Splatters of paint on the canvas
halfway between Mandelbrot
and Rorschach—depending on
whichever way it is tipped. To make
Kandinsky cry, just show it to him
at different angles and it’ll be new,
it will be another nightmare
cusping on the fantasy-life
of leisure and sunsets and art
or coming home to find your maid has
knocked your devotion over, careless
of which of its ups was up. You cried
“Eureka!” for the change of perspective
(or at least used that as an excuse
to run soaking and naked in the streets).
Carson Pytell is a writer living outside Albany, New York, whose work appears in such venues as The Adirondack Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth River, and The Heartland Review. He serves as Assistant Poetry Editor of Coastal Shelf, and his most recent chapbooks are Tomorrow Everyday, Yesterday Too (Anxiety Press, 2022), and A Little Smaller Than the Final Quark (Bullshit Lit, 2022)
Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer. His writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Meridian, Rattle, The Southern Review, Fence, Texas Review and Atlanta Review among others. He also publishes the writing prompt blog Notebooking Daily, and edits the literary journal Coastal Shelf.
Drinking a privilege of love from the witch,
She knowingly knows more truth than I do,
As life had hid all my future…
Leaving a letter of blood around the bed table…
She confesses to have taken me as her husband in the demon’s land…
This will be my reimbursement for her return…
Presently, she is waiting for me downstairs,
A ring starched on her fingers…
A reign stiffened on my fingers…
This will be my reimbursement for her upturn…
Yet that freezes me out to the deepest coconut,
As she opens the magic portal leading to my heart.
Alshaad Kara is a Mauritian poet who writes from his heart. His latest poems were published in one Magazine, “parABnormal Magazine September 2022” and three anthologies, “Les gardeurs de Rêves”, “Love Letters to Poe, Volume 2: Houses of Usher” and “20.35 Africa: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry Vol. V”.
Pacing around the hospital room
Celebrating my life beginning anew
While mere feet away many Loved will shortly ascend
Seeing their last glows of fluorescent lights before The End
I know most associate them with stale coffee
But I always felt they shone down quite heavenly
Sparkling and igniting inner luminosity
I hope the Loved are spellbound by that sight
And when they go to the Light
The angels will tell them
They were always winking down at them
Through part of humankind’s own desire to be bright
Jennifer Klein is a writer, musician, and artist who has been writing since childhood. Poetry is one of her favorite ways to make social commentary and merge her inner and outer worlds. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Fahmidan Journal, āraśi, and Pages Literary Journal. She received a bachelor’s degree in English with minors in Dutch Studies and Norwegian from Indiana University Bloomington. You can follow her on Instagram @JenniferKleinReal
Death sacrifice arpeggio locality not to go where you have to go not to be whom you must be not to think not to know not to forget not to lie not to understand not to fall vertigo not not to fall trying to stay balanced on the balcony between two worlds as on a tomb between two worlds in balance not falling not finding the void under your feet not speaking to the void I cannot tell the void how much we suffer we suffer from what we suffer from ourselves we suffer from others I glued the stars to the ceiling I ran to the fish stalls and I watched them shine and I leave them watch them shine in the night each star had a name each star has something of me in its flesh in my flesh you must not fall on the path the path that leads from one point to another and which always comes back to itself this path you have taken it thousands of times thousands of times you had to come back to yourself you came back to watch yourself die and be born and to die and to die you came back to see faces that you had not seen for so long that they seemed to be carved on the stones of the tombs these images which surround you hardly have any more names which are part of your past these images of flesh these faces of flesh these bodies without flesh those are the skeletons hanging in the attics that when the wind blows start dancing in the void suspended by ropes that’s the dance of the skeletons that’s the dance of the dead the bones bump into each other in such a way that after a while you no longer know which skeleton belongs to which body and it doesn’t matter you vaguely remember the time of your childhood when you weren’t a man anymore a man not yet a man not yet a living being but you never became a living being you never became yourself you vaguely remember your father you vaguely remember these traces that remain in your memory that no longer correspond to anything because you are no longer anything because you have ceased to be and to think to love you have ceased to be able to know you have ceased to want and soon you will have to suddenly disappear as if erased on the blackboard of the mind suddenly you will fall into oblivion on the tombstone and under the stone there is a staircase always the same take the same staircase which leads to hell but hell is at the surface we already live in hell we are dancing skeletons tied to the ends of ropes in an attic that the mice that pass through the attic on the parquet floor don’t even see so busy trying to survive little gray mice trying to eat and we don’t matter to them at all.
Ivan de Monbrison is a French poet, writer, and artist born in 1969 in Paris, he currently lives in Saint-Mandé, France, near Paris. His poems or short stories have appeared in several literary magazines. Eight poetry chapbooks of his works have been published: L’ombre déchirée (1995), Journal (1997), La corde ànu (2000), Ossuaire (2009), Sur-Faces (2011), The Overflowing Body (2018), Irradié (2020) and La Cicatrice Nue (2020). His novels include: Les Maldormants (2014), L’Heure Impure (2016), Orgasmes et Fantaisies (2016), Nanaqui ou les Tribulations d’unpoète (2017), Le Vide Intime (2020).