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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

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God was pop art 
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by Andrew Lawson 
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They all flirted with death
those eclectic dreamers
under a salmon painted sky
that bled music and poetry
God
was pop art
hung on a dime store rack
a frame of tin foil
emitting strange vibes
they spoke an underground language
nailed their frail ego’s
to a phantom cross
traded crayons for LSD
living in the perpetual present
born of atomic rage and sand
beholden to no one
for fifteen minutes
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Andrew Lawson hails from Connecticut USA he pens song lyrics,
poetry, children stories and ghost stories, an eclectic mishmash
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Wings of Life (for Peter)

by Calico Prince

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Great beauty holds

the capacity

for deep grief

 

It is the expanse

of a wing

between earth and sky

 

Bound by gravity

and yet transcends it

in a single breath

 

She deepens us

in the places

no-one sees

 

And she opens us

like a like a flower

to our death

 

and our petals fall.
What will you become?

by Calico Prince

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Calico Prince is a Doctoral Candidate and a practice led researcher and Community Arts and Cultural Development practitioner. Her body of work focuses on creativity and transformation. She has published in academic peer reviewed journals as well as practitioner focused platforms and publications. She is currently Artist In Residence at Blacktown Arts Centre in Western Sydney, Australia. As a mother of a young child, her creative writings often come in the silence that falls after midnight.

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A TITANIC AND ICEBERG MOMENT 

by R.J Williams.
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I am the iceberg your ships rammed against
as we exchanged our first “hello” in years.
Your navy had grown considerably,
managing to poke and steer
me where you wanted my eyes to go
with battalion force at your disposal.
Yet, the force was a balloon-filled compression
with an almost
dolphin nudging its baby gentle feel.
Your ships poked and prodded
until conversation, on my part,
was on auto-pilot. And, now,
I don’t remember a word of it.
Your F.F. Titan 1 and Titan 2 were things
to behold. Juggernauts
that no torpedo could possibly sink
but only wedge between.
The iceberg me did not crack, but
did start melting..
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RJ Williams: I am a writer and visual artist of more than twenty years. Currently, I reside
in a building called ARTSPACE in the west Texas city, El Paso. My art
hangs and sells in galleries here. I sell my poetry eBooks online
through Amazon Kindle and Smashwords. I make small, self-published,
limited edition chapbooks of my poetry as well. I am active on
facebook and participate in several poetry and art groups there.
Life is good.
..
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A very neatly printed missive

by Alfred Booth

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Dear Sir,

As a fellow fan following, or creating, world folly, I would have been honored to meet you in Marrakech next week. That was your destination after the Bastille Day festivities, n’est-pas?  Yes, the postmark is Cape Horn. I’ve been waiting for this colossal, unprecedented iceberg to finally rip itself from the motherhood of its continental shelf. What worrisome majesty. My apologies for using that particular adjective. It was spellbinding. So reminiscent of the Titanic. Missing from incessant shutter snaps was the calm of a string quartet playing Debussy. Nothing impressionistic about the split.  More Neoclassic with a political twist worn thin. Or Greek tragedy, the blunting of Oedipus’ eye metaphoring climate change disaster. Waiting for such a denouement is what reality TV should have become. I personally thought of Pirandello’s “Six characters in search of an author.” Or the sense of endlessness in Proust’s dense prose. Worthy masterpieces commanding applause. I could never have envisioned that an iceberg could finally upstage the limelight of your public ridicule? Have you made a decision concerning your future exile?

Sincerely,

  1. Hawking

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Alfred Booth is an American professional pianist who lives in France, Alfred Booth folds origami; its patience often inspires poetry. When he not at the piano learning new arcane repertoire to stretch his horizons, he teaches would-be amateur musicians to put enough bread on the table. In the 90s he studied extensively the harpsichord and his millennial project had him able to play Bach on the cello; this latter duo waits for his retirement years. Currently he has an 82-poem volume journaling a recent dance with cancer and an 34-poem chapbook of ghazals looking for a homes in the professional world of rhyme. A large handful of his poetry can be found in the e-zines Dead Snakes, I am not a silent poet and Spring Fling. He keeps an online portfolio at: https://www.writing.com/main/portfolio/view/troubadour.

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You’re Not the Police

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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This scrawny kid in green track pants
makes this irritating siren noise
as his finger does a circle over his head
which I imagine to be intended as a flashing light.
He is not doing anything else.
Just walking.
His friend elbows him in the side
and says quite emphatically:
you’re not the police!
The kid immediately stops his siren noise
and spinning his finger above his head.
A few feet on he tries to kick an old pop can
down the sewer.

It gets caught in the overhang
and he gives it up.

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Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

 

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