I am the Audrey
with the pink chucks at the party
wearing oversized shades at night
Scary thin, decked in
dazzling cubic zirconia,
from a med withdrawal
after my last psychotic episode
involving a Golden Hollywood
delusion & fear of having cancer
Some Gregory Peckerhead
bums my smokes when he
has a full pack in his pocket,
but my sweet meter is high,
like those fools at the makeshift
blackjack table with pixie stick dust
on their upper lips & caked
between their nasal strips
because their vice supplier
never bothered showing up
It should be Halloween, but it's too warm
& there aren't enough demons
on the dance floor
I let the moochy one lead me there
where there's an awkward
exchange of one liners
His Bogart impersonation is the worst,
but I know i'm falling in love
is the new 'You Can Heal Your Life'
& dammit, he can really move
We're the clean up crew, sober at dawn
I'm Sabrina sweeping up glass
& scrubbing vomit from the floor
He's singing 'Get Me to the Church on Time'
because it's Sunday
& lapsed Catholicism is a topic
we discussed hours ago
before the kisses, before
the Moon River descent,
before the exchange of names
He's driving me home
in a minivan
His mamma's rosary
hangs on the rearview mirror,
catching the sun
causing disco prisms
& paparazzi bulbs
to sting my face
"Hey babe," he says
stroking his stubbly chin,
"How 'bout Breakfast at Taco Bell?"
It's no Roman Holiday,
but I'll call it a win,
except when we get there
it's not open
Bio: Jennifer Patino is an Ojibwe poet from Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Las Vegas, Nevada. She lives for books and film. She has had work featured in Door is A Jar, Punk Noir Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, Free Verse Revolution Lit, and elsewhere. She blogs at www.thistlethoughts.com.
Two Poems from Jennifer Patino for our online “Trauma Letters Anthology”Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Jennifer Patino
These days of open fields and gentle skies,
flocked with birds and golden falling flakes,
when poplars whisper
through their thinning leaves,
I look about the blue and empty space
to see who creeps the meadow,
to hear who speaks -
the wind, I say, dog says,
and raises quivering nose just to be sure,
but in the wind is winter
and the flying feathered cold,
wrapping in its white wings all the ghosts
that haunt these hills
and wander the dusky paths of my heart
Bio from 2020:
Jane Dougherty lives and works in Southwest France. Her poems and stories have been published in magazines and journals including Ogham Stone, Hedgerow Journal, ink sweat and tears, Nightingale & Sparrow and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Her debut chapbook of poetry, thicker than water, was published in October 2020.
He holds the pages closer and looks through them
Nothing. His words have turned their back on him
They seem to form a pattern, constantly pushing around
He tries to bring order and worse they grow
Anxious, leaves them to struggle and perish
His translations of William Oscar Yeats Wilde simply gap at him
If only someone would direct him a Grant or even a Pound!
He always senses an oddity with language
Letterx, wordx, phrasex, sentencex and paragraphs of utter nonsensex
At times, he escapes into the stream of his consciousness
Wherein cacophony he upholds and abhors chronology
Presently, recalling Odysseus his mind Blooms
To a similar journey he embarks, but only
Around the labyrinth of his mind
Wolfpack Contributor: Anisha KaulA Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Anisha KaulBio: Anisha Kaul (she/ her) is a poet with a Master's in English Literature, presently living in New Delhi, India. As of now 40 of her poems have been accepted or are housed in various national and international print and online anthologies. She served in the capacity of the editor for DRC, College Magazine Pramila, University of Delhi, 2016-17 issue. Anisha has also qualified the National Eligibility Test (NET) for Assistant Professorship conducted in India. She loves to write about herself in the third person. Find her on twitter: @anishakaul9.
Tell me the truth -
Not about LOVE or GOD
rain will change colour
inside wet and warm circles
I'd see the reflection - of every lover
past and present;
Tell me the truth about YOU
let us throw a penny
into a draining stream
watch a river rise over
the snubbed and decayed
where the anti - sapiosexualist
spins one hundred million voices
that sound the same -
same treadmill winds on
They roll them up - Spit them out
Please tell me the truth
(Not about Love or God)
before too many ego's
spoil this imperfect broth.
Beware of a God that Smells of Liquor
Beware of a God that smells of liquor
he'll change the route and imply the simplest of distractions
while sipping gin with cucumber (not lime)
whisper to the ocean to break our mast
among a thirsty crew that create masks;
across tables where chameleons
sleep with tanned and bitten feet;
Feast on Caldo Verde and cold sardines
clinking on wine glasses,
the slaughtered lambs are easily replenished;
pretentious permanence hangs in the hot air
where he hear nine different dialects
trying to delete the madness from the remains of day.
Weavers of tapestry point out our fates
around capes and sunken shipwrecks
gleaming under surface like opened pots of honey
shining and paused underneath in blue and turquoise green.
Make it to the island where eyes are full with rain
guide us to a vertical wind far beyond
the touch of a drunken god's watery grasp
we shall rise as the tellers of journey, birth, and past.
The River Only Flows West When the Dead Are Sleeping
stored in cupboards
where birds -
no longer wake us with song;
If I ever see the stars
breathing out again
that majesty of light
that hangs like shining chariots -
across yellow moons;
I will gaze-from the corners of east and west
when our past is caught
in a clock's mechanism -
metal boats in industrial blue
sleep beneath feet
resting oyster catchers will glimpse
ends of passing
dream and waking breath
the river only flows west
when the dead are sleeping.
Bio from 2019:
Matt was born in Bristol 1971 and now lives in Newport, Wales with his partner Kelly his poems have appeared in many journals such as The Potomac Review, Foxtrot Uniform, Dodging the Rain, Here Comes Everyone, Osiris Poetry Journal, The Blue Nib, The Poetry Village, The Journal, The Dawntreader, The High Window, The Ghost City Review, L'Ephemere Review, Ink, Sweat, and Tears, Confluence, Marble Poetry Magazine, Polarity, Lakeview International Literary Journal, Matt won the Erbacce Prize for Poetry in 2015 with his first full collection of poems Dystopia 38.10 and became one of five core members at Erbracce-Press, where Matt interviews poets for the erbacce-journal, organises events and reads with the other members for the annual erbacce prize.
In 2017 Matt won the Into the Void Poetry Prize with his poem Elegy for Magadalene, and read his work across the east-coast of the USA with readings at the prestigious Cambridge Public Library Poetry Series in Boston, a guest poet appearance at The Parkside Lounge and Sip This in New York City, Matt read at his first U.S. book launch in Philadelphia and has two new chapbooks available One Million Tiny Cuts (Clare Song Birds Publishing House) and A Season in Another World (Thirty West Publishing House) plus a small limited edition booklet The Feeding (Rum Do Press) Venice and London. Matt was also one of the winners of the Naji Naaman Literary Honours Prize (2019) and has read his work across the world including The Poetry on the Lake Festival in Orta, Italy, at the Poetry Cafe in London, A Casa dos Poetas in Portugal , in New York, Boston, and Paxos in Greece, and various venues across the U.K. His second full collection Woodworm was published by Hedgehog Poetry Press in 2019.
It's Getting Darker
I searched for salvation
I yearned for the light,
Looking for the stars
In the cloud covered night.
I fold my prayer like origami
And stuff it in the crack,
A missive to the almighty
Asking if the Flame is ever coming back.
I close my eyes, reaching out
Caressing the cold aging stone,
Trying to touch the ancient past
My soul has come to call home.
The Temple is in shambles
The Mercy Seat is lost,
2,000 years of homelessness
Trying to tally up the cost.
Looking past Mt. Moriah
To the light of the rising sun,
Warming windblown faces,
Dreams of a suffering undone.
The Messiah isn’t coming,
To save this damsel in distress,
It’s an uncomfortable truth to which
We cannot fail to acquiesce.
The clouds are growing darker,
But the deluge will never come,
The promise made on rainbow light
Will never be undone.
I yearned for salvation,
Searching for the light,
Is there nothing here to greet me –
Save the unending darkness of the night?
Bio from 2019:John W. Leys has been writing poetry since he was 14 years old, inspired by the lyrics of Bob Dylan and the Beatles. In addition to posting poetry on his own blog, he is a frequent guest contributor to poetry-blogs such as Blood Into Ink, Free Verse Revolution, and The GoDogGo Cafe. His first poetry collection The Darkness of His Dreams: Poetry was published in July 2019. He currently lives in Redmond, Oregon with his wife, son, three dogs, and two cats.
Darkness of His Dreams (Blog) darknessofhisdreams.wordpress.com/ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/eliyahu5733 FB: facebook.com/darknessofhisdreams/ IG: https://www.instagram.com/johnleys/ GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/jwleys Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/johnwleys
I currently have one book published that is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733364501