Month: August 2013

Three Poems by Brad Liening

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Three Poems


Brad Liening


Insightful attention to context

Reflects a toxic download

Weaned on generational neglect.


Countdown to culture bound

Metaphysical slouch and apathy,

One start-up away from a suburb


In which financial analysts fund

The opposition into comfort

And fantastic anniversaries.


Startled into ubiquitous song,

Dead bodies produce respectable,

Dissenting manifestoes.


I’ve Been Sick

Cold hands slap the sweat and bow down.

Technology recovery programs litter

The latter part of the bit century.


It’s a bleeding that fogs the swallow,

The paddleboat full of ghosts

Marking a refracted anniversary


Kept alive in ceremonial songs

Taught to hoodwinked kids

Lining the smoking banks.


Tarred and feathered and bled

To a dram of whiskey at the crucifixion party,

The family tree just burns and burns and burns.




Stuck tunnels exude valorous roaring.

Insurrectionist marching rings in reaction

To irreducible dead-end verdicts.


Draggy despair loops the piling on

In hard smacks and flits from

Awful triumph to outrageous disgrace,

Filling the air with idiocy like a selfie.


Our children’s seepage vibrates and begins.


Hot gel reddens the appendicular

Recording in the souped-up Google

Acting as ad hoc cannery

In a blurting hemorrhage of regret.


A glorious parody we can hang

Our hushed velvety hats on

In a druggy age of decimated fasting

And symbolic gestures twiddling

Around our far-flung and dim diasporas.


All my friends posting great surfeits

Of photos stuck mid-twitch and dead.


Top-down decrees flatten the imagination


Toiling in the dusty bowls

Of forgotten wanton action


Grown bony and slim in gummy talking

Flashed out across the tedious years

Of pyrrhic calculations forever lagging

Behind the dunderheaded steaming appeal,


Feeling the grinding drool

Based in the baser bases of tools

Wound up and down in alcohol-fueled

Paroxysms of applauding surges.


Carved initials floating in space

Ratify the dumbed-down doubt and combust.


Stigmatized scraps hoot and fool

The cool sidebar of celebrity opinion

And log the loss into the seemingly acceptable,


Tanks of razors trundled through a night

That’s causing cancer in the community

Of upstream department store soirees.


Open season begs obvious advantage

And purges the nipping urges

In the worst possible ways made okay

Via rowdy apologies smoothed and arranged.


Kamikaze appropriation laces the wild

Highways and uneven distribution engaged

In constant and dainty escape

Converging in synchronized baloney.


Bastardized butchery sings the hymn

And flogs the appalled absence.


Poetic Statement: I’m against flummery and mannerly poems of introspective melancholy. I’m for noise and direct engagement with the world.

BIO: Brad Liening is the author of DEATH SALAD, available from gobbet press.


Three Poems by Tim MacKay

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Three Poems


Tim MacKay

to a sign
meant to wait
sing upon sight
four sore Sage eyes
on the thrown
out no anchor
horse heroine float
vigil & voice
accord or carry
water in words
worlds wade wander
full flung futures
cling sing be to
a sign


in pixels past
passion our war
drobes and drones
= infinite
when nows are night’s next
a collide a scope
against dawn low
hanging free (but) farther
figures dance
at finger fruit tips
for remixing a rerun
weigh word models
set us in morning
not herd nor here
to account for
costs of accosting
a tomb’s marrow
is our morrow mastered
or mask arcade
costume & cast kit
hybrid hour
time has come
back but boneless


truism lick spit
a street sweet girl mi-
nus a nosegay
pale glow who
knew why you ?
yolked blow & spray
2 86 words
4 “nervous” down ?
sin daisy knows
erectus bouquet
bounce bow to de
sign of a posy
spice spit a lap
dog art decorum
or rum or meat
mercury rinse
gutter or stage
an ornament of the worm
fever felt drama-
mine won’t decay
forever florid

Poetry that interests me and what I try to adhere to in my work is a poetry that eschews and challenges normative and easy syntax and grammar and shoots for a radical enjambment of loaded ideas through puns and sounds forcing and patterns of (dis)connections. (No prose poetry is a steadfast rule for me.)


I currently live in Toronto where I work for a small non-profit publisher and create analog collages when I’m not walking my dogs. (You can find my artwork here: ) My poetry has been published in, Guerilla Pamphlets, and Take It To The Streets Poetry.

CLick here to read the chapbook The Lie of The Land

Three Poems by Boona Daroom

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Three Poems


Boona Daroom

Horse’s Grave

Emotionless pines

we’ve proved stir.

Red August

itching up. No ring

raising cane

when Empty came

almost completely

bored worn. Bare hearts.


 Girl with the Padlock

Girl with the padlock on her cellular

Sighs between exhales and consonants

Plight barrels through who knows

What she whorls through Alexander Hamilton

Two hours from now we’ll be fire

Slurred hocks slobbering corrosive

I hide inside salmon berry bush

Blunderings like power lines

We lay under the splayed light plastic

Dreary sentences on Fourteenth Street

The Arms Morpheus

Morning watched a glass shatter

Ice in the basement made a turtle

She dove into her sheets she

Saw reflected a mother’s face

Men tramped snow in and out

Shushing everyone was blue

And rich chicks pulled

Up black socks

At the dog track

Soldiers blathered things

About oil and containers

You shouldn’t drink from

Like robots dismantle themselves

To see all their thoughts



Boona Daroom is 29. His poetry has appeared in SOFTBLOW, LIT and

other places. He lives in Brooklyn.

Two Poems by George J. Farrah

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Two Poems
George J. Farrah


You can walk along side it

on a front of a wall cloud

moving through a town

you can move up to it on a

short sighted path longer

then imagined and colder someone

somewhere answered then

and went back


a forest is a lobby

a tree a sandwich

a border a forest

every thought a town a possibility    of

something someone or somewhere where

pneumonia takes you         or venom cures

you or a peninsula of any waiting at all

this is a deserted border

this is also a secure border and

you must move this is just so and

no one knows

  why really no matter what they say

  and well advanced 20 feet to know so

  or not know so

now everyone said and everyone

voted coming to an end like this

sill feels so new

this is a reparation

and a variation and yet a

captioned city

 flying of buttresses
over my wall I was sheltered shuddering
considering but happy
to see the spark of the back
flowering rung up & down
the arms legs and chest
brightest stitching of the
hottest flesh
in the valley of
against points of
burning trees or cars
or crows
it is even a world
it is always a word
and your are always lost to it at
the sense of accuracy is
challenged in the
mediums of water &
 to quit his or
her   time to
cry out
no salt no time
and no visors
they must leave and find a
new home now
I will cross
your words
again and begin.


George J. Farrah received an MFA from Bard College, NY.
Book forthcoming from Ravenna Press, The Low Pouring Stars
His work has appeared in The Washington Review, Open 24 Hrs., Ribot,
BUGHOUSE, Fourteen Hills, Disturbed Guillotine, Tight, Aileron, Fish Drum, The Columbia Poetry Review; Caldron And Net, Moria , CROWD, Xstream, MORIA, Ampersand, Elimae, Blaze VOX, BHOuse vol.2, Blue and Yellow Dog,
Experiential-Experimental Literature, Los Magazine, Anemone Sidecar, truck,
Counter Example, Altered Scale and others.