Tempus fugit-Erich Michaels

I imagined walking across the ocean floor
The immortal lobsters and jellyfish my friends
I said, “I wish I didn’t have to breathe.”
I thought of wasted time and dreams deferred
Of taking this split life and making it whole
I said, “I wish I didn’t need to sleep.”
I thought of money wasted, as hard to swallow
Of elevating myself above base needs
I said, “I wish I didn’t need to eat.”
I thought of myself as being set free
My life as a slave to the clock departed
She said, “Stop it! Why wish for death?”
Confused, I reflected on what I had said
Of what could be gained by being free of need
No need to breathe, sleep or eat
It was at that moment I realized
Just what I had really wished for

Erich Michaels describes himself as  “just trying to share the human experience.”  He has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, but find himself writing SOPs (lather, rinse, repeat) in order to make a living, which can be detrimental to the creative process.  You can find him on the road to recovery at Erich Michaels.  Every journey begins with a single step, right?

Intentional Amnesia – Matthew D Eayre

I keep having dreams with a recurring theme, different places and situations but one thing is the same
I’m sitting with my sister, the one that died 19 months ago, and I’m telling her how sad I’ve been about my sister dying.
She tells me things like,
she’s still with you
you’ll never really lose her
and all the while, we skip right past the part where I’m discussing the death of my sister, with my dead sister,
we never talk about the fact that my sister is sitting with me and holding my arm and comforting me while I’m crying about her dying

Once we were in a house that felt like home, even though I didn’t recognize it, and she sat next to me and rested her head on my shoulder while all of my deceased friends and family members walked by and smiled at us
I’m not a religious person but I am fond of symbols and symmetrical concepts
One time we were at a jungle resort and my dead sister was talking to my dead grandmother while they sat on either side of me, each holding my hand

I’ve tried so hard to let go of all of my selfishness, but the weight of these metaphorical chains has been fused to my imaginary bones

I don’t need a $400 an hour therapist to hold my hand and walk me across the street to the realization that survivor’s guilt is truly a matter of selfishness
I wanted them to be alive, for me
Loving someone, or a lot of people, comes with a sense of permanence, but nothing could stray farther from reality
We have our moments, we have our days and sometimes we have our years, but the cold hard truth is that life is not permanent, not one of the people you love will be around forever, you and all the people you know will pass from this dream like a snowflake falling in Houston

I have a deeply embedded program in my mind that reminds me constantly that I’m sad about the days gone by, my favorite dead people ended on that day, and that day, and that day and the calendar is littered with morbid anniversaries and I count from one to the next like some demented accountant, a scribe recording the passage of time measured in unresolved guilt and I can’t seem to sleep without sixteen dead people visiting me

I’ve been told that you only die once and that certainly feels accurate but I can tell you without any doubt that after you die the people that love you,
If they’re like me,
Will feel like you died every damn day
They’ll walk around their lives and they’ll pretend to heal and they’ll even find new ways to laugh and enjoy life but every time they dream of their sister or mother or nephew or brother telling them
Assuring them in a dream-like fashion that they still exist, that love hasn’t ever died and never will
Every time your people wake up after you die, you will have died all over again.
Every day will be spent choosing to push aside the memories of your funeral or the unspoken words that will not reach your ears

Your people will choose to forget, while they’re awake

They say that they’re choosing to focus on the here-and-now, trying to live for what is coming, trying to let go and let God, trying to adapt to the new reality

But if they’re like me

They’ll be lying
They’ll be dying your death in their head every time ‘that’ song comes on
They’ll be wishing for a brain injury that causes permanent amnesia, just to get to a life that doesn’t feel like death
They’ll be trying to move forward with both hands and feet tied to the anchors of yesterday’s ships

If they’re like me

[Matthew D Eayre is newly planted in Houston, Texas and hoping to grow roots. A lifelong lover of words and language, he writes every chance he gets when not delivering smiles or spending time with his loving wife and family. Matthew has only one rule in life and in writing; it has to be real. He writes from personal experience about life, love and loss. He bridges the light spectrum from darkness to light, hoping that somewhere out there he reaches those who need to be reached. You can find more of his brilliant work on his site and his Facebook page Poetry of Monsters ]

Can You Feel the Winter Coming?- Allie Nelson

Kneel for the Alfather, in standing stone,
bloody runes on the boulder and crawl in,
soak in mead and honey, tangle your hair,
it is golden in the dark cave, burn burn.

The firmament churns like Urd makes butter,
Frigga spins flax and cards heavenly wool,
I make rainbows out of Heimdall’s breath,
but the Wild Hunt does not ride my Bifrost –

No, my path is for the dead, past Helheim,
in unions in darkest earthen cauldrons,
slick with the dew of Ymir’s icy wastes,
I am alone in Ginnunungap, paltry salt.

I am Mordgud Blood Maiden, I am bell toll.
Watch me weave my arteries on my spine,
pay my ferrywoman price, tithe your Hel
I will offer you to Her, nothing more.

Nothing less than a table at Hela’s dry
feet, the dust bread of dead, silence.
Down here it is cold but no one wants.
Down here it freezes, but we don’t feel.

Can you see Her spread Her fingers aloft
in the vines of veins, veins of leaves,
ribs of trees, trees of the nine worlds?
Winter is coming, Odin does not own it.

Winter is coming, and Fenrir howls high.
The moon is eaten by wolves, the sun bleeds
gold then darkness in Hati’s lupine womb,
plant seeds in beast’s black after harvest.

Winter is here, Hela walks as ice maiden.
Autumn just a passing fancy, and Valraven
rots on a yew, corpse bloated and swinging,
in Dying He is more alive than the Living.

Know the secrets of Hela Half-Rotted, see
the pennants of flesh on her corpse breast,
smell the compost and dirt of Her skin, kiss
Her bone hand, and sleep until springtide.

Sleep, dream, die, it is all the same to me,
for I have dreamed and died and eaten ashes,
She was sweet to me, He was a thunder strike,
in autumn He and She make a secret only I know.

What is the secret of Bolverk and Loki’s Pride?
It is sweet Balder on a shiply pyre adrift to
seidhr waters, golden Nanna enflamed, safety
is only found after Ragnarok, wouldn’t you know?

Winter came for Balder come mistletoe’s kiss.
And Odin rides the worlds for His son’s ghost.
Sweet Frigga weeps tears of sapphire, then snow.
And Hela and Nanna talk long by the hearth-side.

Winter comes for us all, even the gods, even
Death will Die, and in Dying, Live Again,
Anew, Life Eternal may be found in snow.


Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

Am I Still Here?/Jasper Kerkau & Nicole Lyons

Jasper Kerkau & Nicole Lyons

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

jn1 (1)

Emaciated by tortured flowers,
Bored expressions of expired emotions.
Stinging, charred words
dangling in thick air,
poisoned by expectation
Withered and violated
by meaningless conversation
he speaks softly,
vapid illusions
she lingers,
slowly decaying—
death beckons

I am still
here, pacing
through doorways
under a fluorescent sun.
My battle
cries flat,
pulled to hang
from cracked lips
plied into
an accommodating smile.
I am still
here, existing
behind shadows
inside a false twilight.
Or perhaps
I have eclipsed.
I am still.
Am I still here?

They don’t see me
swallowing knives as
they dance and laugh,
popping balloons while
I ingest their poison,
burning with acidic words
stinging the back of my throat,
I smile and nod to the world
look past the back-slapping
and soft kisses,
I disappear while they dine
on superficial conversation,
slivers of gold mixed with
trivial condiments smeared
over their delicacies.
The belching…

View original post 272 more words

in Tuck Magazine

David Lohrey


Tuck Magazine

TUCK MAGAZINE – Online political, human rights and arts magazine


January 2, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

roya ann miller photo


David Lohrey


Our public space is full of sex. We choke on it like air pollution.

Everywhere we go we see what we’re refused or denied.

Look but don’t touch is more true today than ever before.

That’s not confusing?

Our teachers, coaches, and priests are hauled away.

But we look the other way. They are perverts, monsters, or sinners.

We continue to live in denial.

We deny the power of sexual attraction.

We make fun of Arabs. We ridicule them and call them backward.

The sophisticated spinster finds them appalling.

The open-minded want to kill them.

The liberal wouldn’t be caught dead in Saudi Arabia.

Why are we so stupid? Who are we kidding?

Our reactions are proof of our ignorance.

They might be…

View original post 1,376 more words

It’s me

Daffni Ginger


There’s been a hawk circling my house. And around the corner, a brunette threw up in the gutter while her boyfriend went off somewhere with his friends. That’s never been my type of crowd, but then again, I was always a weird kid. It’s only getting worse. My house is my sanctuary and people are coming around less and less. It’s me. I’m pushing them away as far as I can. Living in solitude, growing a healthy fear of what’s normal. Tiny hands reach in and out in a rhythm I’m coming to terms with. I still think about it though, how to show them writing is my thing, my only thing, and nothing else. Along with love of course. But they already know I’m the soft kinda crazy. I personally like to call it passionate. Anyway, no matter how hard I fight it, my bones look just like his…

View original post 64 more words