RC Miller

I launch inflated smile piles,
Yet my understanding of the spirit is in changes.

I never weigh less than what’s alive.
I have crept on things doing
A departed
Agreement with facades I keep doing on ground.

Week after month
My sockets test
The effect a slight sense of moral outrage fakes.

The bottom of the sea is empty and new.
Infinity gives birth to you to screw.



Soldiers continue marching on mislaid grain.
Clustered volumes scare the skinny ambulances rolling.
These treats doubly bore my crowbars going tentacle numb.
I’m wrung for the guillotine
A consequential sky blunt
Posting your pupils one nasty ghetto occupation.
And in the pub
I’m inside little miss innocent requesting a bisexual harpist,
But her sweet tang of free has unrung my bell.
O what turkey club swastikas
Shall be queer ricochets within the pine!
Diane digs perky titties.
She kinks me a serious poise.
We gonna roar past Quebec City while Manhattan implodes.
We gonna shove my titties a frisking fled.
At the very worst you’re done being God,
Unraveling turf boss boners
Anytime my hunch orgasms a minor slob.
Pitch dank the parks will opiate
Moments away from clogging a cough.
And pulling out the steadfast stillbirths
Flawed our anchoring strife,
A typical thug slugged before obesity
Places ash on our eyelids
And dots on the chosen handsets of generic origin.
O as my heartbeats bungle an antic of ligaments,
Hot fish drown the yardsticks and grieve
Sturdy shelves liquidating their resurrection.
And at the very worst
Our grunted genius concedes to the mighty
Shining with unraveled enormity.
I cannot remember why it is we’re floating.
I cannot remember how it is we’re thought of.



David LaBounty
dissension, tepid and otherwise

personal debt
and I can
tell you a
thing or two
about personal
debt and part
of me hopes
it all comes
crashing down
so hard and
fast that
the banks
go under
and we
all have
to live
by the sweat
of our brow
and it will be
every man
for himself

and I can handle all that.

I just pray
to god that
I don’t lose
that last

contact lens.



R. Manoj Mohan
Ode to Melankolika

You are crowned with perplexity
And clad in grey;
You converse in despair–
Your accent dismal and nightmarish,
Bitter as castor seeds.

You reign the kingdom of sombreness;
Your army of misfortune-maggots
Eats its way through
Conscience’s very core.

You build dungeons of doom
For expectant souls;
Your silhouette falls upon
The sepulchers of their faith.

I hail you, O Melankolika,
High Priestess of Sorrow;
I turn into a tear
And trickle down
The abyss of apathy,
As your spell is cast.



Agony and Ecstasy

Agony and Ecstasy
Have one thing in common–
Their vulnerability.



Simon Freedman
Pastures New

When I left home and moved to England
I had a lot to learn.

People in the street would struggle
with my wearing shades on cloudy days.

Oi wanker, they would cheer,
go fuck yourself.

Chianti for breakfast and scrumpy for lunch
is considered a social faux pas.

The dog’s bollocks means that something is good
and What are you like? is a rhetorical question.

And when you received my bow-legged attempts
at flirtation and wit with stinging contempt

I now know that what you meant to say
was take me.

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