Michael Marrotti

Bacterial Infection

Not given
enough
to love
falling
into hate

The subtlety
of a middle
finger

Frown lines
upon the
faces

Tainted juices
flowing through
the strip

Kisses
that taste
like penicillin

Confessions
of a
promiscuous
mind

Degenerate
priests
reciting a
sermon

This love
has gone
to waste

All that’s left
is a bacterial
infection

Marrotti

 Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his blog:www.thoughtsofapoeticmind.blogspot.com for his latest poetry and short stories.

Scott Thomas Outlar

scott thomas outlar

 

Sacramental Revelation

 

I want to taste fresh blood,

but a bite on your lips

or a kiss

on the vein of your wrist

will never suffice,

for I need a slice

of jugular

to satiate

the source of this passion.

 

I want to burn the sky,

but a bomb built on earth

or a burst

of nuclear fission from above

will not do the job,

for I’m hard

as a rock

with the urge

to press more than little red buttons.

 

I want to feast on raw flesh,

but that white cotton dress

or the sex

promised underneath its secrets

are not what I seek,

for the scent

of your skin

will not even begin

to kill the call of this craving.

 

 

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, and books can be found. He also lets things hang loose here on his new FB page.

 

Joshua Poulette

 

 

poulette pic

“When the Wild Tail Came Around”

Crying when he came around, they knew the whip was to follow. He smiled when they cried, knowing it was because of his presence. Master snickered when their eyes widened, his flared. They swore steam jetted from his nostrils. The man with the whip swore he would break them, the slaves swore they would over take him. Singer’s voice raised as his hand did, there was scream to accompany the sound barrier being broken. A grunt t heavy breathes, yells smothered for help. Smacks of flesh, snaps of wood connecting with a head, blood covered a majority of them. They were brightly painted with relief, the slaves cloaked with murder of another. New life for them. The devil bastard would be left behind for the other slavers to find. Scars and chains boats and waves, lashings to deadly breathes. These were what they held on to taking themselves stronger. Some slaves didn’t make it while the other had no choice to keep running. They were thankful to have an underground freedom given by kind loving hands. 2016: Do people still look for underground freedom?

-DR. Morton Rainy-
07/28/016

Sam Alban

 

Royal Bloodline

 

They told me that sometimes

you just have to endure it.

That it’s part of the game,

a sick stop in an endless call of duty.

 

I told you no.

 

That should have been enough.

 

But you took what you wanted.

And, kept on,

and on,

and on,

until I relented.

(gave up my soul, really)

 

And, I was just there, in a parallel existence,

(drowning in the chaotic silence of my mind)

with my eyes open,

while you did your thing.

 

And I wondered, which king I had killed

in my last life

to deserve

you.

 

 

 

Sam Alban is a native Californian who understands that life is just a steady series of experiences, and revels in the company of her six furry companions.

 

Brandon Greer

Brandon Greer pic

Romance Is Dead

 

Romance is dead
gone
forgotten
buried beneath the
rubble of progress.

Lovers trade glances
over cold toast and
numbing headlines.
They go to dinner parties
and church
with forced smiles.
Now and then they
mess the bedsheets up
with a meaningless lay,
but that kind of absence
is only a small ripple.

Romance is dead
a hollow shell
a memory of days
that were better than
the ones we shuffle
our feet through now.

The streets are crammed
at daytime with people
rushing for the next hustle
the next big deal
the newest trend
the latest fashion,
but at night everyone hides.

There is no need for teenagers
to park in front of malls
or fast food joints
or bowling alleys.
It has become easier
to plug the soul into
high-speed internet
and cell phones that
cost more than most
middle-class people
make in a week.

No eye contact.
No context.
No interaction.
Hypnotized.
Blind.

Romance is dead
suffocated
snuffed out by
the shepherds of
the discontent.

Chase the dollar
drive the Lexus
use the best toothpaste
eat organic
make yourself the star
of every advertisement.

There is no more
love of life—
only possessions
only tangibles.
The urge to kiss the
sky has been traded
for the urge to kiss
the screens of HD
televisions.

Romance is dead
and the human race
died
with
it.

 

 

 

 

Brandon Greer has lived in Southern Illinois for all of his 35 years.  His love of the written word began as a child and has only grown stronger with the passing of time. He is the father of one son, Hunter, and has been published previously in TPG Magazine.  His poem “Wondering About Death” will be published in the 2016 issue of Broad River Review.

 

Kenneth P. Gurney

Kenneth P. Gurney pic.jpeg

 

Another Two Minutes Makes No Difference

 

 

Leon, beer sotted, stumbles out of

Meadow Muffins Amber Emporium

and into the slap-him-right-upside-the-face sleet.

He zigzags into the alley behind the building

misdirected away from home by the raging storm,

the frigid blows to the face, his rancid need to throw up.

His vomit splatters some worn boot tread and heals.

Boots attached to blue jean covered legs.

Legs that run up under a dirty red hoody sweatshirt

to a head face down on the discolored asphalt alley.

After Leon wipes his mouth on his coat sleeve,

adrenaline wipes some of the blur out of his brain.

He knows dead weight when he pulls it upward,

lifts a pruned face out of a quarter-inch puddle.

The drip, drip, drip of water from the leaky gutters

plays its own variation of taps.

 

Leon returns the head to the soggy pavement.

Vacant faces snake-tail rattle him to heebie-jeebies.

He heads back inside, takes his seventh favorite bar stool,

orders a pint from Marjorie, the forever young,

dispenser of liquid delight and cerebral nullification serums

to fortify his index digit control center

before punching nine-one-one on his cell phone.

 

————————————

Another Round

 

Leon drinks to excess when other people pay,

and not quite to excess when it depletes his wallet.

 

He drinks because of a prophetic dream

that shows a bullet passing out the back of his head

with all the gore one would expect

on such an occasion.

 

The dream first showed up in his brain

back in his college days

when Leon escorted through the clinic lines

women who made their choice abortion.

 

The dream replays itself with slight variations and subtle clues

every night he attends slam poetry held a bars friendly to LGBTs

or art openings by people who populate the fringe

or experimental theatre or jazz music venues.

 

Leon thinks regularly about moving to another city,

but figures prophetic dreams cannot be escaped by moving,

so he bravely attends his cubical each day

and operates his computer software with practiced expertise.

 

Leon drinks all the more with every TV special report

about the latest mass shooting in the United States.

He hand writes letters to his congressman and senator daily

urging them to enact gun control.

He tells his bartender not to place an orange garnish

on his Blue Moon Belgian White Ale.

 

Leon pours an oatmeal stout on his Rice Krispies

as the Orlando news plasters his Sunday morning television.

A corner of Leon’s brain suggests he deal with this stress

by becoming a sex addict instead of an alcoholic,

but he fears that would lead to AIDs

and the bullet that kills him would be from his own hand.

 

 

—————————

Campbell’s

 

After being gut stabbed

I fish-out-of-water flopped around,

eyeballs nearly popped out of my bewilderment

at this, seemingly, arbitrary violence.

 

The guy just stood there,

rooted on my divot digging thrashing,

his cell phone held up, camera like,

live streaming my agony.

 

As my motions ceased

except for my heaving breath,

I felt all five o’clock news lead

and PBS in-depth segment.

 

As the crowd gathered

more cell phones recorded details—

one guy pulled back the lacerated skin

and spread the oozing tissue to measure the penetration.

 

A local woman brought me name brand chicken soup,

propped me up, and spoon fed me,

but the broth leaked out the wound

to mix with the blood and green slime

already soaking into my jeans.

 

 

 

Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA with his beloved Dianne.  His latest collection of poems is Stump Speech.  To learn more about him visit kpgurney.me.

Scott Thomas Outlar

 

 

 

I’m hoping this turns out to be a pretty cool venture.

My friends list is filled with people whom I’d like to support.

Enter 17Numa.

This is where I plan on sharing other people’s posts.

It’ll be a spot where I can advertise their book announcements,

publication links, and all sorts of other events.

More To Come…
Thank you.
https://www.facebook.com/17numa/