Sunday, 16 December 2018

Bible verses about Cold Weather by Mark Young

For those who are homeless, & have no options for shelter during the cold inclement months, why not stream tracks & playlists from Balaclava Microfibber to your desktop or mobile device to raise your spirits?

When your asshole feels as if God is tearing through it, remember dog breeds with thick coats & body fat can cause muscle stiffness & spasms if you have multiple sclerosis or suffer from spasticity.

If you have a cold room, or a basement that is partly below ground, you may be able to cancel the buses & instead keep an underground cheese cave that relies solely on the soil temperature.

Gaming Sites must not disconnect, & must reconnect, the utility service of a residential customer during the weekend after Thanksgiving.

More stringent citizenship requirements fit smoothly under a helmet & normally serve up some of the best marathon-racing weather in the nation. Find out if you can claim $25 for every cold week this winter.

Royal Marine helicopters landed on the grounds of The Mountain & Cold Weather Company to take the governor to task for hiding behind unnamed sources in that attack on City Hall last week.

A cooperative electric association in Sacramento, Calif., then took the governor to task for getting a job at an ice factory because of its deals on insulated camouflage jackets & coats.

Buff® headwear, with its variety of jewelry accessories at great prices, is one of the most exceptional organizations you'll find in any Army ROTC unit in the country.

Weeknight dinners are a breeze when you plan ahead. Nobody was more disappointed than God when Sandberg chose to walk away from the Phillies when he did.


Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for almost sixty years. He is the author of around forty-five books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are les échiquiers effrontés, a collection of surrealist visual poems laid out on chessboard grids, published by Luna Bisonte Prods, & The Word Factory: a miscellany, from gradient books of Finland. Due for publication are Residual sonnets from Ma Books, & an e-book, A Vicarious Life — the backing tracks, from otata.

Sunday, 9 December 2018

The Penthouse by Susan P. Blevins

Crowds with flags lined the city street waiting for the motorcade to arrive.  In the early evening light, swallows darted over the people’s heads, snagging insects that were fatally attracted to the street lighting.  Quiet murmurs and some laughter could be heard, as everyone awaited the arrival of the man. 

The armored limousine appeared in the distance, its pennants dancing on either side of it, cleaving a path between the curious crowds.  It pulled up in front of the new luxury hotel built by the man, his latest in a string of hotels and resorts that stretched across the globe.

The hotel honor guard stood to attention beneath the garishly lit hotel name, a red carpet in place.  The manager hurried to his position alongside the limousine and opened the door for
the man himself, traveling alone.  His tall, bulky figure eased itself out of the vehicle in his customary ill-fitting suit, his curtain of hair blowing across his puffy red cheeks, temporarily obscuring his familiar truculent expression.  He turned to wave to the crowd that he saw before him, ignoring the signs protesting the construction of the hotel. Hundreds of families had been forced to evacuate their homes in order to make way for this new vision of steel and glass, and their compensation was more a gesture than one of substance.  There were other signs there too, protesting a multitude of various things he’d done which had hurt people, but the man was blessed with selective vision and hearing, so he smiled and waved, always at his best before a crowd.  He shook hands with the manager, and strode rapidly into his new hotel.  Alone in that moment, his slightly slumped shoulders betrayed possible awareness of the subdued hostility the crowd was afraid to display, for fear of being arrested.

The manager ushered him through the ostentatious lobby, a glittering statement of wealth and poor taste, emptied of people for the occasion.

“Please allow me to offer you a cocktail before dinner in our magnificent Victory Bar, and then I’ll show you to your penthouse,” murmured the manager with a touch of subservience.

“You’ve forgotten that I don’t drink, but I’ll take a look,” was his impatient, clipped response.

He peered round the corner and surveyed the partially filled space.  Seated at the richly appointed mahogany bar itself, was an extremely beautiful and alluring woman, revealing her ample charms in a dress that she must surely have poured herself into, her cleavage an overt invitation to any man of substance.

“Don’t go anywhere,”  said the man, “I’ll be down in a few minutes after I’ve washed my hands and checked my penthouse, and I’d love to offer you a drink on the house.”

He followed the manager to the bank of elevators, and watched as the operator tapped the button for the seventy-fifth floor.  The elevator ascended, silent as an illicit whisper, and in a moment they stood inside the lobby of the gaudily decorated penthouse.

“Allow me to show you your bedroom,” said the manager quietly, leading the way across the ample space, filled with faux Louis XV furniture,  upholstered in gold brocade,  yet another testament to the vulgarity of the man.

The manager reached the door and held it open, his hand resting on the back of the man’s shoulder in an apparently deferential and protective manner.

The man angrily shrugged off the intrusive hand, and entered the room. He turned to address the manager, but he was gone, and instead he heard only a click as the door locked behind him.  He looked around, saw the drapes were drawn, and went to open them.  They revealed no windows.  He looked more closely at the room, and felt his blood pressure rise precipitously as he realized where he was.  He felt a stabbing pain in his chest as the oppressive fear, that only a bully can feel, swept over him.

He had just entered a padded cell, and he knew he would never leave it.

Sunday, 11 November 2018

That Guy in the Office by John Grey

You are expecting that someday
you two will be a couple.
For now, he feigns ignorance
of the possibility.
In fact, that ignorance
grows exponentially
with the passing of time.

You express your willingness
to be half of a couple
by dogging his heels,
trailing him everywhere,
smiling at him
every chance you get,
even cruising by his house at night
to see if he's home
and with whom.

You call at odd hours
to make sure he's there
though you remain silent
on your end of the line.
You slip scraps of paper
under his door,
mostly 'Guess who"
in disguised handwriting.

Next step is to shave your head,
wear low cut blouses
and short-short skirts,
and parade before his desk seductively.
Either that or burst into
shaved, low cut, short-short tears.

Either way,
he has you right where he wants you.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.

Friday, 9 November 2018

The Whale in the Sky by J.D. DeHart

To live in a world where
the pale pearl of a cloud might
be filled with the shadow presence
of a whale,

swimming through the sky,
rising and falling in massive
flight, spouting cumulus from a cavern
mounted on its considerable frame,

and meanwhile, on the earth below,
only beautiful animals, no more slithering
creatures tapered at one end and filed
like knives on the other tip,

ready to cut us down, undulating
threats moving with soiled gleam.


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  He has a new book of poems, A Five-Year Journey, available from Dreaming Big Publications.

Sunday, 4 November 2018

Fern G. Z. Carr about 300K

300K is a fascinating anthology of poetry designed to serve as a legacy of mankind's presence on Earth.  While Editor Walter Ruhlmann questions whether or not this collection realistically would survive a cataclysmic event, he nevertheless decides to take a chance and moves forward with his very appealing proposition.

Ruhlmann strikes a perfect balance of poems written in both the English and French languages.  Topics range from the microscopic to the macroscopic – from our RNA to the infinity of space. The poetry in this anthology is not only entertaining, but also gives us pause to ponder the nature of our existence on this planet.

Fern G. Z. Carr


Saturday, 20 October 2018

300K: une anthologie de poésie sur l'espèce humaine/a poetry anthology about the human race

300K A Poetry Anthology about the Human Race Une anthologie de poésie sur l'espèce humaine. French-speaking and English-speaking poets from the 21st century meet in this incredible anthology that wants itself to be another stone on the suicidal path sapiens took 300.000. Des poètes francophones et anglophones du 21ème siècle se croisent dans cette superbe anthologie qui se veut une autre pierre sur le chemin destructeur que sapiens a pris il y a 300000 ans.

ISBN 9780244720759 Copyright Beakful & contributors (Licence de droit d'auteur standard) 
68 pages 10€ (+ frais de port)


Our origins are not that well known though not totally obscure. Yet, recent discoveries in Morocco have pushed our ancestry from 200.000 years ago to over 300.000. Yes, we've been that long on Earth, and yet, this is a flea's leap compared to all the living and non-living things that were there before us, some of which still are, others we have more or less slowly but thoroughly wiped out or disfigured for the rest of time. You can also refer to Elizabeth Kolbert's The Sixth Extinction (especially its introduction) or Yuval Noah Harari's A Brief History of Humankind.

Are we doomed? I am a pessimistic person and my own personal answer is yes. That's why I wanted to publish this anthology as a mark, a sign, a trace of our - yours and mine - passage on this planet. Think about petroglyphs, cave arts, artefacts, all the traces we have left here and there, all around the planet. Instead of chemicals, microscopic plastic particles, soda cans, gas jerrycans, used solar cells, full of silica, that no one knows how to recycle efficiently, smartphone parts, laptop bits and pieces... why not leave a book of poetry that will probably get lost in nothingness as many other books or objects before it, but that some descendants of the human race, or one of its creations (a mobile, self-conscious, artificial intelligence) or an alien civilisation might stumble upon in, let's say, another 300.000 years from now; who knows?
Maybe your answer to the above question was no, and you are more optimistic about and in awe at us, i.e. humans, homo sapiens. Indeed, we have lived so far and also achieved many great things: pyramids or huge monuments all over the world, some humans were inventors, scientists, intellectuals, philosophers, etc. have acted for the good of their peers. You may have wanted to see the bright side of the modern human species, and you were as much welcome as if you had been as pessimistic as I am.


Nos origines sont encore obscures bien que pas totalement inconnues. De nouvelles découvertes au Maroc ont repoussé notre présence sur Terre de 200 000 à plus de 300 000 ans. Oui, nous sommes là depuis aussi longtemps et cela n’est pourtant qu’un saut de puce à l’échelle des autres choses vivantes ou non qui nous ont précédés et sont encore là ou que nous avons lentement mais sûrement anéanties ou défigurées pour toujours. Vous pouvez aussi vous référer aux livres d’Elizabeth Kolbert La sixième extinction (surtout son introduction) ou de Yuval Noah Harari Une brève histoire de l’humanité.

Sommes-nous condamnés ? Je suis quelqu’un de pessimiste et ma réponse très personnelle est oui. C’est pour cette raison que j’ai souhaité publier cette anthologie comme une marque, un signe, une trace de notre – le votre et le mien – passage sur Terre. Pensez aux pétroglyphes, aux peintures rupestres, les artefacts, toutes ces traces laissées ici et là partout dans le monde. Plutôt que des traces de produits chimiques, d’hydrocarbures, de particules de plastique, de canettes de soda, de bidons d’essence, de morceaux de cellules photovoltaïques, faites de silice, que personne ne sait encore vraiment comment recycler, de déchets de téléphones mobiles, de bouts d’ordinateurs portables… pourquoi ne pas plutôt laisser un livre de poésie qui se perdra certainement lui aussi dans l’oubli comme tant d’autres livres ou objets avant lui mais que quelque descendant de la race humaine, une intelligence artificielle mobile et consciente d’elle-même, ou une civilisation extra-terrestre redécouvrira peut-être dans, disons, 300 000 ans, qui sait ?

Peut-être que la réponse à la question ci-dessus est « non » et que vous êtes plus optimistes et ébahis au sujet d’homo sapiens. En effet, nous avons tenu tout ce temps et avons aussi accompli des choses merveilleuses : des pyramides ou des monuments gigantesques à travers le monde, des inventions, des découvertes scientifiques, des courants de pensées, des conquêtes sociales pour le bien et la grandeur de l’Humanité. Vous avez peut-être voulu voir en l’Humain son côté le plus positif et égayerez ainsi cette anthologie si vous êtes aussi optimistes que je suis pessimiste.

Sunday, 14 October 2018

The Blessing by Susan P. Blevins

'At the Death Bed' by Edvard Munch
1895 Public domain

What is this need I feel to receive a deathbed blessing?

On my mother’s deathbed, I took her limp and almost lifeless hand,
placing it on my head, begging her blessing, translating her incoherent,
mumbled words into the final benediction I longed for, while all the while
my tears washed away my past and cleansed me for an uncertain future.

The same thing happened when my husband lay dying, unspeaking,
eyes closed, unconscious to my eyes though I knew his soul heard.
Kneeling by his bed, I took his hand, placed it on my head, and heard
in my heart the words I yearned to hear with my ears, words of love
he would willingly have voiced, had he been able.

The deathbed blessing feels visceral and universal to me, ancient
ritual since the beginnings of humanity, since the mudding of early
dwellings, the first harvest of grain and grapes, a cycle of death and
resurrection as endless as time itself, the blessing perhaps a symbol
of our own final harvest and transformation.

Sunday, 26 August 2018

Calepin paisible d'une pâtresse de poules (extrait) de Cathy Garcia Canalès

extrait de Calepin paisible d'une pâtresse de poules de Cathy Garcia Canalès, Nouveaux délits, 2018

La pâtresse poétesse observe, contemplative, ses poules, comme des amies, en tout cas plus que des animaux de compagnie, et l'environnement dans lequel elles évoluent. D'autres animaux, végétaux, personnes apparaissent et jouent des rôles essentiels dans ce recueil de pensées existentialistes que j'ai dévoré en une soirée et dont je me permets de reproduire ici un court extrait pour le promouvoir car il faut lire ce recueil pour connaître le Sublime, retrouver un bref instant l'essence même de ce que nous sommes en tant qu'êtres vivants sur cette Terre que nous négligeons, dans cette nature foisonnante que nous avons tout fait pour (essayer de) maîtriser à nos dépends. WR.

Oubliez-moi, oubliez mon personnage, il n'est rien d'autre que le vent quand rien ne bouge.

Je m'absente pour vivre pleinement, comprenez-vous? Et si je dois quitter mes mots pour cela ou plutôt ceux qui les lisent, je le ferai. Il y a un piège dans les personnages que nous créent les mots, ces personnages peuvent à chaque instant se refermer sur nous comme des vierges de fer. Ensuite, on ne nous entend plus, embrochés, pris au piège.

Aussi, je m'absente, afin que si mon personnage se referme, il ne se referme que sur le vide. Et je  est ailleurs, je  est nulle part,  je est partout. Dans les nuages en transhumance, dans la langue infatigable de mon enfant, dans le chant du coucou, dans l'avion qui troue le ciel, dans les arbres en attente de l'orgasme printanier et le couple d'oiseaux qui se chamaille; dans le trésor des buis agités par le vent, la mousse qui veloute les murets, dans ce morceau sec de genévrier, dans la crête rouge vif de Cerridwen, dans le jaune d'or du grain de maïs qu'elle vient de gober, dans les pelures de mandarine qui tranche sur le délavé des pelouses sèches, dans la croix du corbeau à l'aplomb de ma tête.


[NDLR] Ce passage me fait penser à ces vers de Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Walt Whitman “Songs of Myself”, Leaves of Grass

28 pages agrafées
ISBN : 978-2-919162-05-5
tirage limité et numéroté
sur papier 90g - couverture 250g
100 % recyclé

10 € +2 pour le port
à commander à
Association Nouveaux Délits

L’association NOUVEAUX DÉLITS -

Sunday, 12 August 2018

Avis de parution : Calepin paisible d'une pâtresse de poules

Vous l'aviez aimé, voire adoré et bien voilà : le numéro 2 de la collection de poésie postale "Délits vrais" est maintenant disponible en version livre (légèrement remaniée).

28 pages agrafées
ISBN : 978-2-919162-05-5
tirage limité et numéroté
sur papier 90g - couverture 250g
100 % recyclé

10 € +2 pour le port
à commander à
Association Nouveaux Délits

« Que c’est bon d’être assise là au soleil, pâtresse de poules au sein de toute cette beauté ! Un léger vent, un esprit bienveillant, pose sa main sur mon front. Le sourire est là, à portée de lèvres. Il affleure comme une source, il vient du cœur. Ce cœur à cajoler, à nicher dans la mousse.

L’hiver se meurt, je le sais, je le sens. Ne pas chercher.
Ne plus chercher. Simplement faire de la place pour accueillir. »

textes & photos de Cathy Garcia Canalès

En hommage à Madame Wong
emportée par le renard en juillet 2011
et à tous nos compagnons à poils et à plumes
sans qui la vie ne serait pas la vie


Sunday, 5 August 2018

The Rigged Claw Machines at the Mall Arcade by Alyssa Trivett

by Mike Mozart

The sign reads AIM HERE
as utensil claw tongs friend zone
a plushy fish,
barely chalk outlining its fin.
My nine credits on my reloadable card
deduct double.
I dance sideways with another machine,
walking out with a plush sushi.
A young couple asks how I was able to win it,
I replied; gunned it to its side,
got it to rollover and stand up,
swiped at it and let it fall
into my winner’s circle bin,
like dominoes.


Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. Her work has recently appeared at In Between Hangovers, Apricity Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review. She can be reached at

Friday, 3 August 2018

Veiled by Lynn White

by "Mike" Michael L. Baird

First published in Visual Verse, July 2016

I wear my hair
like a veil
covering all.
Covering all that
is not already covered
and needs to be,
they insist.
But it is not enough.
I can still see
when it parts
and still be seen.
I can still move
It is not enough,
they insist.
I need the mask
of the broad, blue
to tether me,
they insist.
And I wonder,
will this be enough?


Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Find Lynn at and

Tuesday, 24 July 2018

the seas of drunken greens by Sudeep Adhlkari

Carpet of Moss by Drew Brayshaw

an astral walk along the carpet
of green. its fibers sway
in sines, summoning the ancient
arithmetic of trembling
cleaves on their fragile legs.

the trees thicken inside their own
universe, and melt

with love, as they become
the water of my veins; all green. 

i can hear the whole universe
speaking; from the old
space-time churns, to the cry
of the first wiggle

in wormy hyper-seas. i am
not lost. i am,
where i am always supposed to be.


Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal. Also a Pushcart Prize nominee for the year 2018, Sudeep is currently working on his 4th poetry-book Hyper-Real Reboots, which is scheduled for publication in September 2018 through Weasel Press, Texas, USA.

Monday, 16 July 2018

Passing by Stephen Mead

sleepwalk-dreams-subconscious by r.nial bradshaw
At last no recognition,
no glint in the other's eye
for desire & its poison,
only ghost life, glass made
flesh & I drowned as my sister
in fevers quelled, the dear mad
bliss of blankness
for infatuation full
of heart, head, tempests,
perilous, the misplaced
seed, system-sewn, an Oedipus
blindness, an awareness distressed
that kills, kills
while the body goes on
to its own askew melody
being lost out of mind
at a somnambulist's crosswalks.


Stephen Mead: Author Central Page: Visit's Stephen Mead Page and shop for all Stephen Mead books. Check out pictures, bibliography, and ... Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer.  Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online.  He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance.  Poetry on the Line, Stephen MeadPoetry on the Line, Stephen MeadWriting, even publishing, poetry, is not something I've ever been able to take much pride in. When a person is...

Friday, 13 July 2018

Datura: Blooming

General submission guidelines for datura literary journal

Send five poems or artwork, three fiction, reviews, essays to mgversion2datura at gmail dot com. Previously published work OK as long as you give publishing background. Simultaneous submissions OK just make sure you tell me if your work is accepted elsewhere.

Write your full name and submission type in the header of your email. Name your attachment with latsname_firstname_title_datura. Make sure the title of the piece you send appears at the top of the page. No more than one poem per page.

Send all submissions in a txt, doc or odt file, attached to your mail. Don't copy/paste as formatting tends to get awkward, and hard to manage afterwards.

A short biography (very short -- essential only: where you are from (city, [state/province], country), a link to your blog/website, your latest publication...) is welcome but not necessary.

Read the former journal mgversion2>datura or the literary blogs Beakful or Urtica, and the books published through mgv2>publishing or Beakful and Urtica to get a sense of what I am used to publishing.

I don't retain any rights, your writing is your creation. You are welcome to cite the original publishing place in case you reprinted your work.

Submissions read year round. Response time may vary a lot.

Thursday, 12 July 2018

Alibi by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Everything is either dead or hibernating,
that is what I like about winter.  No bugs
buzzing off with chunks of your face while you
parade under patterned awning that seems scared of the rain.
Like walking into a Sartre novel and wondering why
everyone has to be the murderer.  Dr. Holmes can take
a holiday with this one.  You just know he has the best
alibi of all, the same way you walk past the perfume ladies
in the department store knowing they will smell
better than everyone else you will meet today. 
Ever seen a purse snatcher huddled in the bushes
in the dead cold of January?  There are time constraints
governed by frostbite. Everything is brought inside.
Smokers and all their cigarettes.  Accusations
over unmade beds.  Plastic chairs for all the plants
to sit in.  In the corner, by a box of old pictures
no one can remember taking.


Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review and The New York Quarterly.

Monday, 9 July 2018

Decathexis by Sanjeev Sethi

first published in After the Pause

In long-established fasteners
of familial zippers, my alone-
ness leaves me unfurled. We
are so easily robbed when we
give ourselves to others. Who
will want to be a professional
boxer if epistaxis is the only
reward? When kindness is home
no one eyes the egress.


Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world:  Poetry Super Highway, Outlaw Poetry, 48th Street Press, The Metaworker, Vox Poetica, The Five-Two, A Restricted View From Under The Hedge, Ink Pantry, Ethos Literary Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

Renters by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

I am thrilled to be dying so fast
Malignancy is a thrill ride
Acceleration is all

A realtor once brought me to an AIDS house
Two gay men were dying
one on each floor
Each was full of holy suffering
each attended by friends
who turned from their grief 
to give me serious stink-eye

One turned on me: 
Can’t you wait for him to die? You vulture!
This was Key West 

I left the house furious
I ordered my wife
to fire the realtor

But my wife was having an affair with her
so she refused 
and the three of us stayed in an uneasy imbalance

I was secretly happy that the realtor was fat and homely
and had a stupid name 
and a stupid Southern accent
I was happy that my wife couldn’t do any better than that

We never bought a house
We just kept renting
as property values 
and rents


Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois  has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and. was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To read more of his work, Google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA. 

Sunday, 24 June 2018

Avis de parution le 1er juillet du troisième "délit buissonnier" : Petite histoire essentielle de la futilité de Bruno Toméra

40 pages agrafées
tirage limité et numéroté sur papier recyclé offset 90 gr
couverture calcaire 250 gr
textes de Bruno Toméra

l’auteur  présenté par Jean-Louis Millet :

Tom   le malgré tout poète
Quelle est cette manie de vouloir coller une bio ?  les poèmes se
suffisent, non ? Pour les bios je préfère l'intime à deux, dans un canapé
moelleux, prêts à se défenestrer l'ego et le corps, dans le duel de la
parade séductrice.... (non je rigole)

Mais, faut se méfier des chats acculés dans les coins de murs, balancent
toujours de foutus coups de pattes, enfin...  je suis aux aguets des
pulsions de révoltes comme autant de petits espoirs de cette humanité

Ce regard entrouvre la porte d'un désir
que nous n'aurons pas le temps de franchir
c'est le cambriolage d'une caresse
qui restera là, dérobée, sans adresse.

… mais, avec le recul, y a de quoi pondre quelques belles foutues
phrases  sur le tapis savonneux de l'existence.
Mon rire délivre insolent et joyeux l'impertinence de vivre.

Ouvrier mécanicien pour la raison sociale, poète essentiellement
chercheur de vie et d’étonnement, chercheur de musicos chanteurs & enchanteurs aussi pour que les mots puissent vaincre les lois de la

Bio recomposée par petits prélèvements dans l’œuvre
et les échanges épistolaires avec « le malgré tout poète ».

illustrations originales de Jean-Louis Millet

« Au retour dans la bagnole, intercalé dans la file des pressurés
l'humanité klaxonnait, gueulait, les bras au ciel, pressés
de se jeter corps et âmes dans d'autres emmerdements.
Le connard de derrière habillé en voiture dernier cri
gesticulait dans le rétro, le poing brandi. 

Garde toujours le piaf des urgences dans ton cœur
Garde toujours le piaf des urgences dans ton cœur.
Que je me suis dit. »

Serrant mes mains dans ses mains
elle me dit :
“Gamin, c'est une bulle de savon, la vie,
ça pique les yeux et c'est fini.”

10 € à commander à Association Nouveaux délits Létou 46330 St Cirq-Lapopie

Friday, 22 June 2018

Drop-Out by JD DeHart

I remember thinking
how I could disappear into the sheets
after one bad decision.

Going to the bank, thinking,
these are good jobs I will never get.
Hearing leaves rattle on gravel.

How I do not control the universe.
What was the root, what was the cause?
A multitude – boredom, sidelining,

marginalization, the traumas and flights
of other parts of life, always feeling like
the bent big toe in the classroom.

Afraid to stumble in the wrong direction.

Today is proof positive that one poor
judgment does not tie up all of life,
and that possibilities exist, always,

Sunday, 27 May 2018

Transferal by Sanjeev Sethi

first published in The Mind[less] Muse

Dossier of your doings is in the ashcan of
my interiority. Smoking you was deleterious
to self-image. I strolled to and fro in my mind,
alighted from staircase of fuzzy connections.
Fanfaronade is fine but dictums can’t live it.
The rowing of ravens is shut off by soundproof
oriels. How does one seal these anechoic squeals?


Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His most recent collection is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). His poems are in venues around the world:  Synchronized Chaos, The Piker Press, Horror Sleaze and Trash, Stickman Review, Urtica, Ink Sweat & Tears, M58, Bonnie’s Crew, The 13 Alphabet-Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Thursday, 24 May 2018

Ritual by John Grey

We go through this ritual
when I visit her place.

I sit on her couch
and she pours me a drink.

I take a sip,
mutter, "Nice"
and then she mixes
one for herself.

I have heard that
in some foreign county or other
there is a ceremony in which
what appear to be seeds of black pepper
are scooped into a tube
that's fitted into the nostril
of the participant
and then someone blows fiercely
from the other end.

The result
is a feeling of the most unimaginable pain
that's then followed up by pure ecstasy.

Meanwhile, we both get a slight buzz.

This is an agreeable country
but not yet a foreign one.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.

Sunday, 20 May 2018

Doing Laundry on a Farm in the Fifties by Donal Mahoney

Grandma Gretchen's in her rocker and she has something to say.

She tells a visitor, a young man from the city, if he plans to write a book about life on a farm in the Fifties, he likely has a lot to learn. She knows about that life because she was there. She says he needs to know about the little things as well as the big things if the book is going to be accurate.

For example, she says for him to understand that culture, he needs to know how laundry was done back then. This was before electric washers and dryers became popular. And he needs to understand why some farm wives today still use a wringer washer to do their laundry, usually on a Monday if the weather is nice.

The visitor agrees. So as he and Grandma sip strong coffee and nibble on scones from yesterday, Grandma starts to rock faster and begins a long tutorial.

The young man begins to feel he’s back in law school and should be taking notes but he had no reason to bring a notebook. He thought he was just visiting an older lady still living in her old farmhouse, a widow cared for by her adult children.

Colors and whites, Grandma explains, are always washed separately. Undies are washed separately as well. Sheets and towels are washed by themselves as are the men’s clothes.

“Men’s clothes are the filthiest thing on laundry day on any farm,” Grandma says, "especially the overalls.

"Believe me, young man, overalls are always washed alone. It’s a task no farm wife enjoys."

In good weather, she says the whites are the first to be hung out to dry.

The clothesline is strung between two trees or from a tree to a hook on the house. As long as the line is not under where birds might perch, everything’s okay.

“Between two trees is prettier,” she says, "and a clothesline should look pretty."

Warming to her task, Grandma goes on to explain that clothespins join all of the wash together except for bras which are hung by a single strap.

"A good wind and bras will kick," she says, "like the Rockettes.”

The young man wonders how she knows about the Rockettes. He was told that Grandma's sole exposure to the media over the years has been a Gospel music station on an old RCA console radio stationed not far from her rocking chair.

She goes on to point out that if it starts to rain and the clothes are nearly dry, the farm wife dashes out and rushes the clothes into the house.

"Even if he’s in the house at the time, her husband isn’t any help,” she says. “On a farm men have their tasks and women have theirs.”

Grandma admits she’s heard that some younger men today may help out in ways they would never have done back in the Fifties. That’s a big surprise, she says, if it’s true.

Then she mentions something the young man had been told by one of her daughters: Grandma and her husband, Carl, had seven kids. Carl took care of the farm and Grandma took care of the kids.

"Seven kids are a lot of work," she says, "but Carl had 20 cows to milk every morning and 100 hogs to slop and eggs to gather in the hen house. I’d rather take care of Carl and seven kids."

Grandma finishes her tutorial by telling the visitor that although she wishes him well, she doesn’t know how a man from the city can write a book about farm life in the Fifties.

"You weren’t there," she tells him with all the kindness and wonder she can muster.

He tells her all he can do is try and maybe with her help something good will come of it.

She tells him he better let her read what he writes before it’s printed. She says she just got new bifocals.

The young man says she will be the first to read it.

And then he reaches for another day-old scone.


One of many nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney 
has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at

Friday, 18 May 2018

Art Model by Jon Bennett

The great thing about 100k tuition
was the school provided
free therapy,
I’d been panicking
since day one.
“Honey, you have
body image issues,”
said Dr. Maltos,
“you need to
face your fears.”
I considered running a marathon
or climbing Mt. Everest
but I couldn’t afford to
because of the student debt
so I became
an artist’s model.
I’m pigeon chested
with a distended belly,
psoriasis, scoliosis and alopecia
but I let the robe fall.
The students didn’t
say a thing
though I think they appreciated
the added ornament
of a trickle of tears.

Wednesday, 16 May 2018

The Story I Always Wanted to Write: An Ode to My Childhood Imagination by JD De Hart

Scrappo, mechanical scrap metal creation
made by the Marion County salvage committee, Salem, Oregon, 1942

Welcome to the City, once called Salem, changed to Slam, a bit of scratching on the road sign.  Maybe it’s a change in the atmosphere, more rays allowed through, but here people could do amazing feats.  Just the kind of feats I wanted to do as a kid.

Slam City is where you can find…

a slender robotic assassin with ebony liquid skin, probably inspired by The Matrix;

a man with implements on his feet large enough to cause an earthquake.  I called him Stamper, imagined his thudding steps shattering the world to its center.

A guy who could leap a tall building in a…well, you know.  Kangaroo. I drew him once or twice, complete with hat and bionic legs.

Because who wouldn’t want bionic legs? 

A figure from my dreams with gun metal gray hair and a mouth sewn shut, stitched dark clothing, went by the name Silence.  He was probably inspired by The Crow.

I drew his costume in between drawing the one I would wear when I could save the world.  Superhero was going to be my hobby, I suppose.  I settled for writing about them instead.

An unfortunate fool who turned the wrong knob in an experiment and became a living creature of stone, dubbed Cement.

My family pet, the barky Chihuahua, blown up into a fifteen-feet tall monster, his bug-eyes bouncing along a dark street.

A character inspired by Jim Carrey’s Mask with purple skin, a lavender suit, and two ping- pong paddles to spin him into manic orbit.  He would deliver jokes I had not written yet.

Maybe I read too many comics.  Maybe I watched too many films.  These days, I embrace my graphic novel reading and blog about it.

To finish this world out, an entire race called The Lizards who lived on the bottom, darkened level of the metropolis, led by a scarlet-clad reptile man called Levine.  Surely this many-leveled world was inspired by my frequent visits to Batman Forever.

Another race of creatures called The Sand who live in the outer recesses where the urban landscape meets what used to be forest.

I dreamed their stories daily in my childhood walks with my father and his large black dog.

In those reflections, I saw a figure with the wings of a hawk and the body of a man who could swoop down deliver them all, if he only cared.

Wednesday, 9 May 2018

Kepler's Telescope Finds Five New Exoplanets by Andrea Wyatt

Space backdrop 2 by Futurilla

Imagine a huge thermometer,

we are pretty close to the bottom
not as low as
Jupiter or Neptune
bluest of the blue,

but a little higher, between

water freezes and water boils
closer to freezes,

on that imaginary glass device
with Fahrenheit on one side

going up the thermometer past lead melts

we come to mercury and venus
out of the corner of our eye

like Diana of the hunt
see Serena’s big sister
stalk Clijsters

then nothing
until the thermometer registers

molten lava and gold melts,
and there they are,

 five exoplanets
 hotter than molten lava,


 orbiting their stars
 three to five days,

one of them amazingly
light like Styrofoam.


Andrea Wyatt’s is coeditor of Selected Poems by Larry Eigner (Oyez Press), Collected Poems by Max Douglas (White Dot Press), and The Brooklyn Reader (Random House/Harmony). Her work appears in numerous periodicals and anthologies, most recently The Absence of Something Specified. Wyatt works in Washington, DC for the National Park Service.

Monday, 2 April 2018

Blood Poisoning by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Blood Cells by Andres Mason

Blood poisoning
is not so much about
the blood

as it is about
the poisoning

just as the poem
should be all about
the blood
of experience

and not
the supporting cast
of words

that fill things


Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review and The New York Quarterly.

Monday, 26 March 2018

Shoes by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

First person view of my shoes on playa
Racetrack Playa @ Death Valley Park National Park, California
photograph by David Fulmer

When I was fourteen
I ran away
a hermit in Death Valley

I expected to dehydrate
to whatever was my essence
and in that way
discover myself

but a hundred-year storm came up
and nearly drowned me
in the parched landscape

Wildflowers bloomed like never before
Yellow and purple

Death Valley was too beautiful for me
I returned to suburbia
wearing a pair of shoes

a lady ranger had given me
when she discovered
I hadn’t any


Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois  has had over thirteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad including Beakful. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and. was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To read more of his work, Google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

Overstaying by JD DeHart

Lightning over St-Laurent River on a stormy night in Quebec by JP Marquis

Poets know not to overstay
their welcome.

They linger on the page for just
a while,

a quick word, a brief description,
rhyme or no rhyme.

They say what they need to say,
sometimes veiled in metaphor,

then go skipping away.

Sunday, 18 February 2018

Mystery by Dragos Niculescu

Photographer not credited

She was sitting on a golden stool,
in front of the mirror,
combing her long and black hair.
I was laying in bed, behind her,
and watching her I said:
You have an army,
somewhere you have a hidden army
and all obey you without protest,
soldiers and generals alike.
You are the master of life and death,
you, the one that pretends to know nothing,
you are able to rule the most bloody wars,
and all those soldiers are happy
to fall with the foreheads to the ground
at the smallest sign of your finger,
you, who betray yourself so little,
so as the world around you sees in you
the same beautiful child of drunkenness and despair.
Beautiful, that comb absent,
you are the great master
of a hidden army.


Dragoş Niculescu is awarded in many national and international literary contests, his poems being published by many important Romanian and from abroad cultural magazines. He figures among the fifty most important contemporary Romanian poets (NOESIS Cultural Society’s Anthology, 2001). He has published until present three poetry volumes and he has in print four poetry volumes and one drama volume. He is also literary critic and cultural editor. 
He is an active presence at the book fairs and literary circles of the Writers Union of Romania.