As I feel the drums are silent I want the drums to be pounding As voices have become silent I want the voices to sound human All I see is the suicide villages.
The bloody ink smiles with corporate glamour With loneliness of fear – Trying to sever the flash from my being.
One week from turning 40 The mind is jaded The body feels the breaking The moonlight is not swimming in the veins Society is translucent Imaginary is much safer The corners aren’t as closed in as reality
Enchant me with clouds NOT full of dysfunction Paste my paper doll body into security And out of this demonic-wet unknown Where I’m the fish, The temptation is the hook And the bait is hollow and not fulfilling.
Rage through the mighty current Of the darkened blue of an ocean so vast Yet just as intriguing for in it swirl The tides of destruction & reclamation-
So powerful in their innate prowess, But above these waves Sit a sky that trembles and howls-
At the sight of the angered ocean- For it is much like the varied sea- A tempered power beyond the mortal Concepts of time and place-
For an ocean rages As we fight to hold on to all we claim So viciously from what it always had-
Whether through levee or canal We try in vain to reclaim all we can Against the rage of an ocean immortal,
But as it consumes the coastal towns We fought so hard to preserve- One can only bear witness to destruction Which we can only mourn as our own betrayal.
Some cold days bring a sense of longing That spills over into empty weeks That fill the calendar of an isolated life-
So strongly stained By the self-conscious worries That derive from years of fighting-
To look all the more like the ideal Of the society that exists so ephemeral That its remnants only survive in the void
That is the empty web That does little to subtract From the ever growing reality-
That although the notion of living Is as perpetual as the time Created by our complicated mind
The slow movement of the clock That exists to give order To our mundane lives-
Will stop promptly before we will it.
Bio: A.R. Salandy is a mixed-race poet & writer whose work tends to focus on social inequality throughout late-modern society. Anthony travels frequently and has spent most of his life in Kuwait jostling between the UK & America. Anthony’s work has been published 150 times. Anthony has 1 published chapbook titled ‘The Great Northern Journey’ 2020(Lazy Adventurer Publishing ) & 1 upcoming Chapbook ‘Vultures’ 2021 (Roaring Junior Press). Twitter/Instagram: @anthony64120 https://arsalandywriter.com/ Anthony is the Co-Eic of Fahmidan Journal
Lipstick Sunset The acoustics of the guns pop Against the Ivy and the prayers. A breath frozen emotionless Stinging to the skyline.
We love like mannequins Staring at the sunset And we watch the red rouge jetline Across the domineering solar shivers.
We are the weeping fools All of our memories clutched – In the lines of our held hands. All the knots in our bruising – Begins to bleed the hurt away As we sleep and wish away – The hurt from past demons The lingering spit of revitalized demons.
Beautiful and madly, babe We fell madly into the flowers The itching, biting blades of grass The apples begin to fall The white clouds are imprisoned Sing the song of release To the freedom of night
Our little Maleeha raises both arms, pirouettes and a bejeweled crown springs up from the orbit outlined by her fingers, which rises and shrinks until it settles upon her tiny head. She slows to a standstill, then extends her arms overhead, palms together. She parts and gently lowers her straightened arms and a halo of iridescent hues cascades.
For our quarantined Flores de Mayo, our little queen is crowned and aureoled by a rainbow for her unmanned arch right in our living room.
Bio: Karlo Sevilla from Quezon City, Philippines is the author of the full-length poetry collection, “Metro Manila Mammal” (Soma Publishing, 2018), and two chapbooks. Recognized among The Best of Kitaab 2018 and nominated twice for the Best of the Net, his poems appear or are forthcoming in Philippines Graphic, Revolt Magazine, DIAGRAM, Eclectica, Better Than Starbucks, Radius, Matter, Small Orange, and elsewhere.
Battle-Hardened Cold and battle-hardened, cast the drawbridge from my heart, may the waters never part. The border spare and sterile, let no creeper bear its fruit, make me barren at the root. A world within my chamber painted vivid and opaque. Soak in dreams, all else forsake. The bold knight probes the fortress, courts a torrent of abuse, keep it in but what’s the use when the music he belongs to is a song from whence they came? Same fresh face, a different name. Hurt but not defeated, he retreats beyond the moat, picking daisies, writing notes. Alone and battle-hardened, past the point of nothing lost, how I long for peacetime-soft.
I Am a Tightrope Walker alone in a crowd, balancing on a thread so thin, sometimes I forget it’s there. I try my best, two half shoes on either side, s t e a d y a n d s a f e u n t i l the lurch when the crowd snaps to attention, baying for blood, yet afraid to bleed, four laser beams of unspoken will imploring me to make their world my final destination, but I am a tightrope walker, stalwart of obstinacy, comfortable in solitude and try as they might, it’s hard to break the constancy of a man with his head in the clouds.
Ghost #2 The gentle hum of distant traffic curls the dormancy within him, till it swirls and blends into the background, loses hold. He peers into the restaurant from the cold. His jealousy no good to man or beast, he leaves the happy couple at the feast, heads early for the theatre’s gaping doors – romantic fiction Saturday’s reward. The teenage boy who works behind the till distracted, doesn’t notice (no one will). Two hours pass before him in a blur. The critics weren’t impressed, he might concur if only he could hide his joyful grin. The night-time crowd are slowly traipsing in and he should limber up and head for home to work upon a fiction of his own.
Bio: Lawrence Moore has been writing poems – some silly, some serious – since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, Quince Magazine and Green Ink Poetry. @LawrenceMooreUK