Discover Sunday: Bonfire Nocturnalia (Linoleum)/Willie Watt

(and) she asks me whether, “archetypical
undermine the rest of
the poem?”


“their self-awareness

the poem
from discovering
something deeper? more

I said,

“it’s an academic question.
it doesn’t matter.
none of my poems are self-aware.”

(and) I’m on a mobius strip
magic carpet—

a syncopated wavelength—
and you duct-taped your brain to the linoleum
and wondered
at the way
things became so ashen
so quickly.

I lit your cigarettes
even when you blew the smoke in my face.

(and) the elevator is



and it’s like those surreal childhood memories
(the floor is lava)
that you remember
when listening to an old song
for the
first time
long time.

(and) I’ve suffered through so many
bonfires of nocturnalia—
that the cracks
in the linoleum
allow the oversized
into the breach.

(and) because
asked you to kill me,
and because
asked you to hate me,
might be a bad time to ask you
to make me
other than what I am, baby.

save me from the drunken diatribes
swaying lines.
save me from the postmodern cynicism
high tides.

it’s high time
we grew up
and grew past
these marijuana-colored skylines.

(and) your ghost
is the only thing
that eradicates the roaches nestling in my brain,
that saturates my vanity and sanity in concurrent saline solutions,
that draws blood from the lips of shame and memory and feeds vampiric on its undergrowth,
that wages war on agony
and always
but intact.

another relapse of reason
and I
can only bypass
the breakdown
when one of your phantoms
is near—

in the

Excerpt from Swear to Me

Willie Watt is a student, short story writer, and poet from Houston Texas. In his work he strives to capture the many contradictions and as-yet-unwritten phenomena of life in the twenty-first century. Currently an English major at the University of Texas at Austin, he plans to attend a graduate program in creative writing before going on to teach, write, and lecture professionally.”

The Waiting Room/Caterina Gentile

It is a heated chamber
Off of medication
I dream of a gaping vortex in the sky
A whole in the universe and spinning
The awkward silence between you and I
Laughter from behind a shut door
We are all the same
A schizo? Nervous? Lonely?
Abused. Abandoned. Depressed.
I wonder what your day consists of
Or what you have to go home to
-or what you don’t-
Or where you came from.
In session, we do not disturb.
Out of session is a different story.

C.Gentile is a poet currently in the process of obtaining her master’s degree in English Literary Studies at Salem State University. She is a self-proclaimed Star Wars nerd, novelty sock enthusiast and passionate lover of Canada Dry ginger-ale products. In her spare time she enjoys watching movies listening to 90’s alternative music and spending time with close friends and family.

Breaking for Birds/Caterina Gentile



The drive
Cleared the cobwebs
And for a while the darkness
Crept back into the corner it’s stored in.

It’s a never-ending cycle when you keep
Count of the times
I broke for a bird
And I took it in.
The second, the moment, the breath.

I wondered the life it held
The story it holds
The fear it felt.
Does it wonder the same?

Does it know I keep burning bridges
And digging myself into deeper places I
Don’t want to be in?

Does it know it can fly away when it wants
Instead of lock eyes with me
Staring at me
Wondering if I’ll hit it
Even if I stopped?

C. Gentile is a poet currently in the process of obtaining her master’s degree in English Literary Studies at Salem State University. She is a self-proclaimed Star Wars nerd, novelty sock enthusiast and passionate lover of Canada Dry ginger-ale products. In her spare time she enjoys watching movies listening to 90’s alternative music and spending time with close friends and family.

Guest Blog: Roadside Rabbits–Emmy New

From Roswell to Albuquerque
I counted 53 roadside rabbits
in one hour.

They stared at the moon
from the outside of the highway
craning their necks towards the sky.

Light lit their dust
as they inched away from the cars
but their eyes did not leave the night.
Hunching behind cacti they counted constellations
like lamps torn away from the sun.

They did not suffer the street fright
from headlights
nor hear the road kill requiems
lulling colonies to comfort
in crossing over.

In Baytown, Texas
there’s a dirt devilin’
at the state line
an oozing layer
of burnt up turpentine.

Thick mist
from an oil town night light,
a flicker of a refinery candle,
spilled into the sky

There are dead animals in Houston
that are not the black spot mirages
we see in the distance
but crushed bone of something once been.

They could not be seen
past the fog
no lamps into the tires
nor streetlight unto their paths
carcasses blow away like tumbleweed
into ash.

[Emmy New, also known as EmmaLee Newman, is a 21 year-old Dog Mom with a Chicken Nugget dependency. She hopes to become a Poetry Professor with starving artist as her fall back. She is the President of Dirty Bay Poetry, a pending 501c3 non-profit, in her hometown Baytown, Texas.]
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GUEST BLOGGER: Devika Mathur ‘The Wisdom is her’

Mother: You are a hyperbole of the moon and the star, a hubris of soliloquy.

Like floating wax, you extend your skin to my mouth, forming chains of bewilderment

chains of congruence chains of mammoth frills of hope.

You lie in the darkest of hours with a sparkle of holy water on your chin, the pink chin,

the orange chin, the grey chin where all the clandestine secrets are packed between

your teeth and the parched lips, you give blossom to my hair extending to my curves

the scarlet, metamorphosis pattern of face

Opulent serenity lies in your blood, I see my reflection

Time, death or a crooked tree, you put embroidery incumbent to survive the veracity,

harsh or simple.

Objects around you become opaque, hollows of orange skies

squares of white ice, the eye of Satan

I absorb all the conjectures knitted in the black of  your eyes

to the stars in your magical touch

the fidelity to produce a seed: a seed I shall carry

a seed I may fail

your liquid, pale truth of surviving I inhale in the morbid tales of summer

only to form the web of ink and paper burning inside your motionless,

sturdy, an amalgamation of Supreme Ant  intoxicating, all pouring inside

basket of void, dulcet, a white star.

[Devika Mathur is the author of the poetry book”The travesty of soul”. A teacher by profession and a poet by heart, her poetries have been published in Indian Periodicals, Evergreen Poetry Journal amongst others. She writes for her blog]

GUEST BLOG: A.G. Diedericks, “The Library Bandit “

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante.

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name.

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of Iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry.

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her Demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return

[ “A.G. Diedericks: is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile.. Colonized by mediocrity, he moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest; where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA. If you’re reading this, then I’ve just been exposed to my first publication.” ]

Guest Blogger: Sook Samsara, “Driving into the Sun”

Driving into the sun
Hands over my eyes like a child
Afraid of the future’s big face in mine
Playing games of peekaboo and scream
Natural causes working always incorrigibly behind the scenes
Bringing knees to concrete
Staining out the colour in my cheeks like mum’s washed jeans
Feeling the movement of the bitumen under me
Measuring time by how the white lines merge to one
Life recapitulates death
Recapitulates life
And again
There’s no such thing as time
Just the body falling back to dust
Eating itself alive
The best bits first and then hungrily the crust
Inner mechanisms causing scabs of ugly rust
In the destruction of husked cells
The days have gone quick
—I guess I binged on them too


[My name is Sook Samsara and I’m an icon of the universe. I reside in the year 2017 within the confines of the Australian continent. If anyone cares to find me they can look into the darkest part of their shadow, the part that’s cast in the middle of the night when you’re standing under the bathroom’s halogen after waking up from a dream of falling. You can talk to me there. I am a man and the hourglass has already been turned. I am aging without grace or respect. I have never managed to successfully escape the demon’s that rely on me like useless friends. I am worthy of love but have just temporarily forgotten why. I write poems and upload them to When I’m not writing who am I? Just another scared boy.]