Friday, 30 September 2011

Kate Stone


rummaging ocean the lad with
the fish tail his oily hair overflowing with foam
around the waist deep cobalt eyes
and Crinaeae captures him with her skilful hands

cloven wooden ship in depressed water
albatross naiads under her bulk
plum into her mesh the universe
belongs to seaweed his beard live with
starfish dense saline mist shingles
his body tastes of bitter brew

Kate Stone is an art teacher, living with her husband and cat in Cork, Ireland. She loves working with her hands and has been featured in a few literary magazines, for instance The Mole and the Monkey.   

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Raymond Farr

Sympathetic Superstitious Avatar

He understood the obvious

A way of swearing, without swearing

Instead of saying “Jesus Christ—market place X-Box!”

He’d say “Jiminy Cricket—events around the
Klaxons’ song.”

He’d say “Organized comic apocalyptic picaresque anti-hero schlemiel!
Take it or leave it!”

In some teeming cycle of departure & return

Breaking silence is the purpose
The function of—

The only man still surviving

Hailed by some
Described by others—

An attraction between atoms

A lung condition linked
To a tidal wave of dust—

He deserts you every day!

“Hell, I was in Greece!” sd thinking blonde avatar

“Entrapping empathy
Under dark & lonely abstract theory

I would get bogged down
Standing before truth
Foretelling the events of 9-11 in spooky quatrains

Sidestepping theory
In Mass Market breaches of security

I dreamt the whole world
Was condemned

I cheated at a game of cards
Anticipating the modern & postmodern world.”

Stealing the Thawed Brain Back to Normal*

He is finished
Who’d watched all the while

You hold him

He swims his paws

It’s kinda like
Pause. Look.—

The storm burst over the resinous pines

A chunk of body of
A little wedding dance

& I’m tired of pretending like

Normal brain


Said no one in particular

I enjoy lying

To sight see is to
Bartender in hell

In the past I’ve labeled it
The day before—

A veritable scatological apocalypse

Pigeons are spinning again—

A soundless wake
Of whiteout
Into enormous space

The maps are made

Everything speaks to him
A loud voice saying—

Myself crazy with
A garland of dandelions

Cannot drive him
Drip drip. Drip drip.

& to the pod most mellifluous—

Do you know how to break a radio?

Model it in real time?

I had thought the other night
Allure can perturb
An object

* Source text: In the House of the Hangman
#381, 382, 383, 384, 385

By John Bloomberg-Rissman

Raymond Farr lives in Ocala, FL. His work is widely published in many poetry journals and blogs, both on line and in print. He is author of 6 print books, the latest of which is Ecstatic/.of facts (Otoliths 2011), and two on line ebooks, chainge (Chalk Editions 2011) and Two Texts (Chalk Editions 2010). He is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog.

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

A.g. Synclair

West Redux

a raven

the mighty Susquehanna
curling inward

caw caw caw.

a breach

the road was never there
was never mine. it was conceived as a ghost.

the earth is turning colder. invisible.
there is a bluster of blinding snow.

she'll insist that I smell like the west
like sun washed trees. like apples.

like a million little aftershocks.

later, she'll brush her teeth in the shower.

A.g. Synclair is the editor and publisher of The Montucky Review, a journal of poetry & prose. He doesn't have an MFA in anything but still manages to publish regularly. He lives, writes, and collaborates in southwestern Montana with his significant other, the artist and poet Heather Brager.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Felino A. Soriano

Verified Renditions 57

we’ve connected

                               insomnia’s vocal sporadic presentation

                       &c.             dream, no, not that rendition

of an eye’s persuasive stammer, collecting
behind curtained control
                               various tableaus of marginal realism;

relinquish whole the body’s role
releasing extracted mentions of a meandering hankering:

thrust, trust, reevaluate darkened emblem of misleading wholeness,

myopic dispositional frequency          pardoning extracts of an hour’s
reconstructed meaning

Verified Renditions 58

Profile of the perched
                                               sedentary example,
multilingual mutation
gradated empirical arc

bridge of ascent discovered             esoteric                silk in
dusk’s corporeal shading

reversal of burn this
trust of skeletal grams

oscillating against a charcoal soundness’               comprehensible

Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with
developmental and physical disabilities.  He has received the Gertrude Stein
“rose” prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review.
Over 3,100 of his poems have appeared in places such as BlazeVOX, Otoliths,
infinite space, Poetry, Yes, and Fact Simile.  He has had 48 print and
electronic collections of poetry accepted for publication, including
Compatible Aspects of the Disparate Endeavor (NeoPoiesisPress, 2011),
Differences of the Parallel Devotion (Desperanto, 2011), and Identities
—Upon Variations (Moria, 2011).  For information regarding his published
works, editorships, and interviews, please visit:

Sunday, 18 September 2011

William Lewis


superstitious twaddle
the conurbation sprawls in malicious neon
lightens up the untraceable atmosphere
breeze whizzes my fears
up the hillside the b side of
the onyx vinyl gives me


they say death is real
I didn’t believe it before I got fifty
my cars and my company
donations to medical research gave me
smiling scientists
pyrotechnical yoga instructors tell me I will age
the bum of my church overgrown

William Lewis is 60 years old and lives close to the beautiful Santa Monica Mountains, CA.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

Lise Larsen

Frog Species

I liked my studies in ecology and was writing a thesis about a frog species, but at the time I felt that university hindered my growth so I dropped out. I was thirty years old. My long lasting partner had just left me. This was when a strange sort of jubilant feeling started visiting me at occasions, deep down in my stomach. I had felt dejected for as long as I could remember so this was something new to me. I got a job at a snack bar before leaving my studies and leased a room in the Carlsberg district.

The new job turned out to be atrocious. I ran around like a haunted chicken while waiting on angry customers until I got fired for some wrongdoing with a canister of water. I think they looked for an excuse to fire me.

My first impulse was to call the university, but they refused to take me back at the time. I had never been able to save money so I would soon be broke. I got down to my favourite bar and ordered a beer while trying to think about something to do. I did not have time to make formal job applications before my money would run out. And I did not know anybody who would employ me. So I decided to do the only reasonable thing a woman could do in this situation. I took to the streets.

I walked about two hours from my part of Copenhagen to Bispebjerg. It was autumn and dark. Bispebjerg was terrifying. This was where the authorities put immigrants and people on welfare in the vain hope that they would leave the city and look for something better. I knew this was my opportunity to get dough; the emergency social services were located here.

There was a huge queue in front of me, mostly immigrants who did not have a choice but to be here and also lots of men, young and old, with or without beards. None of them seemed to fit into the modern employer’s wish list. As I came eye to eye with the unemployment agent I could not help looking fixedly at her robust jawbone. I felt sorry for her.


“I have been sacked and do not have union qualifications. My name is Lise...”

“ID please,” she rudely interrupted me. 

“Yes.” I opened my red purse and dug into it until I found my passport. She eyed it for a long time and looked at me again. “Do you have proof that you were fired?”

“Yes.” I found some gritty papers that I gave to her.

She looked at them but did not give them back. Instead she handed me a small card with a number and told me to sit down by the tables and wait for the interview.

“What interview?” I asked. She did not answer me and I stopped feeling sorry for her as I went to the tables.

I sat down and had a plastic cup of tea. Two academic looking men in their thirties sat next to me; they were eating sausages. I glanced at them; they were laughing constantly. There was a strange smell about them. At one point one of the men dropped his sausage on the floor and took it up and then continued eating. I drank six cups of tea before I was called up to room number twelve and went upstairs to a small office curtained by papier-mâché. The new staff person was considerably better looking than the previous one.


How old was this person? Forty seven?

“Hi,” I began. Suddenly I remembered. “I will show you my identification card.”

“No, no, you have already showed everything to Alberta. We are just here to talk. My name is Kris.” Kris smiled and we shook hands. I relaxed, sat down in the opposite chair and waited for him to continue talking. “Tell me why you are here.” I talked and talked. After half an hour Kris asked if I wanted tea. I was afraid that he would find me dull, but I only heard encouraging sounds. “So, you studied drama and ecology?”

“Yes. I was thinking that maybe I could request some sort of degree and do something. Is there anything I would be qualified to do?”

“Well.” Kris looked unconvinced. “The thing is… It is an unusual combination.“ He seemed unhappy.   

I took another sip of tea. “I know. You know, I do not want a regular job. I have an allotment where I grow fresh vegetables. I would like to have my own eco-café.” I got excited. “It would not be expensive. I could grow vegetables instead of buying stuff.”

“But what would you do in winter?”

“Oh. Is there any grants?”

Kris smiled gloomily. His eyes were clear blue. “Lise, everyone wants the start-up allowances.”

“Oh.” My hopes sank.

Kris leaned over. “You would need more money than that. Can someone give you money?”


He grinned. “My organization gives loans to a few unemployed people with good prospects to succeed.”

“I would succeed. I promise.” The feeling in my stomach increased.

Kris smiled sadly. “Everybody says that. I meant that you have to apply. I have hundreds of applicants.”

I suddenly hated him. “Well, forget it.” I stared at the cup and felt miserable when I suddenly imagined how it would be to own that café. I wanted it badly. I looked him in the eyes. “Let us meet at a pub somewhere. You will not regret it. Promise.”

Kris looked back at me in a surprised manner. His translucent eyes were round and his face red-looking. “I do not drink. Sorry.”

I smiled in a bitter sweet way and prepared to leave. “Can I leave?”

“Do you want one more cup?”

“No thanks. By the way, where is the toilet?

“I will show you, Lise.”

Lise Larsen lives in Copenhagen, Denmark. She is opportunistic and loves writing and growing spuds.