Borderline |
by Chelsi Robichaud

Stitching holds my skin together;
A hysterical laugh threatens to burst
Through the seams, revealing the glowing,
Undulating light
That burns my blood.

The blaze threatens to explode,
Rending me.
How came it to be there?
It shakes me, twists me,
Vomits every syllable.
It erupts everything into
A blinding white vision.

Debris fills my lungs, my bowels, and my throat.
My body is overflowing with pollution.
How do I rid myself of this?
Am I doomed to fluctuate
Between bursting light, lucidity, and guilt?

Permit the blaze to bleed out;
Give it sanction as it drips
From your fingertips.
Turn your gaze inwards
To the sinew and scars
Carved onto your bones.

Let it be known
That you are a cenotaph
In need of filling. 

The Poet: Chelsi Robichaud's work has appeared in The Perch magazine and is forthcoming in Mock Orange magazine, The Voices Project and Mythic Circle magazine.

The Artist: Chrystal writes. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggled, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other things she knows and loves. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing she’s taking pictures, or curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.

Special Mixed Kebab |
by Neil Fulwood

In a crime movie, the old "take this down forensics"
scenario would apply, a detective barking an order
about a report on his desk first thing in the morning.
In a sci-fi spectacular, it would be something
not of this earth. But this is Friday, pushing midnight,
ten pints down your gullet. This is a special mixed kebab
and you'd rather not know what it consists of.

Neil Fulwood is the author of film studies book 'The Films of Sam Peckinpah'. His poetry has appeared in The Morning Star, Nib, Uneven Floor, Full of Crow Poetry, Butcher's Dog and Art Decades. He divides his time between the pub and the cinema and somehow manages to hold down a day job. 

Best Friends |
by Ricky Garni

Why can’t a rhino frolic like a lamb? The rhino tried very hard to frolic like a lamb, but he was not successful. Every time he tried to frolic, he went backwards. The lamb frolicked forwards. And the rhino frolicked backwards. Eventually, the lamb returned to his friend the rhino and showed him how to frolic forwards. He jumped and scampered with great brio while the rhino carefully studied his every movement and nuance. Renewed and confident, the rhino began to frolic with great enthusiasm and vigor, and frolicked, as a rhino steady and true, backwards.

Ricky Garni is a graphic designer and machinist, whose work is widely available in print and on the Web. His poetry titles include THE ETERNAL JOURNALS OF CRISPY FLOTILLA, MAYBE WAVY and THE SEA OF KICKING LEGS. JIGGLE FEST, a collection of short prose, was released in December 2014. THE PINKIE EMBRACE will be released late summer, 2015.

Here Nowhere |
Suchoon Mo

I am only going home
there is no music
there is no moonlight

the soundless misty rain
I own this dark night

the earth used to be flat
her chest used to be flat
not any more

if a frog comes to my door
what should I say to him?

I don't remember her face any more
I don't remember her voice any more
I remember it was long ago

snow flakes are falling
like cherry blossoms in spring

dread of tomorrow is here
hope of yesterday is nowhere
here nowhere 

He is a retired academic living in the semiarid part of Colorado.

Clavicle |
by Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad

Toting my strut 
not in my waist or bum but 
between my neck and heart; 
horizontal bone, traced in pairs, 
and yet each lies 
on either side 
perfectly alone

Sheathed in skin, 
she peaks above sheer dresses, 
shaming folds of 
fabric with her jutting firmness, 
protruding elegance 
though veiled by countless 
cotton threads

Never decorated with blush or gloss, 
never weighted, never teased, 
never worried 
to protect her 
from harmful touch

I flaunt the curve in my bone, 
with an outline 
more defined 
than the swell of my breast 
Un-soft, compact, no marrow,
a surge, a wave, rising 
from an ocean of blood 
and a shore of flesh

Most commonly broken, yes, 
for her unique position, 
as the connection 
in a matrix of muscle and ligament; 
the support from my arm 
suspended, blades move freely
push up and pointedly, 
for this skeletal piece 
is Latin for little key

If I reach, she accommodates, 
rotates on genetic axis 
like the earth, 
but of bone,
the top half of a picture 
frame for the portrait 
of my body and form; 
last bone to ossify 
but first for any embryo

And yes, the case may break, 
but listen to the echo 
when knuckles thrum 
along this bone 

Nothing marks womanhood 
better than a beat 
so close to the heart, 
still safe from injury

Mehmoosh Torbatnejad was born and raised in New York. She holds a BA in journalism and sociology from New York University and a JD from the Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law. She has loved poetry since she was first introduced to the rhyming genius of Dr. Seuss’ literature, and have been writing poetry since. She currently lives in New York and practice matrimonial law

not in my english class you don't |
by Carl Miller Daniels

big-eyed sexy teenage boy who has
plans to 
be a biologist 
the gray-green goop smells
musty, musky, earthy. he's
here in the woods, 
naked, all alone,
and he didn't really mean to
get distracted by this
gray-green musky goop. 
mainly he's here because he 
just wants to
jerk off, all alone out here in
the woods. he feels sexy out
here, naked, in the sunshine,
woodsy leafy smells, little birds singing,
insects clicking and clacking away.
but now, his attention keeps
going back to that
gray-green goop growing on
top of a pile of dry brown leaves.
what the heck is that goop anyway?
a slime mold of some kind?
a lichen?  a fungus? some
kind of algae maybe? 
down on his hands
and knees, sticking the
tip of his nose
practically right 
in it,
the big-eyed sexy teenage boy
with plans to be a
suddenly feels like sticking some
of it, well, sticking some of
it back THERE. you know, back
THERE. so he stares at 
the stuff some more.
gray-green goop, kinda slimy
in texture. gooey. icky, kinda repulsive,
and yet.  and yet...
his little butt is in the air.
his legs are kinda spread apart.
there's a gentle breeze. it's cool,
yet warm, and it's blowing on
him, blowing gentle sweet sexy  
right on the
pink rim of his, well, right on
the rim of tight little
asshole. the breeze feels
cool and tingly, and thoughts
are racing sparkly hot inside
the sloshy wet pinkness of
his almost-a-biologist's 
brain. and so now,
the big-eyed sexy teenage boy
with plans to be a biologist
pinches off a
bittle blob of the gray-green goop
between his thumb and index finger.
squishes it up some more.
reaches back to his asshole,
applies just a little bit to the rim. just
a little bit. just a sample.
so moist. so cool. so well,
maybe push a little of it
right on inside. right on in, just
a little bit, he's
down on his hands and knees,
in the forest, his butt is in the air,
his tight little asshole is pink and
ready for the procedure,
big-eyed sexy teenage boy who 
wants to be a biologist
performs the
experiment, plans to keep it secret, 
just better off that way,
this the first of many little experiments
out here in the warm summer woods --
miles to go before he
sleeps, miles to
go before he sleeps.

Carl Miller Daniels is an OCD agoraphobe who flosses quite regularly.