The Logical Response – Stephen M Crow

The skyline illuminated
Bright razors against the night
Doing what cutters do
Finding humanity in pain
In emotional release

Pinballs crashing on the street
No eye contact to betray
Inch by inch we march
Hand in bitter hand
Into the belly of the beast

The wind picked up the message
Fall leaves blown asunder
Scrambled contrast across the moon
Throwing shadows
Signaling the end of peace

Burning our own homes in protest
Purpose with a side of death
Realizing we must tear it down
As we lay upon these flames
And go to sleep

[Stephen M Crow is a writer and musician who resides in Pasadena, Texas with his wife, Christy, and their children. Interests include cooking, watching horror movies, listening to music, and spending time with his family.]

Discover Sunday: Inhale/Willie Watt

Blood on the bedroom leaves.
Forest in every direction—juniper, oak, willow.
Autumn.

I haven’t been writing many
poems lately.

You’ve overcome so many corpse-strewn battlefields.
But I’m worried it’ll be my accidental shining reality that becomes the sword through your armor.

Writing seriously now, I guess. Prose. Careful edits. Peer reviews.
No time for natural gifts
or
free association.

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not opposed to happy endings.
Squinting, I can see one in your eyelashes—at least a bittersweet metamodern fadeout.

These have been my best works yet.
But will it be enough?
Have I set the target too perilously high?

I’d do anything to break your cycle of self-torment.
Well, almost anything.
I couldn’t compromise myself even if I wanted to.
Not anymore.
Too much is set in motion.

THC & Caffeine & Nicotine & Alcohol & Adderall.
I can write on anything.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
I’m becoming as good as I thought I could be, and its as real as it is unreal—as satisfying as it is shocking.

I know you love me.
You don’t use the word. Afraid of frightening me off, I guess.
Instead, you say, “you scare me.”
I wonder if you know that I’ve decrypted your code?—would you just out and say it if you knew that I knew?

I’ve become realistic as the golden days approach.
Ironic.
The more I understand my unrealistic greatness, the less I daydream impossibilities.
The long-shots have become not just possible, but probable.

I want to make it work. I mean it. Really.
I just hope we can keep ourselves in the process.
I know I will, for my part.
Can you do the same?
I like to think so.
Not sure, though. If I’m honest.

Ink on paper. Digital transcription.
So many hundreds of thousands of words.
I’ve got to be nearing that ten-thousandth hour.

Don’t panic.
Inhale.
We’ll get where we’re going.
One way or another.


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.”

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 https://koalabeartea.wordpress.com When I’m not writing who am I? Just another scared boy.]

indie support saturdays – tony & nicole i. nesca

Canadian Author Throws Literary Rulebook Out of Window, Releasing “Rebellious” Book of Short Stories that Captures Life’s Boundless Tapestry.

(Please note: all written content of this post is by
PR.com, and Tony Nesca, of Screamin’ Skull Press.)

The whopping sixteenth book by Tony Nesca, ‘Junkyard Lucy’ is a bold and intense collection of stories that free-flow to cover everything from sex and death to rebellious youths, music and love. It’s all part of Nesca’s mandate to wage war on literary mediocrity, stand out from the crowd and compel readers to cut to the core of what it really means to be human.


EXCERPT FROM JUNKYARD LUCY, “THE BOY, THE GIRL, THE FLOWERPOT IN THE SKYWAY.”:

It wasn’t so much the people he worked with that he hated, it was people in general – he went through all the proper motions, all the expected pleasantries, but still it came out all wrong. Nor did people like him. He didn’t bring out hatred in them, just a sort of disinterest, a boredom of types. Which he returned in abundance. He liked girls, liked their legs, their clothes, their minds, but could not muster the courage, the desire to actually interact with them. Still, they were more interesting than the boys. He often wondered how different they would feel if they actually knew him, if they saw how sensitive he was, if they saw that he was more like them.

And what if they knew that he wrote poetry at night, beautiful, haunting street poems that any editor would kill to publish, but that he kept hidden as a punishment for the stupidity of the world.

Yet, there was one girl, yes, there was one.


WORD MUSIC
By Tony Nesca

deadly silence got me low-down-hungry
thinking about that hot-dog stand on the dismal corner
beside the old beggar hand extended
16 year old virgin in hot-pants looking mad-bad-dangerous
crimson fireball streaking across the sky
middle-aged hooker front tooth missing
she beckoning my weary ass one I love absent in world-gone-hungry
Dixieland trio singing happy songs amidst angry
downtown laughter low-down drug-mood feeding me
blue music pornography rattling my brains
wrap your lips around my broken heart happy
whiskey bottle-shards hitting the off-keys feel that
fucked-up saxophone tickling your ribs
atom-bomb-luvly feed me sin-soaked dead flowers on my grave
warm kisses moonlight smiles
her distant touch,
her long-dead-musings,
her love-gone-missing,
her hips arching in the afternoon lust-dance,
and your blue velvet beauty grinding away from me
in the gutter-love sunlight…


(Read the press release for Tony Nesca’s book “Junkyard Lucy” and more information about Screamin’ Skull press, Nicole I. Nesca, and Tony Nesca below!)

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