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.
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
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.

Sudden Denouement 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.

Sudden Denouement 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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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!


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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The waltz


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


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…