amount of kink
to those dark eyes
to the hips of the
muse
on a bended knee
i offer you the
sword
please kill either
me or my shadow
i will consider it
an act of mercy
the final act of a
saint that has put
up with this shit
for oh so many
years now
allow me to
close my…
———————————————————————-
with a happy ending
i do my best to swallow
my jealousy
knowing the woman i
love is on the other side
of the country
hanging out with another
man that paid for everything
for her to come out there
i’m not sure how much
longer i can play it cool
play like it doesn’t matter
that she’ll see how much
i love her and that will
win her over
like life is some fucking
romantic comedy with
a happy ending
maybe the lesson is
the poor are only
allowed to love
other poor people
you’re simply not
allowed to jump up
the line without paying
a cost
soul, life, whatever
love up here isn’t free
——————————————————–
your beauty deserves so much more
i could probably think of
a thousand different ways
to say i’m sorry
maybe a million if i wanted
to drag my body through
hot coals and accept the
pain
your beauty deserves
so much more
i have told you so many times
you are the love of my life
maybe i should say i’m sorry
for taking so fucking long
to realize it
sorry for being an asshole
that isn’t confident enough
to believe in himself and
take a fucking chance
sorry for the actions
not coming close to
the eloquent words
i’m just an awkward poet
that fumbles his thoughts
and words and god knows
what else when he’s in front
of a breathtaking woman
that actually acknowledges
he exists
i can apologize to the end
of time and i probably should
i just hope a day comes where
you accept it and decide i am
worthy of your love
—————————————————————-
just five minutes of your time
where have all the years gone
from a chat room to late night
phone calls
to hushed moans on busy highways
to the lonely dreams of creative juices
being swapped across the country
i’m at the point now where i’d kill
for just a taste
just five minutes of your time
just the casual crossing in your mind
there are some days where your hello
takes away all the clouds
and i know you don’t see it or want
it to ever get past where we are now
that’s where the pain comes in
knowing just how deep my love
for you has poisoned my body
and knowing we’ll probably never
meet, never hold each other and
fall asleep in the rain
it’s heartbreaking
it takes all i have to continue
this life while holding that
candle
as your beautiful face rests in
someone else’s dream
——————————————————————————–
the size of a small island
i had a dream about you
last night
i showed up in your city,
unannounced
you ignored me
a day later, you saw
me eating in a restaurant
i had lost weight and
most of the facial hair
but i was older, walking
with a cane and dying
you walked up to my table
looking fine as hell
i noticed a rock on your
finger the size of a small
island
you showed me the ring
and said you waited too
fucking long
you walked away slowly
so your ass would bounce
and i would miss it even
more
i woke up defeated
knowing my inner child
had finally turned its back
on me
i called you up so we could
share a laugh, but you never
picked up the phone
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently in The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Dodging The Rain, Fourth & Sycamore and Under the Bleachers. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Short story from Mike Zone

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A strong wind was blowing, meaning a storm was coming, only it wasn’t outside… something wicked was brewing inside Silas Jones, the young man with the old man’s name, facing down the gun barrel of aging. Lightning crashed into his eardrums as SHE brushed up, ever so slightly against him with a semblance of thunder rumbling in the cavity where he thought his heart had gone missing.

Was this just going to be another missed opportunity, he would allow to slip through his aching fingers or just another cruel joke by the universe rendering his existence the ultimate punchline?

Her tigress eyes were golden flecked burning brightly, the curl of her lips with a malicious or inviting smile (it was hard to tell these days- dazed).

“Sy, how about a couple of rails in stock-room nine and you eat my pussy out like a mad man?”

Followed by the barely audible giggle through the nose and slight presence of hips against pelvis.

She smelled like peaches packed tightly in imitation Chinese manufactured velvet or was it, wet rodent bound with dead butterflies (butterflies feast on corpses)?

He turned around, tinnitus like broken cathedral bells in his left ear in almost utter disbelief but an aside glance delivered by Nancy (being the” SHE” in question) veering on bashful with sinful eyes of malice said otherwise. This was not like when the old lady had asked “Could you, blow me where the hampers are?”

THIS WAS REAL. This could be his feast. His shot at the very least of a sliver at a chance of redemption. An unwholesome deed without consequence.

Then came the squeak, the scuffs and the clicking of sneakers as if they were combat boots. Aqua shoes to be exact, yellow fake space-age soled with purple laces. The enemy with black framed glasses and weasel eyes had arrived.

“Sup, girl, thinking of buying this dress for youngest girl’s first communion.”

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Jaylan Salah, Egyptian writer, on Satish and Santosh Babusenan, Indian film directors

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Satish and Santosh Babusenan
A Journey through Bodies, Souls and Time

(Satish Babusenan and Santosh Babusenan)

(Satish Babusenan and Santosh Babusenan) 

During the 38th edition of Cairo International Film Festival in 2016, I had the pleasure of watching an unconventional Indian film. Prejudices aside, for me Indian cinema represented Bollywood, which is an overabundance of melodrama, dancing and dreamy looking Indians who –I am sure- had nothing to do with how real life Indians looked like. It came as a surprise for me to discover brother directing duo Satish and Santosh Babusenan’s film “The Narrow Path – Ottayaal Patha” which was a sensual masterpiece, with minimal lighting and a camera that keeps rolling to allow the characters to evolve in front of the audiences’ mesmerized eyes. A meditative look on life, death, desire and familial conflicts; “The Narrow Path” was a testosterone-infused film oozing with the sensationalism that only sensitive artists could capture.

Satish Babusenan and Santosh Babusenan; who are they?

Two Indian dreamers who abandoned the materialistic, commercial, fast-paced world of MTV India where they worked as music video directors and returned to Kerala; their hometown where they explored their artistic ventures through their movies. Since then they have mutually agreed not to promote their works unless a curious 30-year-old feminist critic decided to do that on their behalf.

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Poetry from Linda Imbler

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Gossips
Both inside an outside a haunted house
the dead fear you more.
So, avoid them in dark alleys
on account that you do not startle them.
For, I guarantee that they are there.
They like to wander because
they are as curious as cats.
They do enjoy a good look inside windows,
especially of places where they once lived.
Would you deny them the pleasure of remembering their past?
They only want to live up to their eulogies
of having connected
and the questions of life never cease,
even for them.
They watch closely
to see and hear what goes on around them
for there are very few spirits without a face
and none without ears.
They share news of what they have seen and heard.
I have been told they are some of the most
consummate gossips on the planet.
For this reason, beware of seances,
where the dearly departed might tell all your secrets.
It might make for a most embarrassing day!

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