Saturday, August 27, 2022
Three Poems by Gary Beck
A Poem by Brigitte Goetze
Two Poems by David Chorlton
A Poem by Brenton Booth
Sunday, August 21, 2022
A Poem by Alisa Velaj
Saturday, August 13, 2022
Three Poems by J.J. Campbell
avoid the punches
a reason we
have a schedule
roll out of bed
and just start
trying to avoid
on the phone
arthritis so damn
bad that heroin is
the most viable
and they tell me
be looked at as
these young souls
have no clue what’s
coming for them
but every blue moon
any hatred of life
but every blue
moon I come
souls don’t make
a happy life
it’s a race to the
death and neither
of us are lucky
enough to win
more than anything left on this earth
a random text at
two in the morning
to the woman that
swears she loves you
more than anything
left on this earth
yet, you haven’t heard
anything from her in
over a month
and it is always that
first feeling that something
more than self-hatred could
actually exist for you on
and then comes a right
cross out of nowhere
knocking the inevitable
dark reality back into
not everyone gets the girl
rainbows don’t have pots
hell, they don’t even have
a beginning or an end
happiness is a concept
only meant for a higher
your father always told you
you’d be a better ditch digger
than a poet
yet another bottle of scotch
J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Otoliths, Cajun Mutt Press, Terror House Magazine, and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Three Poems by Sy Roth
Can’t Kill the Beast
There it is again,
That desert highway
Rolling lanes of emptiness
Sand crawling along with the wind
Swept one side to the next
Mini- hills coupling,
Swarming sweatily among the dry detritus
Until new winds glibly wreak havoc with their foundations
While the hillocks reform endlessly.
The beast winning the battles,
Roars its pleasure
Over the bleached bones that lay scattered
In their valley of life.
They have their sciences,
Their concocted salvation,
A salve on the miles that they envision
Stretching to forever
Even though the beast lies in wait
And they seek to prolong inevitability.
The beast will roar
And add their bones eventually
To the hills of sand
That continues its march to the end
While they drink their potions,
Inject their medicines in a hocus pocus frenzy.
While the beast lies in wait
Ready to roar with its renewed laughter
At their shades, their ghosts, and their spirits.
What a cruel house.
It consumed her in inches
Like her life that waxed and waned in its own time.
She was struck with trepidation
Down to two, perhaps three cigarettes a day
Engulfing her lungs in an alveoli death.
The room closed in around her
Walled fortress that could not keep the boatman
From traversing the inky sea.
Finality, her home a jar of her essence
In her own time
Brain bleeding from exhaustion.
Where did all her thoughts go into nether regions
While sitting on the portable crapper
Providing some relief as life sped out of her?
Nearly a millennium of a curmudgeonly trespass
On sheets of bed-logged linen, rolls of cleansing wipes,
Papers of a life consumed into a nothingness.
They mourned for two hours
And gladly left her remains encased in her bronze crypt
With the one picture of a self who can only be imagined.
Is This Dante’s Inferno?
Just David the instructor and I were there
Residing in the quiet
Thinking nothing special
When the door creaks open 11:30 a.m.
Ten minutes away from the start of class.
Some shuffle in in restless anticipation.
Drifters huddle in small groups at desks
Bending close to the ears of classmates
Who in consternation
Work at the words they hardly hear
Struggling to make meaning of inanity.
The instructor hasn’t begun yet in earnest.
He distributes dessert bars in anticipation
Of an hour with King George I.
A tentative being halts at the door,
Head jerking this way and that.
In the back of the room, one reads Killing Reagan.
David in front sets up the video.
The tentative intruder asks, “Is this Dante’s Inferno?”
“No, it’s next door,” I blurt.
David and I stare at one another.
The door slams shut as she hurriedly exits
And we tacitly agree
Behind our eyes—
Perhaps it is.
Sy Roth is still writing and trying to find his answer to the darkness.
Sunday, August 7, 2022
Now Accepting Submissions!
That's right, we are open for new submissions again!
It's been awhile, and I've missed you all! Cannot wait to see what you've been up to while I was gone.
Things are gonna be slightly different in that we will be publishing weekly instead of daily for now, but otherwise is still the Pyrokinection you love and remember. So drop by the guidelines page and start sending us work!