Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Poetry Issue # 151

I know, I know. What happened to March’s issue? you ask. Well, funny story. I got caught up with school, work, internship and life. Actually, that wasn’t remotely funny one bit.

It’s hard to update the poetry issues regularly, and it’s even harder to do so when you are inundated with really good poetry submissions. It’s a blessing, it’s a curse.

For this month’s issue, we proudly present the sweet smell of Napalm, incredibly long “brief bios” and the crotchless panties made accessible through communism.

So, you know, same old shit here at Gloom Cupboard.

Poetry Editor,

Luis Rivas


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Poetry Issue # 150

Valentine’s Day is a day away. Christopher Jordan Dorner is presumed dead. So let’s take this time now to enjoy some war and destruction poetry by people with names so good they sound fake who address me as “Mr.”

Count how many times god or God is mentioned in this issue. Hint: less than three, more than once.

This semester I’m taking a Chicano studies class on religion and spirituality and last week we learned some Nahuatl terms. The one that stuck out was Tlamatinime, which roughly means poetic theologians. The Tlamatinime were revered as ancient artists who had the divine power to communicate with the world’s energies through creative arts.

Essentially, that has been the permanent task of the poet, either to document and communicate with god-things or document its non-existence.

In longing,

Luis Rivas
Poetry Editor

Valentine Poem for the Tired
By Zach Fishel

Of all the women
I’ve shared
the fragile death
of holding hands
with or the dinners
eaten alone
as the neglected
flowers crumbled
in their vases
with the wasting of
time Failing us,
It’s always a result of
looking back
to each new
first kiss,
reaching for the
wisdom teeth
of our ghosts.


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Poetry Issue # 149

“What happened to December’s issue?” You ask. You ask because you read poetry. You ask because you read poetry featured on Gloom Cupboard.

“I think the poetry editor guy is kind of batshit and inconsistent,” You say. You say this because you’re right, and if one wishes to subscribe to batshit crazines, let him or her be consistent with it. But, alas, the poetry editor is not.

December was a month of moving, a culmination of my junior year at California State University, Northridge. So some stuff fell through the cracks, one of which was releasing a poetry issue for the month. I apologize. But enough of that. In the immortal words of the Alien Poet Lil’ Wayne, “On to the next.”

In this month’s issue you will find poems about love and bullshit.

Gloom Cupboard Poetry Editors
Luis Rivas & HenryAjumeze

love in
By Steve Black

let us barricade ourselves in
let us hold eachother to ransom

let us stockpile guns and ammunition
let us prepare for armageddon

let us make our love on a bed of dust
let us gift the world our pornography (more…)

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The American electoral process is a lot like poetry: it’s an amazing, empowering process that fills one with euphoria and hope, and then it’s over.

But seriously folks. I just want to apologize to all you that follow gloomcupboard.com and its poetry section for not getting a poetry issue to you for October. As some of you might know, I am a full-time college student and I had midterms the past couple of weeks. That’s over with now. Once again, sorry.

In the following issue we have poems penned by some that, by this time tomorrow morning, might very well be behind bars.

Why do so many good poems come from the Midwest? You fuckers just drink, read Upton Sinclair and walk the cold, cultured streets in pea coats all night or what?

Luis Rivas
Henry Ajumeze

Poetry Editors
Gloom Cupboard

Born into this world
By Diane Webster

I never asked to be born.
I was comfortable floating
along with my lifeline
of food and oxygen and blood.
Warm, not a care in my world
except to kick my boundaries
until I fell inside a whirlpool
sucked into cold, bright, noisy
foreign world where I cried
my demands whether met or not
always needing help
knowing I would be kicked out
of this world too for a world
I never asked to be born to. (more…)

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In this issue we have poems from highly-educated individuals that waste their time writing poems, by and large for free.

But, hey, I aint hatin’.

On a serious note. I wish I would have received some Sept. 11, 1973 poems on the late President Salvador Allende of Chile and the US/CIA-backed coup d’état. Every year there seems to be an ideological struggle to bring awareness to this crime, which remains by far uncovered by mainstream media. Even before Sept. 11, 2001.

Irrespective of this, below you will find poems on adolescent arrogance, North Englander Bukowskians and your standard literary sadomasochists.

Yours truly,

Luis Rivas

Henry Ajumeze

Poetry Editors, Gloom Cupboard

When I was Younger
By Saleem Patterson

When I was a young man I fought against things I didn’t understand
Being a not so young, young man I fight less and understand more

I now know that a fight starts in the mind not in the bottle
That loneliness is just a feeling not a death sentence

I know that women will always hurt you if you let them

Family is just a word that can be attached to anyone

I know the sweetness of a fine whiskey when you have nothing else
I know that there is always something else

I know the sting of love lost
The relief of a woman’s touch when all she wants is you

sometimes it doesn’t matter what you know
cuz the feeling is just that much stronger


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I have the ability to read poetry from all corners of the world, Africa, India, and weird ass places like Florida and forgotten northern towns of California. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. As much as I complain about it, it’s truly a gift that I am allowed this.

The following issue has some really strong poems that, by themselves, stand alone as great pieces of testimonial art; but together they paint an amazing worldly portrait, as most of the poetry issues do–if, by chance, you haven’t noticed.

Poets are everywhere, fortunately or unfortunately. Now, the true task of the poet is to paint the truth (motherfucker shoulda been a painter then, huh?!) in such a way that its nakedness startles us; its rawness disgusts or offends; its remarkable accuracy enrages us; and if that doesn’t work, the poet should lie to us so well that we, in turn, applaud his or her malicious and honed skills.

Luis Rivas,
Henry Ajumeze
Poetry Editors

won’t someone think of the janitors
By Leeroy Berlin

i can only imagine that joe wasn’t pleased


about how it went down

i know that was his favourite picture of

himself with that tranny hooker

off the five

he had framed on the walls

not a bad looking girl

i think they might be related (more…)

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Poetry Issue # 145

Poem titles that start with “and” have a lot to live up too, and the ones featured here do just fine.

On a separate note. If you’re going to address the head poetry editor by first and last name in your submission, I guess it would be detrimental to not know his name, or to spell it wrong. My name is Luis Rivas. Not Louise. Not Louis. Not Rivera.

I mean, you can call me Mr. Fucktard Sanchez Shit Sandwich but if you have awesome words that are arranged perfectly as poetry, then fine, you win. Call me what you want. But if it’s subpar, you’re shit out of luck.

Hey, let’s change it up a bit. What’s everyone’s opinion on making the poetry issue have a new theme each month? Maybe for July we can have poetry on being fired from a job, then for August have a theme on fire/burning things/people. Sounds good?

Yours truly,
The Poetry Editors
Lewis Rivera Rodriguez Flores-Magon & Henry Ajumeze

And Roads
By Ananya S Guha
There is a way to traverse roads.

Roads are uncanny. They lead you

to paths strewn with rice, paddy fields

and mud. This is in India. But home is here

and roads reckon that and take you to abyss

of myths: mosques and temples.

Forts and minarets. Somewhere the mast flies.

Somewhere it does not, but roads are omniscient with children

as playthings and hutments as barriers.

Roads then, are forbidden.

They become loquacious and prattle.

The noise is incessant. Only when there is a storm

are silent. And penurious.

Have you heard their lament or the snipers which assail them,

in Iraq, Afghanistan and Egypt?

Mortgage these roads, but don’t banish them into crusades( of war).

You will understand plenitude, volatile war, love and what takes

to make a land, a country, a nation.

And Roads.


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