I Don’t Believe You by Elizabeth Cusack
Bio: Elizabeth Cusack is a recovering actress. Ever since playing Rhoda Penmark in “The Bad Seed” as a child, deservedly, she has endeavoured to keep up her end of the bargain. Elizabeth has been blessed with the best of teachers over the years, mostly from the school of hard knocks. She has championed and performed in fringe theatre in America. Elizabeth edits her favourite poet while not otherwise inspired by her muse to write.
Inspired by Iggy Pop’s renditions of I Wanna Be Your Dog and I’m Sick of You, written by others. I can’t believe anyone would be so lame That’s all I have to say All I know is love Is not what it used to be There is a lot of misleading information Going around And now I can bleed I can open up and die With no innovations And no goodbyes Not one word From a lover who was a stranger Waving good bye. Because I am unwanted I will leap into my grave I never will see Paris Or Florence again Because I am forsaken I will end and begin I weary of the unforeseen I weary of the in between I weary and misunderstand I’ll find my way into a grave I’ll choose the restless way I’ll leap into my grave. This planet breeds monsters Waving colors I despise Selling souls for profit Plotting their demise I walk along this precipice There is no compromise If you find me one day Washed up on your shore Find again my story Find what drives it mad And what kind of fool are you Howling for the moon My lists and lusts Are all I have to offer The Great One Who Owns Every part of Us Under Penalty of Perjury Is looking for a bust. Love is a cowboy on the brink Looking to get high I can sink faster Than he can think I do not care what anyone thinks It is of no interest to me So, why am I so broken Why am I so used Why do I trust nobody Why am I so blue So lonely and confused Because I am a number On a telephone Every now and then I go outside And wallow in my pride But everything is worse I can barely see This whole wide world is cursed. And now the dance is over Are you happy Are you sad Perhaps you thought I was in on the joke I was not It was sad And by now Anywhere else I‘d be locked up and considered mad. Nazis and other local losers Send me their regards They wish to kill me with their joy But I am for the lonely Who abandon hope And let go of fear Love is a sinking grievous angel Outside my door She’s bitching and shrieking I’m going to get a dog A big dog outside my door His name will be Othello I don’t need this anymore And when this war is over I won’t bat an eye I’ll light up a cigarillo Put on a tiara And kiss this world goodbye. It was another jet malfunction The air was blasting drizzling rain There was no speech required They used headphones and complained After a millennium of declaim There was no pornography Allowed on this plane And electronic smoking devices Were definitely not okay We were petri dishes for poetry We were looking to get locked up We found nothing But our breaking friends Who were broken and forgot And could not go on And as usual No one was around. We lived under cover Our minds were run over We had no thought for revival We were off of the street And no longer mattered We lived life easily Stranded on a planet Covered in a song We could not stand We wrote songs of despair We were the strangers here They killed our roots and our land And we got around them What they really wanted was An executioner’s band And we were their familiars And we were willing We understood It was the end We were just words And they owned the furnace And I am certain I will not be here For those five useless seconds And what do I care I am weary of the unforeseen I am weary of the in between I weary and misunderstand I find my way into a wave I choose the restless way This planet breeds monsters Waving colors I despise Selling souls for profit Plotting their demise I walk along this precipice There is no compromise. Out of the Game by Elizabeth Cusack (for Leonard Cohen) I’m gone with the rest I’m doing what’s best I’m getting wasted And I won’t telephone You won’t hear from me I’ll remove your memory And fade away What was once my heart Is blown apart. There is a great love Somewhere, you say He’s waiting in a sanitarium For me to be okay He has a snow white beard And a face like a sword He’ll be ready to destroy me And call me his own. I will dream And disappear Like a swan That drank poison It will be so romantic And so poignant My lyrics will get longer They’ll crack the sky My eyes will stare down Whenever you smile Like a psychopath who wanders In a new disguise. On the edge of my dreams You’ll restore my heart Then turn it against me Whenever we part I’ll tell a sad story About how love is free And you thought I believed Everything you touched Was infinity. Because I am walking And breathing and drinking I am under suspicion And subject to thinking I dance alone And I don’t pretend I can let love die I drink and I smoke And I write some lines And try not to choke. But it’s all so tragic And my words spill out And my blood drips down And I drink the venom And fall on the ground I am groomed In dreams They haunt my halls They follow my tracks And then they attack. We fit like a glove In a shopping mall We were as free as rabbits In a carnival hall With our flashing hands We held on to the ropes And we practiced our calls And we crawled into closets On nights we recall We lined up with the stars We circled the moon We opened our maws And died too soon. The Wall is Down by Elizabeth Cusack Inspired by Iggy Pop’s rendition of Louie Louie: I am a reason for living I am a reason for leaving Like this war I am here And then I’m gone again The capitalists are winning And as I wait To be incarcerated Or incinerated In this earthly grave I have faith Their satellites will bring me Back around again I am trying to starve As fast as I can But all I can think of Is Armageddon. Notes On a Concert by The National by Aarik Danielsen Bio:Aarik Danielsen is the arts editor at the Columbia Daily Tribune in Columbia, Missouri. He writes a regular column, The (Dis)content, for Fathom Magazine, and has been published at Image Journal, Split Lip, Rain Taxi, HAD, Tinderbox Poetry Journal and more. Find him on Twitter/X or Instagram @aarikdanielsen, Bluesky at @aarikdanielsen.bsky.social, or simply at aarikdanielsen.com. Aarik Danielsen // June 2023 There are two wolves inside me: (I learn on a Thursday night in the company of 3900, mistaken for strangers) Matt Berninger as the show opens, awkward and romantic. Also Matt Berninger roaring to the encore, a bottle of wine down, slurring, beating his chest. And romantic. First Wolf genuflects with all eyes on him; grips the tools of his trade, the microphone and stand, like rosary beads; memorizes the shapes of shoes laced with twin guitars. He performs miracles in baritone, not least of which making a ballroom of introverts in damp black T’s believe they’re living in a cathedral— living as cathedrals, carrying Christmas lights and Rilke poems inside. Second Wolf grows a foot with each song. He breathes Paso Robles into anxiety’s open mouth, singes a few grateful eyebrows in his fiery wake. He cries grace until he understands the prayer. The world will kill him, but not tonight. Secretly in love with everyone he grew up with, (everyone in the room, if we’re counting), their molecules collide with his, lend him the strength of ten depressed men—or two healthy ones. Taking life’s long leash, stumbling back into transfiguration, he makes promises forgotten till tomorrow night: I won’t fuck us over. The second wolf howls prophecy meant for the first, who whimpers priestly absolution. Together they slouch past 11:23 p.m. Central, past the great black curtain, into sleep. Waiting for the Miracle by Tom Harding (for Leonard Cohen) I hear this morning that Leonard Cohen is dead, which is not so surprising as lately everyone is dying it seems, I sit at this table watching the steam rise from my coffee and ask God to reveal himself in any way I would recognise but he doesn't unless that’s him nodding his head amongst the lilies in the yellow bucket outside Olivia’s Garden or perhaps he’s there forensically illuminating the finger smears on this plastic menu or perhaps he is everywhere, as they say, at any one time, shooting back and forth across the universe to keep an eye on things, like those tiny particles, bursting from the sun in their trillions, the next moment passing between the atoms in my outstretched hand, the one I’m waving now in direction of the waitress, who approaches through a galaxy of dust, ready to write down what I desire. Ians Division by Sean McGillis Joy he took, in writing the dark A clever Hook, creative spark Sumner, Morris Ian never wrote For us Triumph, torture Day in, day out Some would say Took the easy way out Prepared to travel, across the sea Began to unravel, not destined to be If only this story Could have revision Yet, not to be His painful Division On Hearing of the Passing of Lou Reed by D.C. Nobes Today is not a perfect day, Sweet Jane is not on the corner, no one taking a walk on the wild side. The world became a little less out-of-the-ordinary a little less uncommon a little less feral, not as edgy, probing, testing, experimental, a little more “normal” and average, a little more bland and mediocre, a little more routine. And the “coloured girls” won’t go “Doo doo-doo doo-doo” anymore while the saxophone wails.
Worship by Julia Biggs
There is a sweet spot preacher (F♯ minor) on the phone,
the message messianic.
Promises there, of cobalt salvation,
lapis blasphemy.
A hypnotic litany to
lead you into temptation and
whip-crack piety.
Devotion is all it takes.
What is it you want? by Julia Biggs
I want you —
stripped, heart on loan —
in my arms
to live tonight in the flames,
rushing to pay the price
and suffer in desire’s name,
to confess —
as you touch my hand,
play my games,
longing laid at my feet —
to understand,
to believe,
to forgive me.
Source text: Depeche Mode lyrics
Pierce by Julia Biggs
Lush synth lines bleed out
bittersweet lips split open
silence desire-stung
Haunting by Julia Biggs
Creeping tenderness
gently interrogates ghosts
the ache euphoric
Bio: Julia Biggs is a poet, writer and freelance art historian. She lives in Cambridge, UK. Her work has appeared in various print and online literary journals, including Streetcake Magazine and Green Ink Poetry. Find her via her website: www.juliabiggs1.wixsite.com/juliabiggs
Love Poem for a Lost Night with kd lang On the Jukebox 1999 By James Schwartz
The smoky cabaret crowd
Watches the dance floor
Under the spinning disco ball
Where two women sway slowly
It's too early for the DJ
& drag queens & go-go boys
In this northern industrial city's
Lone gay bar
Serenaded by kd lang's
"My last cigarette" on the jukebox
The lovers dance & the one
Wearing the top hat & tails leads
"Sometimes the rain falls harder /
Than you'll ever know"
&
"Everyone thinks they know what they want /
Sometimes your drug chooses you"
The velvet voice fades to our applause
They kiss & go to the bar for drinks.
Bio: James Schwartz is a poet, slam performer and author of various collections including "The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay & Amish in America" (available on Kindle 2011), Punatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & "Motor City Mix" "Sunset in Rome" (Alien Buddha Press, 2022) & "Long Lost Friend" (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). On twitter James can be found under @queeraspoetry for a follow.
I AGAINST I by R.M. Engelhardt Cynical I Against I Looking for The Light Once more Again Somewhere. Else. Something. ^ Waiting. To witness The Absolute To witness The Nothing Create words Within New worlds Within a stagnant Pond Stand in Shadow But not in place A microphone Only another form To communicate I am sad but dreaming Enlightened yet Depressed I Against I As always Until the end Let these verses Be my only device I am the song This moment A memory Divided (This song repeats) A tragic echo Of Generation 20 Minutes of Turbulence by Jennifer Patino This plane can't explode, We're almost home. This plane can't explode, We're almost home. Kinsman, we shared the same sparks in our heads. Ignition reflex, our dances were parodies. We invited too many along for the ride. Soon, we'll collide. Supernova similar, the sun etches each others' names into our arms. Beautiful rosy red rashes. The world rejects us. Clutching seat rests, our automaton pilots echoed the same message. We distorted the signals to decipher a truth as hard as the anti-convulsants were to swallow. They want us lathered in acceptance. We want to be rid of the affliction. No more exhibition. You watched a beautiful ending on your box TV, then created a tragedy. This is a warning. 20 minutes of turbulence ahead. We could collectively hold our breath for 7. We could come to in a brand new world. A body is only a form. A body is only a vessel. This plane can't explode, We're almost home. This plane can't explode, We're almost home. 25 years later I find you in the guttural voice of another astral traveler. He uses auras to remind me. He too lives on in your memory. A new kinsman born of your ashes. We're all crashing. Stellar dancing, but we go down in different flames. The Ghost of Ian Curtis Soothed My Panic Attack at 6AM by Jennifer Patino were you scared when you shook out the pills, did you count them? did the reality 2 x 4 leave a rusted nail in your gut when it hit you on a sleepless 6AM morning? when the freight train soared into your heart did you try to pretend it was something else? did you wake your beloved with the sounds of your vomiting, impossible to keep the noisy guilt from riling up? did you tell yourself how okay you were? whose face flashed in your mind when the mallet shattered your skull, when the 8 Ball’s inner neon blue triangle multiplied & scattered before you? whose voice soothed your little flesh wounds? who swept up the broken mirror glass? were you scared when you heard the police sirens? did you think they were coming for you again? what song were you dreading to hear for fear that it would transport you back to some place where it was worse than this kind of unsafe? where were you running to in your head? where were you planning on hiding? what was near-death like? was it a rabbit hole? a pulsating star? a beginning? a deep breath? a tear? was it finally falling asleep at 7:15? was it the moment numbness crept into your limbs? or was it the heart hammering so loudly once again? Bio: Jennifer Patino is a poet who lives for books and film. She has had work featured in Door is A Jar, Punk Noir Magazine, A Cornered Gurl, The Chamber Magazine, Fevers of the Mind, Free Verse Revolution Lit, Windy Knoll Zine, and elsewhere. She lives in Traverse City, Michigan with her husband. Visit her blog at www.thistlethoughts.com. Sellotape The Love Which Tore by Stephen Watt (for Joy Division) Some heroes take time to put themselves forward. Six months old when you passed, I knew nothing of your talent when we holidayed in caravans in Scarborough or when I kicked about streets in flammable shell suits all captured on my Dad’s Polaroid cameras. By my teens, I crowned myself with headphones in HMV listening to records which radio ignored but still you were obscure to me. By my twenties, I bought a MP3 when Love Will Tear Us Apart flooded my ears and a solitary were-gull outside my bedroom squeaked its backing vocals. Since, something has lay heavy in my heart. Videos of men in extravagant frocks dancing on Tik-Tok possess a tenth of your talent and if I had it my way there would be no grave, no tributes; only music, and life, and an American tour to speak of. A Burden and a Head (for Joy Division) by Matt Bianca I carry this burden on my head It is heavy and light without mystery I am full of misery Empty my void please. A Watercolor Portrait of Ian Curtis by William Taylor Jr.
Bio: William Taylor Jr. lives and writes in San Francisco.He is the author of numerous books of poetry, and a volume of fiction. His work has been published widely in literary journals, including Rattle, The New York Quarterly, and The Chiron Review. He was a recipient of the 2013 Kathy Acker Award, and edited Cocky Moon: Selected Poems of Jack Micheline (Zeitgeist Press, 2014). His latest poetry collection, A Room Above a Convenience Store, is available from Roadside Press.
Fevers of the Mind 
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