 Pink Moon in Scorpio You Wouldn't Understand Anyway by Lane Mochow Pink Moon in Scorpio
I count how many times the moon yanks on her trickling blondes it may only be two, but the tunnel divides himself, unlit by viscose cellophane or irradiated glass last night, I forgot her face. instead, the black is now split by oil lamp one spotlit steel toed boot at a time hovering above a miner's floorboards. I choose to clutch hope's burlap, holding right is right and left is nothing but a hopeless chimera, its body but a mutilated yellow jacket who stings until light rolls the sky. I suppose I will never truly, unapologetically hold my own fate.
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 3 Poems Ahmad Al-Khatat In The Garden of Your Heart
Plant me in the garden of your heart Water me with your emotional tears Until I blossom in your warm season Just don't pick the flowers around me. Let my seeds become your healthy sustenance, allow me to be the fibres on the abandoned empty dish of the holiday, thus I would feed you happily. Engrave your name on my chest of the tree, and hold my green branches Maybe you could educate me how to dance, before autumn, split us apart. Write your dreams on the colourful leaves You live and die once and I live and die more than onetime, be glad and I will be the tree to expand my roots to reside with your breathe. 10/12/2020 Bleeding Heart Poet ©  Clothes, Clothes, Clothes, Music, Music, Music, Boys, Boys, Boys Author, Viv Albertine by Roy Peak Reading Viv Albertine's biography took me to another time and place more so than any other biography I've ever read.
I've read multiple books on the London punk scene, (England's Dreaming by Jon Savage was informative but a little dry, John Lydon's Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs was great, but a little self-centered.) but Albertine's was the first one that really made me feel as if I had been dropped right into the midst of what was truly an ever-evolving and rather incestuous happening. Albertine gives true insight into those who populated the music scene without sounding like a name dropper. She was friends with (or went to school with, or dated, or worked for, or played in bands with) some of the most important and influential characters in England at the time, and her memories of these people come off honestly, with no sense of malice. A for instance: Most tales of infamous Sid Vicious of the band the Sex Pistols make him seem like a cartoon character or a doom-laden extra in someone else's story. Albertine manages to turn him back into a real person—no small feat. They were friends, played in a band together, and Albertine paints a rather sympathetic portrait of the iconic rock star, painting a portrait of a person much different than you would think.  Two Roads Electioneering The Neighborhood Sixty-Five Gulls A Different Light by Paul Ilechko Two Roads
There is a high road and a low road that parallel the creek between them meandering apart until they close as one the high road made of dirt climbing rapid then dropping down and from such height has visibility at certain seasons of the low road through the yellow autumn or the sparsity of winter to where the low is pinned against the cliff beyond it rising such that steepness melts from it and dribbling back to pool and filter on the asphalt a road of Pennsylvania rotten a crumbling coverage of constant liquid curved and black against the earth as cutting its tracery through the hills it finds its termination point a village center pinned in place and anchored by terrain.  Once A Day by Lane Mochow Once A Day when I was little, we left the house once a day: the gas station on the corner for diet coke, the mall for making up stories about what the teenagers meant by their foreign lingo. the grocery store for bagels, black beans, burritos. the restaurant for filling long-gurgling stomachs egg rolls, dollar burgers, ice water with lemon. the greenway to name edible plants in case the economy collapsed and I a lone child without moccasins, turquoise, teepees (as i imagined my ancestors had) were left to collect watercress, pick the leaves from dandelions, dig up sassafras root with my nimble fingers. the bank to wear my nicest ankle length skirt to stand behind her in silence as mommy cashed her check stuffing the cash in her billfold as though her life depended on it (it did). i never noticed the knowing look in the cashier's eye, the wag of his buzz cut at our arrival, the wipe of her minimum wage saltwater, when mommy's beaded braids the ever-present rustling of a brooding hurricane came upon the horizon. mommy's rage would white knuckle grip their great black oaks at the trunk, plead into Jesus' dime per minute payphone they drown in a clawfoot of their own blood. "Say amen! Say amen! Say amen!" "Amen."  Bio: Lane Mochow is the author of the chapbook, "Ink." He won first place in the 2018 Tennessee Magazine Poet's Playground in the 19-22 category. He has contributed poetry reviews at Sacred Chickens.  3 Poems by Ahmad Al- Khatat The Gypsy Prayer
Sometimes I think I am less than more than a human who’s always experiencing the brutality of being vulnerable and pray without being known the gypsy prayer In the house of God, most of the people choose to take advantage of my family Meanwhile, when I am around my sinner friends, they taught me “enough is enough.” I dress the way I dress without any regulations I talk the way I talk without any limitations I walk the way I walk within my boundaries and I’ll die the way I wished with the sufferings Being happy with someone you love could be more of a curse than a gift, as being miserable creates, hides emotions and tears whenever my mind, body, soul slowly bleeds to death.  5 Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan 4 Hobby Horsemen of the Apocalypse
I find one of those old hobby horses digging through storage. A brown horse head on a stick that I put between my legs and gallop around just like the kiddies do. But it is boring to ride indoors. I look out to the street. All that pavement. I want the wind flowing through what is left of my hair. If only I could enlist three others with their own hobby horses, I think. We could all ride in together. 4 Hobby Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Like a biker gang, but with more purpose. The neighbours would flee in fear. Men and women screaming with terror. Our horses neighing each time we took turns making the noises.  Photo courtesy of npr.org To Beirut by Ahmad Al- Khatat To Beirut
From the foolishness of politicians From the damages of civil war From the combat in the south your heart never started to break Beirut, you have taught Baghdad and Damascus not to panic so whatever What happened with you yesterday turned our eyes into a silent song played by your tears To Beirut, we will cry and offer aids for To Uighur, we will weep and support for To all humanity, whom there’s not a day that -goes by when tears are not in our eyes It’s the time that we stop being sightless It’s the perfect timing to stop being careless We must stand above our unheard screams We shall stop hearing the politician apologies.  The Nights Are Long On The List The Noise of a Homeless Barefoot by Ahmad Al-Khatat The Nights Are Long
Dreaming of you explains why the nights are long with more longing I still have your scent on my arms Even though I let you slip far away I want you to stop me from sinning Take me away from all of those sins let me be closer to your shiny faith People die like the branches in fall You spread love over my miseries And I turned love to a cloudy heart You have always believed in a good love, yet none of us said goodbye I broke my heart by the full moon I throw all of the pieces up to the blue sky, before they start to bleed Now they are the steps to heaven  ABCs OF ICE, OF FIRE PSYCHE by Alisa Velaj ABCs
We can't be clearer than this snowy sky, my dear. It has the guts to see everything stark naked, unabashedly so, down to the bone of nakedness-- similarly to Eden in its genesis days... You and I vest one armor piece upon another, lusty with bonfires stacked up deep inside us, while they never satiated us enough, nor ever burnt or cremated us to ashes... We are heroes of glorious sunny days-- our clarity held hostage by a long winter night, ever since you swore on rock and wood to flee four seasons away from snows, there, where the sun would shine your eyes... And here we are now—in season five, wordless and eyes downcast, under the same sky, which we shall never be able to outspace, unless we first master the spectrum of light! Translated from Albanian by Arben P. Latifi |
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