I am the NPC in someone else’s reality, a side character in someone else’s story. There is no dragon to slay and no maiden to lay in the castle dungeon, just a prison. There are no quests, no mythical and magical lands, no courage in my chest and no powers from my hand. There is no consequence for my absence or presence, as just another glitch in the matrix.
Exploding Head Syndrome
In my tired mind, Chris crossed wires create copper currents, infusing blown fuses with stuttering static synapses shocking the senses into hallucinations of white noise black outs.
Little Poem
I am a little poem, made, not born, as rough scrap paper drafts folded into paper airplanes crash landing through blizzards of crumpled snow balls into the overflowing recycling bin until the inevitable avalanche. But with too many words to write, there are only so many empty pages of white.
Chris Butler is an illiterate poet. He has previously published 500 poems, including his 10 book “Poems of Pain” series, including Artsy Fartsy (Alternating Current Press), BUMMER (Scars Publications), Neurotica (Down in the Dirt) and DOOMER (Ethel Press). He co-wrote a book of poems, Dead Beats, with Dr. Randall K. Rogers. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal.
Radio? Radio! News cast, a lure a hook, whether I should or should not.
These days are cold; nights hot, a conformity desert for the song and the city, no end probable. News may never stop but there is control — pop news for pop people with pop tastes — thought control… Individual termination, a politics of fashion to be worn, warned, or discarded…
All census and no report.
ii)
Have a pleasant evening? … As I am ordered then to do.
A-ha! So clumsy. A-ha! So deafened… A night of firsts.
I know what I am doing: not enough, no — not enough. Everyone is beyond, out of range of vision and “vulnerable” bites.
Everytime I see that wall of brick, I see a wall of brick. The window panes insult me like the bird.
… Please don’t kill what makes “me”.
iii)
Gasp from my tears, hide in the blatant, safe in the open. Every society needs their bastard like in their stories I disbelieve.
I am forced to look behind all masks because they are there. Most masks smile: those who donned them deaden.
Lit with awe and wonderment this night, a suspect am I. All ways in ways no more I will see what is left to be done.
Look beyond the rags on that fence. I will say hello… And scare you.
The voice on the radio stutters.
iv.)
Us us, or them them?
Some point in argument, all that sustains the pop plan leads me lost, rules my ruin — the propaganda of sticks! All as one is strength is not when one is one and knows, when everyone is aware as merely a one there can be no bundling, no propaganda of sticks.
Too much is too little. The majority are tight. The societal common stagnates — so many creative ways to be imprisoned by the imprisoned.
v.)
Shown the starkness of being, awareness creeps that the average are sold the gain of strength through conformity. They are to aspire to be a part, a piece, never a whole, no self in a part, in a piece.
The powers devised a plan that all should be unaware in a swarm’s instinct.
Am not weak — am not apathetic. They hate, so hate themselves, fight and struggle — stare with eyes growing weaker at such sights.
vi.)
“So, you think you’re special, huh?” … No. I just have my differences.
“So is that what makes you think you’re so special, then?” … No. You just seem to have known no one different than you or your belief and ways. I do not share your beliefs. I do not share your ways. I am no more; I am no less.
“Not being too elitist are you?”
The voice on the radio changes.
vii.)
No clear patterns have emerged as to who as a rule will succumb to individuality or of awareness nearly individual; freedom is myriad.
Conformists have died on their coffee break. Conformists have died during coroner inquests. Conformists have pulled party lines too hardline. Conformists have died live and on the air.
They are they and I am a man out of room. They cannot break what has been broken, an attracted stare that will not undress just any woman.
viii.)
Listen! An underscored symphony.
A lot of time is spent out of room. Firsts are reluctant; to fight for. The thinker must fight to think and to practice the thought.
If the room was my mind I would arrange my thoughts felt physically, to be the scene — would be the centre of it intricate.
In this place when one leaves one leaves with them, and everyone is there as bereavement clashes.
ix.)
The place is bleak cold and dark; most endangered are the naked in the rain. No security, no shelter. Fear makes it darken, sends you deeper, clutching the broken.
Be adrift in the cinema of the soul. Sordid corners, eMpTyVision, satisfaction is not mine; performance is not yours.
Let go — all this time. All this pain — too long. Stay not still. Century to century. Fire. Murder. Wheel. Moon.
David Alec Knight grew up in Chatham, Ontario, Canada. In 2021, David was recipient of The Ted Plantos Memorial Award for Poetry. His first book of poetry, The
Heart Is A Hollow Organ, soon followed. His second book of poetry, LEPER MOSH, was published by Cajun Mutt Press in 2022. It featured his artwork on the cover, combining his interest in art with his writing.
Recent works have appeared in Verse Afire, Night Owl Narrative, and Medusa’s Kitchen. Anthology appearances include Poets For Ukraine Volume 1 and Love Lies Bleeding.
David sees dark and light around him in equal measure and explores that in his poetry, whether exploring working class themes, neurodivergence, addiction, urban living in conflict with Nature, and the effects all these things have on relationships.
Once flesh, in the visible world, I am this stone. It bears my name and figures that’s enough. You can touch it but any response is all up to you. My stone will, forever, have a stone’s life.
Maybe my image floats up in your head. But, without the being to back it up, I am increasingly decreasing.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
Born in Norman, Oklahoma, Carrie Magness Radna is an audio and moving image (AMI) description cataloger at the New York Public Library, an Associate Editor of Brownstone Poets, a singer, a lyricist-songwriter and a poet who loves to travel (when it’s safe). Her poems have previously appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spillwords.com, Alien Buddha Press, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jerry’s Jazz Musician, First Literary Review-East, et al. Prizes: “all trains are haunted” (Non-rhyming poetry: Honorable Mention) and “May (a Pantoum)” (Rhyming poetry: Honorable Mention), both of the 89th and 90th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. “Pink (a Ghazal)” was the Third Prize Winner (Rhyming Poetry) of the 91st Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition (2022). Nominations: The Pushcart Prize (2022-2023), The Best of the Web (2022). Chapbooks: Conversations with dead composers at Carnegie Hall (Flutter Press, now defunct: 2019) and Remembering you as I go walking (Boxwood Star Press, self-published). Poetry collections: Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press: 2019), In the blue hour (Nirala Publications: February 2021) and Shooting Myself in the Dark (Cajun Mutt Press: 2023). She lives in Manhattan, New York with her husband Rudolf. https://www.carriemagnessradna.com
I should have slept with you that night I could have gotten us a hotel
I should have booked a hotel Not far from the bar
Someplace close to the bar It wouldn’t have mattered where
Wouldn’t have made a difference where As long as you get your dick sucked
As long as you get your dick wet All before breakfast
As long as you come before breakfast Now, every sight of me is an eye roll
Every time you see me, you roll your eyes. Preparing like I’m some kind of level 5 hurricane
A Kind Thing
So, this man’s backpack falls on the floor of the cafe. Everyone thinks this is a Starbucks. His bag is a combination of black and gray, small for Things like a laptop and a notebook. My instinct is to pick it up, and sit it back in the chair Before he returns from the bathroom, But I’m afraid if he comes out, and sees me holding it, He will cause a fuss, Accuse me of stealing, so I leave it on the floor No matter how much I want to pick it up. When the white man returns to see his backpack, He picks it up, and sits it back in one of the chairs at his table. I could have done something kind, But I didn’t want to get yelled at, I didn’t want to be accused of stealing.
Adam
How can you despise me When I think you’re the prettiest boy in the bar? Even after you and Stevo fell out, Even now when he won’t speak your name. Why do you look at me with such disdain When all I do is bless you with light, Baptize you with all the love You can stand?
50 Bucks on My 51st
As my mother walks about the house upset About the broken ice maker not working in her 1000-dollar refrigerator She slips me a check for fifty bucks and says Happy Birthday. It’s nice to know what I’m worth. My sister will probably get more.
Ammunition
Dear Daddy,
You might as well hand Ma a box of bullets, Watch her load the gun, Go stand wherever she wants you to stand And take your execution like a man.
Love,
Your Son
AngryA Tantalizing WeekA Friend’s PantiesA Ten Buck Phone FuckA Letter To You
Shane Allison has been writing poetry since the age of fifteen when he would hide off in the library writing sappy love poems about high school crushes. He has gone on to publish poems in a plethora of lit mags and anthologies. He has pinned two novels You’re the One I Want and Harm Done both published by Simon & Schuster. His latest poetry collection, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass is out from Dumpster Fire Press. You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.
