What fire hath wrought.
Melted wires, sparks. Cables
litter the machine-room floor.
A surfeit of color,
coded chaos strewn
over gunmetal grey concrete. Continue reading “Robert Beveridge: Disconnected”
A man’s body is his currency
Burning life upon Facebook friend request
Tendency to burn all the wishes for likes
Or the likes for wishes we like
Are we on the rag?
A rug as the tag…
A fag swing song
In mediocritas thong. Continue reading “João Pinho: FETISH FUTURIST”
Bossa Nova for the Turchin Twenties
Wouldn’t change a thing is what you said, habib,
to coffee as
you danced with your girl—
in dining rooms, Continue reading “Josh Lipson: Bossa Nova For The Turchin Twenties”
When the dust mask is covered in soot I take it off and add it to the sack slung over my shoulder. The rubber straps have left imprints all across my face, sore to the touch. I take another one out of the box and put it on anyway, trying to change the angle enough so it doesn’t dig into the same grooves as the last one. The seal fits poorly over my beard but I already used my last razor and I haven’t made it to the store yet.
I’ve been making progress, though. For example, I’ve almost caught up to whoever is on the road in front of me. I haven’t actually seen them yet, just their sack. Judging from the size, I’m guessing whoever’s pulling it must be twenty, thirty years older than me. For every time I manage two or three steps, they’re lucky to move an inch.
Four photographs by Jefferson J.W. Wayne
These four photos were taken while Jefferson was working along the Houston, Texas ship channel and are apart of a collection he’s building to present along with prose under the title As Dawn Breaks Over the Cancer Factory. As an industrial firefighter and process operator he is privy to these sights every day. They are an attempt to showcase the current future of industry as it moves forward to its slow death in the world.
Turkeys for Christmas
The future is stupid,
The past is a bastard,
The present, coalescent.
So what’s left?
Mark Coverdale is the Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry. Published by Penguin. Twitter: @cov_art
David Turner is the founding editor of the Lunar Poetry Podcasts series, has a City & Guilds certificate in Bench Joinery along with the accompanying scars, is known to the Bristol, Kristiansand and Southwark Community Mental Health Teams as a ‘service user’ and has represented Norway in snow sculpting competitions. Originally from London but now living in Bristol. No greater current ambition in life than to achieve Grade 1 in piano. Widely unpublished. Working-class. Picket line poet. @Silent_Tongue
untitled future objects
the garden of technological progress
Dorset-based artist Pete Treglown has developed a multi-faceted approach to making art works. His work is essentially a form of audio and visual assemblage, collecting images and ideas from varied sources and combining them into re-contextualised narratives that have a socio-political content. Website address www.prtreglown.com
Official – Subject To Final Review
P R O C E E D I N G S
(9 :45 a.m.)
CHIEF JUSTICE GIBSON: We’ll hear argument f this morning in Case 84-2532, Android Rights Coalition verses The People’s Republic of America.
ORAL ARGUMENT OF TX-38 Continue reading “Maddison Stoff: Android Court Transcription”
& where, then
Sarah James/Leavesley is a restless/creative chameleon, who loves working across genre and media including poetry, fiction, journalism and photography. She doesn’t believe in much any more, except that the present is our future. Her website is at http://www.sarah-james.co.uk. Sarah tweets here
Cai Draper is a poet from south London. He recently completed an MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) at the University of East Anglia. Systems was previously published in the UEA MA Poetry Anthology (Egg Box Publishing 2018)
featured image: Cai Draper
Yellow flowers suddenly appearing,
ghost ships and curse birds,
the petty-profound re-occuring
nature of nature – fall, autumn,
fall, autumn, O! Spring! (the month
of May featured heavily)
– they used to write poetry about this!
And wrote about love/luv/lv – a word
as vague as ‘They’.* Back then, when
was made of moving parts (see: production).
Now we (the three of us) invent alphabets
each day, with bone-point pens in the
generous plastic-dust. For old Times™’ sake.
Help us. We can’t help it.
*’They’ – indefinite descriptor for all political
and commercial enemies of the people
featured image from Cas is taken from a 17th century book of tantric drawings of Maharastra, no copyright.
Theodoros Chiotis is the editor and translator of the anthology Futures: Poetry of the Greek Crisis (Penned in the Margins, 2015). Other publications include Screen (in collaboration with photographer Nikolas Ventourakis; Paper Tigers Books, 2017) and limit.less: towards an assembly of the sick (Litmus, 2017). His work has appeared in Catechism, Litmus, Datableed, Forward Book of Poetry 2017, Adventures in Form, Austerity Measures, Shearsman, aglimpseof, Visual Verse, lyrikline, Otoliths, amongst others. He has translated contemporary British and American poets into Greek and Aristophanes into English. He is a member of the editorial board of the Greek literary magazine [φρμκ] and contributing editor for Hotel magazine. His project Mutualised Archives, an ongoing performative interdisciplinary work, received the Dot Award by the Institute for the Future of Book and Bournemouth University; he has also been awarded a High Commendation from the Forward Prizes for Poetry in 2017. He tweets @selfcoding
featured image: Bob Modem
Bobbie-Jo Treglown is a retired dancer and choreographer. Now in her fifties, she uses her life experiences as a medium. She is also a writer, performance poet and artist. Recently she collaborated with Degenerate Space on Solus and The City and previous publishers include Emmylou Books and Little Red Writers.
Alice Willitts graduated with Distinction from the Creative Writing Poetry MA at UEA in 2018 and was shortlisted with her creative partner for the Ivan Juritz Prize for their poetic essay in experimental fractal poetics ‘p0_EM Stein1’. Her poetry is concerned with personal and ecological losses and the limits of human intelli- gence as our species faces its own end. She is also writing for the Speculative Futures Collective (UEA), creating the ‘speculative nature writing of 2080’, due to be published in summer 2019 by Boilerhouse Press.
PERFECTLY HAPPY WORKERS
Not too much was working these days.
In the passenger seat, Eric was having trouble with his seatbelt. It wasn’t that it was stuck or even disabled. The metal sat coolly in its socket, but Eric didn’t seem to be having a good time.
“Fuckin’ thing,” he said and took the belt off entirely. George frowned. There wasn’t a lot of risk in their job, he reflected vapidly. The day was warm, the air-conditioner was on. Outside the sun shined and now that the morning was done, none of it was getting in his eye.
There was a certain point where George always got an erection coming east of the Mississippi.
“Fuckin’ thing!” Eric put the belt back on. Instinctively, George looked in the rearview mirror. A cop with his lights on was directly behind him.
“Shit!” said Eric as George pulled the car over.
Not a whole lot of risk and not a whole lot working as well, thought George.
George fast-talked the cop. He was a middle age white guy much like George was. Eric had some kind of farmers tan going on but he looked out the windshield, ignoring the cop on his direct right and let George do the talking. It was probably the smartest thing he could do.
So, the cop walked away, befuddled by George’s small talk about going east and all, and don’t mind the trailer in the back, yeah, it was home-made, but the lights worked, why did he get pulled over anyway?
The cop, mumbled something about a description matching them. George kept nodding and smiling. Eric continued to stare straight into the horizon.
“What’d we do?” asked George.
“Ah, nothing, someone pulled a gas run, but no, you fellas look all right…” That was code that they were looking for some black guys or just wanted to get a look at the California plates.
George smiled, letting his heart settle. He didn’t know what Eric was thinking. He mumbled thanks a long time after the officer left and didn’t touch the seatbelt after that. The sun continued its journey across the sky and eventually, as it was setting, they were in Tennessee.
George pulled the car and trailer into the parking lot for viewing the Blue Ridge Mountains, put it in park and got out of it. Eric followed.
They walked over to the fence, stared out at the mist and the view and Eric lit a cigarette and George sucked on his chewing tobacco. A couple minutes later a girl in a trench coat and glasses walked beside him.
“Do you like the Talking Heads?” asked George amiably.
“Oh no, please don’t be like that, darling! Shit, we’ve been all over and you, you with your spy master disguise…”
“You’re going to be all over again. They want you in California.”
“We just came from there! This is bullshit!” Eric walked away then, kicked a rock over the edge of the cliff.
“Regardless, those are the coordinates.”
“All right, all right, but please, take a look at the business and tell me where it needs to go.”
“We’ve got…. Damn it!” A few yards away, Eric got into the car and slammed the door.
It had been going on like this for a month. George didn’t know what was going on. Eric had been dropped off to him in Boston and his surly ass wasn’t the only thing getting sick of the feel of fake leather seats. After they picked up the weapons in NYC, they drove straight to Louisiana, then to Minnesota, then to California and then to Southern California, and now to this southern, stupid, idiotic, fucked up place on the side of a road!
“Hey!” she said, taking off her glasses. Her eyes were blue. “You signed up just like all of us! We’re all hoping this will come off…”
“What’s the point of a revolution that does nothing! Christ! I thought things were ready! I thought it was cool to be radical again!”
Eric honked the horn.
“We just don’t need that kind of service right now,” she said, then walked away. George stared after her.
“Well, excuse me for listening to you when you did!” He yelled. He didn’t care. There were several cartons of bullets and a couple assault rifles under a big camping equipment tool-box in his car’s trailer. Sights and silencers in the trunk.
George didn’t care, why should he? Why should anyone? Why should anyone care about the world and be willing to do something to change it? What the fuck was the point?
George slammed the car door. Eric was all hunched into his seat with his boots on the glove department and his head covered by a cap.
“Where too now?” he asked.
“Nowhere in particular,” he said and started the car. Outside the air was hot and he threw on the air-conditioning again and drove away. Eric whistled something because their radio was broke and it was a long way from L.A.
Benjamin Joe lives in Buffalo, New York where he works as a freelance writer for The Niagara Gazette and IPWatchdog.com. His first novel, Nirvana Dreams, was published by NFB Publishing in November and excerpts from it can be found in the March 2018 Ghost City Review and Issue 14 of Riggwelter Press. A short story can also be found at Aspirant Magazine. Twitter: @benjamin_joeb01
featured image: Bob Modem
JL Bogenschneider has had work featured in a number of print and online journals, including 404 Ink, minor literature[s], Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Necessary Fiction, PANK and Ambit. @bourgnetstogner