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Samantha Lucero hit dangerously close to home with this piece. It’ll be two years gone by, tomorrow.

samantha lucero

my scent, not his scent,
but by some changeling blood
could spread the same smile
on halloween. on christmas
waking up in blankets
it didn’t fall asleep in.

there’s bricks that hold down a red
bottlebrush flower from 1994.
remember,
she called you honeysuckle,
and thought rats had no bones.

i remember
my small hand in his
big glove, rough inside
like sand paper. old yellow leather in
a white truck stuck together
with luck, cigarettes in a soft pack,
right in your shirt pocket, next to the
heart in my hand, in your glove
in a warm cup of coffee,

i could live on that smell and skip
meals for the month of
october.
just the memory of it,
and the dregs of
california pain.

i could armor myself in you.
live in your flannel and die.
carve a valknut in my chest
over the hole where no light

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vogue- Lois E. Linkens

Lois E. Linkins’, “vogue,” is simply brilliant.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

pages, pages, pages
dripping in incongruity;
train tracks, and European travel nudging
the green hills of England.
renovations, renovations
– ‘i am so, so pleased.’ 
my splendid white house sings virtue. 
you must be one way, just this way
madam, see
these women
with Betty bangs and bobs,
who write about the Mona Lisa
and dream of being her,
there is a lotion for that loathing,
it pays for the print.


Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkins.

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Vagabond – Mitch Green

“Vagabond,” by Mitch Green, is as unsettling as it is beautiful.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

With an omen in an
open dress, I am stranded
south of home with her
grey weight now purple;
flushed elusive.

You can see it,
in the whites of her eyes.
The propaganda bowl,
colorless and vain;
a vagabond carved out
of frame.

Cursing curses
with reading wrists,
she is now the
maker of noise.

Aloud and allowed.

{Mitch Green founded Rad Press Publishing in September of 2016. He is an avid artist in visual design and literature. Published in various literary journals and magazines: The Literary Yard. The Penmen Review. Vimfire Magazine – Mitch aims to seize the narrow line between all artistic mediums.

A few of his known poetic titles are: “Flesh Phoenix” “Monsters” “The Wolves Howled”.

Offering his hand in graphic direction – his book design portfolio can be found here.

Follow Mitch and Rad Press Publishing on Instagram.}

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Cosmic Things

“Cosmic Things,” by Nicole Lyons, is a lamentation on all that glitters is not gold. Beautiful.

The Lithium Chronicles

I have fallen in love with far too many
beautiful things – cosmic things – like
the way the sun shines on dying stars,
and how it eclipses the wishes of forgotten souls.
I have fallen in love with the wildest beasts,
the ones that howl beneath full blue moons,
bursting as they wait to watch you
unbuckle my wishes from Orion’s Belt.
I have fallen in love with the velvety touch
of the milkiest ways, and I dread the day when
I wake up and am left with nothing
but the tragic crash of a love born only in this world.

©Nicole Lyons 2018

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Some sunshine

“…there’s grave dirt on my hands…and I ponder how many dead…are in the grit under my nails…” ramjetpoetry’s “Some sunshine,” is spellbinding!

RamJet Poetry

some sunshine

dumb, drunk and unhappy

shuffling feet in a barnstorm

clapping nostalgia on the back

the knives’ out just for show

if this wasn’t love, I’d label it scorn

I am a collection of lines

in old and forgotten songs

dusty hymns sung to the low

ultraviolet dope down dawg

collared flea-bitten mongrel

of a steed bent on bad knees

weak, in need of a peek

at anything that can bring

some sunshine

Fostered gasoline children

foment rebellion from our nether

regions apart by river and wall

side by side on the map

to go where you need to go

we all need a guide

but take your time

choosing your ride

always remember:

it is not the destination but the journey

that takes life from you

pantomime the beat of carotid drug

cultures entwining in evening

sojourn, dinner’s on the table

it is getting cold

I smell smoke and realize

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She Shifter

Staggeringly visceral! Daffniblog’s “She Shifter,” pulls no punches!

Daffniblog

The sand is everywhere and the waves make my ass shift this way and that. It’s no use trying to stay in one place, even though I would like roots. And when the sadness takes over I beg him to sooth me, cuz no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to sooth myself. The tears come in waves and the melancholy and the manic states which are mostly just me trying to get rid of the first two. The fear of getting pregnant plagues me, but these human needs are never satisfied and neither are these wounds. They leak and pus without cease. The more gauze I add, the weepier they become. Blood stains and trails of tears mark the womb I’ve been hiding in. The world fades and as their lives drift on loneliness becomes me. I open my mouth wide and stick my fingers in bile…

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Arsonist

At some point or other, we’ve all wished to warm our hands alongside the cleansing fires. 1Wise-Woman’s “Arsonist,” explores this urge beautifully.

A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave

Birthed into flames

Neonatal neurosis

Suckled on psychosis

Face streaked black

Chocking on ash

Back against the wall

Tucked into crumbling

Child’s memory

Tell me lies of

Wind in my hair

Swinging

From a tree

Once anchored

Now singed

As my heart

Rotten roots

Fight for life

Never ends

Home sweet home

Gorged with grief

Something’s gotta give

Give me my knife

Turn over birthright

That I may slice

Away limbs

Of fragmented family tree

Snagging on guilt

And what was supposed to be

Rise and disappear

Just vapor lost to

Unstable atmosphere

Imprisoned progeny

Preserved pyre

Smolders like hope

Time of reckoning

Is here

I am my

Own arsonist

Warming hands

On a burning world of

Impermanence

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The waltz

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This skin

These four walls

The limits of my understanding

The depths of my suffering

What’s remembered

What has been forgotten

Heart on my sleeve

Or cards close to chest

My deepest fears

My truest aspirations

What I wish for you

Out of love

Out of absence

The curse of feeling

Feeling the pain of past transgressions

Feeling the weight carried by you

Empathetic/sympathetic/apathetic/anesthetic

Gravity will always win

Pride is the only sin

There is a limit

Only so much matter

So hold tight

And let go

Today you are lead

Tomorrow you are gold

Even your thoughts

Ride on the backs of the animals you ate

It’s a dance

You are always one step behind

I will only truly understand the round dance

After I’ve entered the box step

We are electrons dancing in the clouds

Don’t save the last dance for me

Save every dance

For this brief moment

We are gods

In this skin

These four walls…

LinkedIn feed writing prompt: remote controlled brains

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[The following paragraph showed up in my LinkedIn feed. It has such insidious implications that I thought it could be a great writing prompt. I won’t say much more, as I’d actually like to see your take on it.  Please don’t hesitate to leave your idea(s) in the comments.]

Here it is:

Feeding medicine directly to your brain: Researchers at MIT have developed a hair-thin device that can be implanted deep into people’s brains and distribute medicines via remote control, a potential game-changer for patients suffering from diseases like Parkinson’s or depression. The implants can bypass the blood-brain barrier — which can sometimes block medicines from reaching their intended destination — and limit the potential for undesirable side effects. The researchers aim to connect the implant to medication pumps that will sit beneath a patient’s skin, which can hold more than one kind of medicine and be refilled with a simple injection. • Share your thoughts: #DrugDeliveryBrain

Now

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The water builds at the faucet’s mouth

Building until gravity claims the drop

You’re birthday just passed

You’re deathday about a week away

Two years gone in the blink of an eye

An eye blinking away the welling tears

Random stomach pains

Thoughts of a friend’s cancer battle

My son’s food allergy diagnosis

His life constrained

I’m gonna watch the sequel

To the first movie you took me to

I think you’ll be there

Not some ghost on the loveseat

But genetic memory and eternalism

When I was a kid my mom said I sit like you

Before I even had memories of you

A ray with a single point labeled ABC

A = past, B = present, C = future

The ray is the illusion of moving forward

Through time

So you’ll watch the movie too

At the same time you cry at birth

Clutch at your chest in the bathroom

I feel a weird pain in my stomach

My son scratches his food allergy eczema

I pour your ashes at your favorite park

My son looks like you/me

He does something that reminds me of you

From memories in his marrow

The water droplet hits the sink’s drain