Nil- Mitch Green

Blame the damp easing lost in and out of color.
Pledge it a danger to all and castrate the panting cure
that swells all out of gusto; dead waxen grit.

Taboo are the lianas molesting the edible and transfigured
binary pulpy necrophiliacs riling creed.

Their decay is that which we overdose on.
It is like clutching your breath in frigid water,
decades deep, pronouncing gestures in silent to the unheard.

It is the portrayal of humid southern color and the half
empty animals crossing soil and sun only to become living
landmarks in roadkill country.

The sweating thermostats hang on wooden triangles of glass
in a square foot isle of the shaved and shared.

These avenues of dirt road romance feigns
roving women; sanctuary of nil.

Lay undone, unwed and undressed on
stinging rocks to become prey.
A carnivorous obstruction to mollify.

This is the humid color of summer.
The fox red wife in obscurity chanting invisible.

Be nothing if not marble – quoting the diamonds
that distress the uncanny wire sneaking round her.

Once more this avenue squeals without a name.


Mitch Green founded Rad Press Publishing in September of 2016. He is an avid artist in visual design and literature. Published in various literary journals and magazines: The Literary Yard. The Penmen Review. Vimfire Magazine – Mitch aims to seize the narrow line between all artistic mediums.

A few of his known poetic titles are: “Flesh Phoenix” “Monsters” “The Wolves Howled”.

Offering his hand in graphic direction – his book design portfolio can be found here.
Follow Mitch and Rad Press Publishing on Instagram.

Best Man-Lois Linkens

AC4A55E2FA134267827D51E718890DE9.jpg

Pink tie

A long satin tongue.

Soft black hair,

Nutbrown shoes

And brown skin.

August sun

Is glitter

In the beer,

Like flies across a golden lake,

Bugs in amber.

The bouquet

Fell flat,

A red yellow green corpse

Of us,

And then there was nothing

But your eyes

And my crooked feet

And Bowie

Floats on coloured lights

And all I feel is you.


Lois is a poet and student from England. She is studying the literature of the Romantics and hopes their values and innovations will filter through into her own work. She is working on longer projects at present, with a hope to publish poetry collections and novels in the years to come. She is a feminist, an nostalgic optimist, and a quiet voice in the shadows of Joanne Baillie and Charlotte Smith. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkens.

One Day in the Summer – Jonathan O’Farrell

One day

 in the summer

I knew it would come.

The heat, the season,

the roses,

 all the parts thereof

and what joys,

what joys are displayed?

But when that time comes,

as surely those blooms unfurl

I ask those questions.

How do I even begin, or end this,

 to feel sufficiently

 the beautiful now, of it.

This day, it is aways othering,

 not my now.

I gave by my hands,

that were indeed loved.

An intended severance,

those acute cuts

 of kindness.

Then a parting gift,

 pressed firmly against my lips,

for a future uncaged.

Goes then, shown gathering

 also so many, seashells,

new memories,

on that sultry, salty, foreshore.

No wild breakers,

yet, there beside

many days may remain

to us, also roses.


“I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, with writing, photography, healing garden project updates and travel journals:

https://misterkaki-writer.substack.com

It’s no comfort – Samantha Lucero

It’s no comfort knowing that you’re buried,
deep down, taking earth around you
like blankets that fall apart and crawl.

But seasons still disrobed like actors
backstage in a play, in front of
everyone. Even with you
gone, the world moved on.
And I watched. We all did.
Forced to watch, without you,
with seasons pouring the years
between us in vanishing old flannel,
smelling like Salem filter kings,
soft.

Spring grew through us both
like a blade.
And you died in the summer.

A diamond in that box
they buried you in, deep down,
where you fall apart and crawl, too,
by now. Still waiting to be proposed,
like the plan to go back to Santa Fe.

Sometimes I wait for you to show,
maybe at the movie I go to alone,
sitting next to me when I peek over
in the flickering dark.
You could come around a corner
on a walk, and
not even say hello.

When I die, leave my eyes wide open
let them see that I’m dead.
Then burn me,
take my ashes to the Burren
where the wind will tear me apart
and take me farther away.
And my daughters can’t go to my
grave and wonder
Is she alive down there?
Please be alive,
somewhere.

They can breathe me in
Or taste me instead.
when they lick their lips
after swimming in the sea.

And you’ll still be in that box,
waiting to go back to Santa Fe.

 


 

[Samantha Lucero does six red seeds.]