hands in the garden

distemperdrying abscess acid slaver cakes
corners of creaking
gripe flaps

madness’ molting molars
rip into peel, roman genuflector’s
guilt deep

last squirming maggot’s redeeming
curtsy drools frothing eulogy
from constricted glacier

glistening, sweaty rotten
stench of greying,

long strangled, loving
lucid waste piles of

grisly gasping rattle slips,
death’s final “fuck you” to
tortured trek emits

in all its putrid, puerile
glorious half-wit

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

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Red Beans and White Rice

Nicole Lyons

Hypocrisy served
with a hefty side of red beans
and white rice,
and a pledge to love
the red man almost as much
as you love the white,
is still hypocrisy served
with a hefty side of red beans
and white rice.
Bless your heart
and a true patriot’s soul,
take care of them both,
those brown refried beans
you fill your gullet with
may have expired inside cages,
best to send them back
where they came from and stick
to black beans marked free,
the ones you can grind
without outward displays of guilt
you don’t even feel.
Mix us up a brew on Sunday morning
when red flags ripple
against blue skies and you
all meet to pat yourselves
on the back beneath the eyes
of a bearded man on a wooden tee
who would shake his head in disbelief.
Line up in rows in pews
and raise…

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My Second Miracle

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau

My Second Miracle

I hate social media. I met my ex-wife on Myspace. We got married two months later, at least if my memory serves me correctly. My marriage outlasted Myspace, but it felt just as vapid. But, at least out of married I got two miracles. I never wanted a second child. I started late, and I was afraid of having a girl. The odds were against me. Because I was never particularly lucky, I knew my second would be a girl. I sat sweating nervously while they performed the ultrasound.”Congratulations, its a girl!” My ex was beaming. Fear rushed over me. I would spend the rest of my life worrying about my second miracle. Today she hugs my neck and tells me how much she loves me. Her little voice and pure smile pulverizes my fears. I still don’t like social media. It is not a place for…

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four in the morning

S. K. Nicholas


it’s four in the morning

and could be i’m drunk and gone to the world

but i don’t think booze is the reason i’m

coming apart at all

no, it’s something to do with these bones of mine

and how they don’t belong

not anchored nor attached to anything

or anyone

i exist in my own state

in a place that’s far from

those that would have me become the same

it’s four in the morning

and i’m a drunk that’s lost a bet with life

but i’m not sad

just bummed out that before i know


it will happen all over again

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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The storm brings itself

and whatever stands in the way will feel the rain fall

I’ve given a few promises out on occasion and one thing remains constant,

whether the hurricane causes floods or rips lives apart,

nothing stays for long

I’ve been wondering lately if there’s a difference between a wolf under a full moon and a storm on the horizon

and that doesn’t need to make sense to you for you to understand

that howls fill the air for a lot of reasons

I can’t help but notice that I’m not changing, life goes and people say and do all manner of things, sunshine or rain and night or day and work or play they all exist as they

and I am not

there’s two types of people,

Or maybe there’s only one type and I’m just not a part of the equation

Grey clouds don’t change the…

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