Posted in Michael Marrotti, Poem, Poetry

Emasculated Society

I walk through
this desiccated
vagina of life
protected by
a diaphragm
me and my
skinny jeans

Leaving down
the toilet seat
everywhere I
take a piss

Holding doors
for the ladies
and holding
my farts in

Oftentimes
I’m victimized
like a lifetime
network movie
the only difference is
it’s vice versa
society laughs
when that happens

I’m watching
everything I say
avoiding all things
considered misogynistic
there’s no other way
so naturally I’m
voting democratic

An avid supporter
of their rights
if they choose
to shave their heads
but refuse
to shave their legs
no problem
it’s their prerogative
death to the king baby
I’ve been dethroned

Losing my balls
in this feminine society
is one thing
we’ve had to part
after all these years
of male dominance
it was a long time
now look who’s not
coming

But I still have
this disgusting
thing called a prick
if I thrust like the man
I once was
I could be granted
a permission slip
to leave the confines
of this candle lit home
up up from my man cave
in compliance with the queen

© Michael Marrotti

Posted in Book Review, Poem, Poetry, Scott Wozniak

Book Review: Crumbling Utopian Pipedream by Scott Wozniak 

Scott Wozniak’s new chapbook has all the necessary ingredients for captivating poetry. Tales of poverty, self-destruction and addiction, had me reminiscing about my past. The homelessness mentioned in “Family Values Paying Off,” had me mentally flogging myself for not showing up to volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission in over three months. Up to the poem “Patron Saint,” in which Scott writes about giving a bum a bag of dope instead of change. I thought, “Yeah, I could hang out with this dude.” That’s when the greatest threat to the white community manifested: The heroin epidemic.
  I’ve always avoided junkies my entire life, and though I’ve fought addiction head on like bombs over Dresden, I’ve never dabbled with heroin. Lemmy once said, “Smack Kills.” I took his word for it. Unfortunately, my good friend David, who overdosed on heroin this past January, pulled a fast one on me. This brings me to the poem “Numb.”
   This is a poem that conveys the devastating effects of heroin in the white community. Scott writes about the loss of twenty friend’s, and how it inspired him to shoot up, lose it all, become jaded and get clean.
   See this is the shit I’m talking about! Instead of overdose statistics working as a deterrent, fools are actually inspired to shoot up instead! Unbelievable. Incomprehensible.
   In the poem, “Do Sumthin” Scott writes, “The chips are stacked against us, we have streets for homes, parole boards for moms, pistols instead of jobs, and drugs for security.” Damn good piece of poetry! That actually enticed me to call my dealer.
   An inevitable poem entitled, “The Slow Track To Moving Past” sums up the redundancy of life in twenty words. A piece of brevity that had me questioning my Alex Jones, Info Wars routine each night at 11:30.
   A rhetorical poem entitled, “Working on a Breakdown” asks; “Are you fed up? Are you tired? Ready to get yours?”
   To this I say, yes Scott! I’ve already called my dealer twice now. Should I call her again?!
   This is one of those inspirational poems that is supposed to motivate us to persevere in the monotonous existence called life. Or what I refer to as Pittsburgh.
   The poem ends in a poignant stanza: “The fact we haven’t put a gun in our mouths proves this.” Bro, I’m merely waiting on a package.
   “Happy to Be a Feral Creature” is my personal favorite. It’s a poem which brings up the timeless debate of what constitutes a poet, like any of us neoteric emulators have an answer for that!
   Well….actually Scott does: “Any poet worth a shit must have, at one time, lost everything they hold dear, and had to fight for sanity.”

Posted in P.A. Levy, Poem, Poetry

Christina Rossetti’s Cunt 

many years ago
when i was but a little skanky runt
i fell in love with christina rossetti
because i believed lizzy and laura
were incestuous lessies
so i read more and more
i read all i could get my hands on
but the one thing i found most disappointing
she never wrote a poem
about her cunt
being victorian it’s not an unreasonable
assumption that her bush
wasn’t particularly well trimmed
and under all that crinoline
and petticoats and petticoats
with heavy duty bloomers
it’s a safe guess of a sweaty muff
maybe slightly sweetened by rose water
with just a hint of lavender
i wish she’d written a poem
about her cunt
and i couldn’t give a toss
about bouts-rimés or sad songs
or even all that religious dross
i just wanted to know what made her wet
and when her couplet lips were parted
would it make her juicy ode pantoum
i wish she’d written a poem
about her cunt

© P.A. Levy

Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk U.K., P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between.  He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk

Posted in Poem, Poetry, Terry Smith

Junkie’s Oasis

I
dance
on
the
tip
of
a
needle
balance
on
razors
edge
shards
of
shattered
psyche
coursing
through
my
veins
glazed
eyes
conceal
kaleidoscopes
of
delusional
illusions
trying
to
get
back
to
that
place
the
oasis
gets
further
and
further
away
and
the
desert
grows
bigger
and
bigger
till
it
dries
you
out
and
you
are
swept
away
and
nothing
remains
but
a
memory

© Terry Smith

Terry Smith is the pen name for a broke ass writer living somewhere in the Great Atlantic North East.

Posted in Avantika Singhal, Poem, Poetry

Put Me Back In My Cage

A groomed, urban animal
I am. Let loose in a world
that prefers staring more
than smiling. I tread carefully
onto standards laden by
society. Others, they still stare.
They strip me of my clothing
without coming close to me.
They put pain into my soul
without injecting anything.
They remind me with their
eyes that my cage is a forgotten
and admired past which I
will now miss living in.

© Avantika Singhal

Avantika Singhal is a 19-year-old poetess living in Jaipur, India. Over the course of her short writing career, she has managed to get her poetry published in various respected literary magazines such as Writer’s Asylum, Red Fez, Textploit,  Jabberwock Online, The Indian Review, Spillwords, Emerald Hues Anthology, Hall Of Poets-Valentine Anthology and Our Poetry Archive etc. She aspires to make a positive impact on the masses with her writing. Further, she has contributed her literary creations to a bedtime story book named Tales By Teens, online platforms like Half Baked Beans, MUNation, The Fable Diaries and AnInception.

Posted in James Diaz, Poem, Poetry

How To Escape A Fire, On The Inside 

the kindness in my heart grew
it was a tiny seed of radiation
and then one day came
and this pain was not useful
to me after all
just because it worked
for those who wrote the book
doesn’t mean it’ll work for you
I have dug many ways out of
this hell and not once did I try
to pass it off on anyone else
that’s what liars do
tell you they know
how it is when they’ve barely
risked the skin you have
the tear in the heart-wall
the shattering early dawn
grasping for straws called;
I wasn’t born this way
but I became it anyway

© James Diaz

James Diaz is the founding editor of the literary arts & music journal Anti-Heroin Chic. His poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Quail Bell Magazine and HIV Here & Now. His first book of poems, This Someone I Call Stranger, is forthcoming from Indolent Books (Fall, 2017)

Posted in Jon Tait, Poem, Poetry

Salt

They look like ‘80s rappers Salt ‘n’ Peppa gone wrong
with badly drawn eyebrows and scarred skin
and we wonder what hell they’ve had to endure
in some war-torn country on the continent
perhaps Somalia or Libya
where it’s preferable to offer strange gringos
ten euro blow jobs on the neon lit strip
of bar fronts and metal shuttered gift shops
on white square breeze block buildings
eyes all machetes and knives and Kalashnikovs
the shaded glare of dealers in the shadows
donning shiny leather jackets and flashing crack crystals
suckee-suckee fuckee-fuckee
I suck you real good
and when they refuse to believe I’m not German
I feel like one of Rommel’s Afrika Corps
with an Iron Cross on a khaki jacket
striding purposefully on through
as the gentle trade winds rustle the palm tops
We’ve got to get back to our Panza, Ja
genes of a great, great, great grandmother
who sailed out from the Fatherland
to the port of the mariners,
another melting pot of Arabs and switch blades
and Peaky Blinders-type characters
in three-piece tweed and cloth caps,
to marry a ship’s joiner
when I’d rather just sit in the sun
with a cold Heineken and feed pieces of burger
to the tailless lizard that scuttles out
from under orange box decking to pull it from my fingers
with eyes like a small bird,
it’s all in the ancestry, the DNA
Just give me three Euro then, baby.

© Jon Tait

Jon Tait is a writer and postal worker from the UK. His first full collection Barearse
Boy was published by Smokestack Books in 2015.

Posted in Fiona Perry, Poem, Poetry

Breakers

Before they are born

Breakers swell and loom

In rolls of blown glass

I want to step inside

To be statue-caught

In their crystal corridor

Like the dark clothed Swiss

Farming couple preserved

In a glacier for 75 years

Then I can cut the white

Noise. Reboot. Prepare

For my second coming

As foaming diamonds

Released from saltwater

Ectoplasm. Thrown on

To warm, restorative

Sand. Equipped for Terra

Firma Dwelling. 

© Fiona Perry

Fiona’s short stories and poetry have been published in The Irish Literary Review, Spontaneity Magazine, Into The Void, Dodging The Rain and Skylight47 amongst others. She grew up in Ireland but has lived most of her adult life in England and Australia. She currently lives in New Zealand. Follow her on Twitter @Fionaperry17.