Darren C. Demaree

 

 

 

TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #76

 

The sweat of hate makes us all think we need to be rewritten into elegy.  It would be better, I think, to be nothing at all than to remove the integral pieces of the few.  Humanity for all.  Humanity for all.  Humanity for Donald J. Trump.  May he find humanity before we are forced to rest against the zero.

 

TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #77

 

We don’t need the plates.  We just need the food.  If we give him our plates, will he still let us eat?

 

 

TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #78

 

I’ve seen all of his horses march in his hand.  What do you think he does with those tiny bones when he loosens his grip?  He isn’t an actual giant, and this isn’t a fairy tale.  I can’t help but think he is gentle with them once he’s taken their lives away.  I don’t think he gnaws on bones.  I think he is the kid who grew way too fast, and those in charge of raising him have no idea what he’s capable of doing from day to day.  He breaks a bed.  He gets a new bed.  He rips a shirt.  He gets a new shirt.  He gets America. He plays with America.  He spins us on his fingertips.  We have no idea what happens next.

J Matt Goode

 

 

 

J Matt Goode face pic

 

Psychoactive Circus

 

 

Jumping through hoops of phenylalanine fire and rings of benzene.
My own ringmaster.
Full on the food of Gods,
clutching It’s phosphorus whip.
The clowns rushing us about and into their car
packed tight like painted sardines with our several selves and shadows.
They’ve arranged the ransom,
high intensity discharge bouquets and mountain dew for Mescalito.
The brutality squad flash the lights and thirsty fangs on the roadsides.
Drop zone-ghetto.
I coordinate with friends of Ours.
The Circus is strange
concessions are complimentary
but for lost minds in the tip jars.
El Hongo quiere sus propinas,
no sus vivas!
Under the big top, 
death has no act to perform
sanity walks the high wire.
There is no pole,
nor a net.
The Human Canonball?
All the freaks in the sideshow?
Those acts are yours alone,
Here at The Greatest Show on Earth.

 

 

J. Matt Goode is a college dropout and a ne’er do well. He drinks, smokes, thinks and writes. This all occurs in Mississippi’s Piney Woods, in the “Free State of Jones” area except, of course when he travels. Then, it happens wherever the hell he finds himself. He has been featured in the new Independent publishing company ‘Stay Weird and Keep Writing’s’ first chapbook, as well as assistant editor and weekly writing contributor. He can be reached at…

 

jmgoode.74.mg@gmail.com

P.A.Levy

 

ELECTRONICA BYTES OUT OF THE SOUL

 

 

 
never before in the field of human
sounds in the mud have we been bought
so completely not battlefields as such
but where every beat has its generation
and every generation has been beaten
into crushed ants crushed beetles
ground down and mixed
with alcohol or diamorphine
blurred into believing
we’d everything we could’ve wanted
 
we’d carried  flags beautifully
allowed the cloth and colours
to engage in conversation with the wind
had the art had the moves and the Es
and a wrist action which was exactly
what we expected it to be
 
i’m not sick because
i’m not a non violent soldier
or a d-i-y theologian
peace is only a by-product of war
it comes with guns and the theft
of freedom buys iPhones or plasma TVs
the digital revolution is insecticide
and we are dead creatures
with more legs than brain cells

THE ANCIENT ART OF SMASHING GUITARS

 
we are the dinosaurs of the future our
history compressed into rock gods singing
rock ‘n’ roll songs of the mediaeval
dead until the cult of the censor ceremonially
cut them to shreds
in the church of god shit politics
selling t-shirts by the ton to look cool
and hot to be
courted at the masque ball
 
the loneliness of the pen
bled words dyed pillar box red
carved by swords
for boob jobs and liposuction and tidy
piss flaps that don’t go back home to the bone
fossilise undetected
 
writing pussy riot on your skin
is not a sin
the sin is
not to kill the layers and the liars
‘cos i know why the caged guitar
can’t sing

OVER-THE-COUNTER CULTURE

 

 
i’m the man who grew
a moustache but lost an arm
don’t hold a grudge though as i
get a seat on the tube without my
duel personality engaging in
extra loud
heated philosophical debates
which used to result in self abuse
self fisticuffs
and i used to sing nursery rhymes on swings
and roundabouts
sea shanties in the bath
now i’m the idiotic hero splashing about
my own inadequacies
thinking it’s an achievement
to quit smoking five hundred and fifteen times
but at least i’ve stopped cheering on
vampires
these days they make more crap films
than jennifer aniston

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P.A.Levy -Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between.  He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk
 

Wayne Russell

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upon Waking up Face Down in the Gutter

 

 

 


Funny thing is that just last week
I had sworn never to touch the drink
again.
Yet here I was coming back to life, just
like a drunken Lazarus arisen from the
gutters of New Zealand.
I overshot my house by three doors and
crashed face first into the drainage ditch
of the elderly Smith family.
It must have been about two A.M. or
somewhere thereabouts, lucky for me
they were out of town visiting grandchildren.
The Irish pub was packed and the Karaoke
singers were all terrible, but at least on the
truly terrible renditions of Time after Time
or Do You Really Want to Hurt Me, I could
nip out to the back and hit my private stash
of grog.
I had planned ahead and thought to stock my
back pack full of beer, hiding it behind the skip
bin out behind the pub.
Either I was a bloody genus or a starving student
that could not afford his drink in any pub in this
God forsaken town.
Between desperate gulps of beer, I finally came
to the conclusion that I should ditch the horrible
singing, the horrible company, and the dingy pub
and start the two mile trek home.
Not realizing just what lay ahead in the frigid
starless night.



 

Wayne Russell is a creative writer born and raised in Florida. Previously, Wayne has resided ten years in New Zealand and one year in Scotland, he has seen much of the lonely planet and hopes to someday see more of it.

Wayne leads the freak squad over at Degenerate Literature, you can check them out on social media https://www.facebook.com/DehenerateLiterature/ or at their web site at http://degenerateliterature.weebly.com/issue-10.html