Featured Poems

copper angel

by on December 10, 2017 :: 0 comments

I don’t like the idea of angels
giving me the angle
of Heaven being
the picture-perfect monarchy
basking in cosmic disco lights
strobe getting on high of mind
a conversation
over fried chicken and coffee
honey dipped- crisp
coffee- black
she wore a coat of blue monkey skin
her eyes- purple and red
art lies- Abraham Lincoln
made of pennies
won the prize
it was Armageddon
before we even met
all we left- a pile of bones
on a single plate
hand in hand
bean juice backwash
on the bottom of mugs

editors note:

Is it heaven, or fried chicken? Not sure? How ’bout I flip you for it? – mh clay

Waiting for the poems

by on December 9, 2017 :: 0 comments

I’d love to imagine it’s like
inventing some new gadget
something streamlined and
bursting with possibilities,
or coming across the cure
for something that plagues
humanity with rashes and
blockages, or it’s like giving
birth in some way to bits of
me, bawling brawling brats
of me, spitting images and
metaphors into the wise eye
of tomorrow, or it’s like
an explorer, a lost traveler
uncovering a valley where
no one has ever been and
returned to say, the maps
got it wrong, come with me,
or then again maybe it’s like
playing some childish game
again, like at hide and seek,
or kick the can and it’s getting
so dark I finally realize I’m
alone in all this, or perhaps
it’s like I’m playing tag alone
in a blizzard, drawing with
my eyes closed, or singing
a song that has no words,
nor melody till I sing it.

editors note:

Yup, it’s maybe like that… just sing in your own key. – mh clay


by on December 8, 2017 :: 0 comments

When I was 19 going on 20
I found a forum on the internet,
a rebellion of women
begging their bodies to bend
begging their bodies to break
begging their bodies to burn,
stoking flicking licking flames
with their competitive emptiness
masquerading as recovery.

And I let all of their dancing make me feel
like a mountain range,
like my body was all bulge and bloat
just waiting to explode,
waiting to be turned into ash.

Their fire sharpened my bones,
stripped my sinew from its sticking place
as my friends IRL raved about my bravery,
my courage to finally accept that no one loves a fat girl—

—never mind the hair falling out in clumps or
the patches of skin that will never heal,
no matter how much weight you gain back—

—no, the thick is in the thin
and that’s all they’ll see.

These digital women, with their
careful calorie counts and
pictures that all looked like the same person—

—in the forum we were all competing
to be the best version of the same person,
like some dystopian novel where
the girl with the smallest wrists will save us.
The world is watching
and only one of us will make it out alive
and it won’t be the one who threatens status quo with poisonous berries in her mouth,
no, it will be the one who waits until her final gasping breath
to ask for a sip of water,
no lemon.

– Ellex Sea

editors note:

Don’t shame bodies, the size of bottoms! The real shame lies in the chicanery of the chic, who really only care about the size of their bottom lines. – mh clay

Snow Blankets the Eastern Hills

by on December 7, 2017 :: 0 comments

Come look. From the balcony.
If you shudder and cough
a moment later you’ll sigh.
Tell me. Is sister sleeping?
Is the landscape weeping?
Is Abigail peeking? This landscape
so bleak and stiflingly echolalic –
Is a white carpet worth a wintry
hemisphere? –
frost’s babbling brook
but mutely monochromatic apocalyptic.
Nearer. Come see the view
nearer the pith.
This may be
maybe may be
what sleep
is like.

editors note:

And, is sleep what waking is like? (This poem comes from Darryl’s recently published collection, Life’s Prisoners. You can get your copy here. Congratulations, Darryl!) – mh clay


by on December 6, 2017 :: 0 comments

As a child, we would catch
our own bait.
My father would upturn
a rock after a rain
and point down.
‘Grab one’ he would instruct
me and I would reach
deep into the sleeve of styrofoam
cups. Handing it to him,
I would stare into the dirt
writhing with worms. He shoveled
earth and its passengers
away before clapping the mud
from his jeans, the ground looking
less alive.

– David Walker

editors note:

Childhood parsing of bait from baiter. Next comes fish from fisher.  – mh clay


by on December 5, 2017 :: 0 comments

i can’t see no vision i’m blinded
i see:
Houston in rivers,
the whiteman and blackman.

swimming in a pearl of sot.

looking out! the news, worldwide is about.

but i don’t live there.

i live in Freetown, Sierra Leone
i live in Karachi, Pakistan
i live where the dying are.

i am drowning and i am dying.
my skin is too grey or black,
my pocketbook is too unfilled

Lloyd’s insurance of last resort
will never cover me.
i’m too dirty, polluted, worthless.

I Am the First; soon, you will suffer this way too.

– David Susswein

editors note:

Don’t turn a blind eye; lest, from this first come many… – mh clay

Fate & Destiny

by on December 4, 2017 :: 0 comments

A thistledown!
A cotton fiber!
A mountain range!
Ascents and descents!
A Sisyphus!
A useless but
Beautiful struggle!
Of fate and destiny…

But hey!
Was the fiber struggling
At its own will?
Wasn’t there this playful breeze
At play?
Isn’t man— who believes in ‘destiny’—
A victim of the rootless storms?

Bang! And there was—
There came planets
From the star? Hey!!
Where did the
Stars come from??
From the void??
And if so, where did the void
Come from?!

editors note:

So many questions, right? In fear, or fun, we devise our own answers. – mh clay