Are we asking the right questions?

who am i

Who I Am
by Lennie Bezwik

I’m a writer
who keeps his writing
to himself,

a traveller
who avoids
other travellers,

a musician
who never

a worker
who doesn’t
wanna work,

a drinker
who wants
to give up,

an Englishman
who lives

a leftie
who can’t stand
the left,

a joker
who rarely

a lover
who expresses
hate more easily,

an opinionated man
who keeps

when I need to be

when I need to be

Crazed horses in her eyes

crazy horses

My Ekphrasis Is A Fraud
by Michele Seminara

on the head of the stick
shoved into his mouth
to choke violent eruptions

crazed horses
restrained beneath
brows of extreme malcontent

with her handkerchief
twisting and twisting
a noose around the wrist
of despair’s swollen neck

This is the picture I used to mask our love’s lament

*Inspired by Scottish artist Thomas Faed’s painting of a miserable couple, entitled “Faults on Both Sides”.

(First published in Deep Water Literary Journal 2013)

Bodies concrete in eye-skin cememnt


by Joan McNerney

the kitchen sits
in fruit soup…
steamed apricot
mango shadow

down thru spinning
smoke into hot light
blink beat

body ends dangle
lead eye skin cement
high on tongue

night pasted among
buildings Styrofoam clouds
moon hung beneath billboard

rolling pass wet
rocked streets
soul tramp
diamond panhandlers watch
paper birds slices of
the daily news drift in air

comes cool ether
whispers up door
climbing dusty corridor 

tree windows lapping lisp
door slams again noise again
then none void nothing syncopates
noise again door slams tree bare frozen

caught in the image of 7 candles
within 7 candles flames of air
7 light bulbs growing out of each other
7 silver circles coined from 7 silver rings

clear as blazing sheets
of glass yet
vague as dust
an ice cube on wood table
in front of crushed velvet

when this sky now boiling with
stars is strapped black
in pinched air thru sucked mind
swimming pass spaced time
will be one silent
note up.

I see dead poems everywhere

Poem & Bones
by David Garrett Izzo

A poem lasts; bones change into oil.
“One is a verbal artifact; the oil comes from dead things and turns all our cars into hearses:
“I see dead people.”

Dinosaur bones went into the ground really deep and the pressure turned them into fossil fuel.

Barney is your passenger today and every day.

Poems will last as long as trees grow

Poems on the internet will last as long as there is electricity
Which comes from (all at once now) fossil fuel

(Is there a pattern here?)

More like a circle that’s been expanding since the big bang.
What goes around comes around.

Watch careful now, the verbal artifacts are here.

To hug your cold body

Technology Is Not Advanced
by Nilofer Neubert 

there is a comfort in knowing that if we were born in the eighteen century
we would have never survived the time difference, the physical distance. 

there is a comfort in knowing that if our words never ventured the www
our IP addresses would have never crossed paths, and
we would never knew how the other tasted like. 

there is a comfort in knowing that if no one had a flare for Math,
and never thought that studying Mechanical Engineering 101 or 202 was their poetry
planes would only appear in pages of stories instead of
being able to glide so elegantly
from Asia to Europe, Europe to Asia.

there is a comfort in knowing that someone saw the need for a programme
for people around the world to get closer;
he threw in free calls, video chat, instant messaging all into one
called it Skype;
Skype, the next best thing to human touch, or so she aims to be.

despite the free calls and instant messages we seek solace in
no one has invented something that allows me
to split into my basic atomic form
to travel through invisible wires
defying the rules of time differences and the miles between us
to reach you within seconds
only for you to watch as I reform
atom by atom
till I am solid enough
to hug your cold body as
you lie on your carpeted floor,
floored by the lack of my presence
to keep you upright.