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Samantha Lucero: The Fullmetal Alchemist

samantha lucero

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where memory rusts, limp on a clunk of

dry land & dragging me through the sequins of a

small earth

i croak to the fractured window of a bone-white ford truck groaning down, shambling up a shaft of dreary road.

i, a silver figment or mislaid filament, a filigree wafting bare thru realms hot & rose-gold, loom where the skeleton of the truck is parked eternal: i see the rotting choir of burst leather spaces, vacant, on which the sun has dug its holes. little else remains within apart from remains; i’ve loped from one graveyard to the next.

840 minutes in a warehouses’ baking mouth bending metal out of men, where oil-dyed hands stain wonder-bread or stay-at-home wives’ necks, they used to make trucks like those. and like the one that was his daddy’s buried in that old garage. all he had was that truck

and all I have…

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REDGREEN AND VIOLET-YELLOW RHYTHMS

a slice of heaven from Bojana.

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You dwell in my simplified compositions
in a world filled with squares and rectangles
pulsing with the rhythm of Mozart and Rilke
You’re my color master, my Blue Rider

I am a playful sense of absurdity
a prolonged line across your pages turning bolder
I’m your recovery from numb unresponsiveness
your deadness wiped away

You are my throbbing forms
my dancing hieroglyphs, and otherworldly creatures
children play in your head with paper patterns

I am your topsy-turvy checkerboards
in the metaphysical realm you inhabit
under screaming Tunisian suns

You are my Expressionism
I am your Creative Confession
on a star
amongst stars

We are Anne Frank’s marbles rediscovered
in the attic
toads populate our brains
returning to the pond of their birth to breed

Open window

Greeneyedgirl79 is a writer whose heart & soul is felt in each and every syllable. This immaculate poem is one of the many treats you’ll find on her beautiful blog.

greeneyedgirl79

1you and I

who will care about either of us

when time has dusted over details

with every generation, new mouths to feed

the clamor drowns out

quiet purpose and histories of those

who stood before

as if every young soul must

vanquish those who came before

to make their mark

history is not told by those who won the battle

but by they born of bloodshed

for no history seems to matter in a world of noise

and false succor

where even children wear masks

as adults wait patiently for their disintegration

building artifices as high as they are wont

to stand without feet

you and i

our time will go unnoticed

and one may argue

what does it matter?

as long as we know

isn’t that enough?

but we seek in our nature

to share beauty and joy

for loveliness to be known

as I would write forever…

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Introducing Chris Nelson ~ Magpie

MORALITY PARK

My perch it is the highest fence

My view the clearest view,

I scan the city streets all day

In search of something new.

I watch the faces passing by

The frightened and the brave,

And steal their thoughts before they know

They’re stumbling to the grave.

But never tree

Or hanging branch

Will ever hear me sing,

I move with grace

From left to right

But never on a limb.

I’ll take the shiny and the dull

And keep them in my nest,

All the doors that never opened

Now locked inside my chest.

And when at night you cannot see

The memories that you lost,

I’ll gaze upon each every one

And marvel at the cost.

But never will

I take the dive

Or sing out loud my song,

Just bob my head

From side to side

And pray that I’m not wrong.

I’ll watch the Sun both…

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r.i.p.

samantha lucero

here lies you, silent as the dust you’ve built
my favored disgrace, my bookmarked witch.

i hang YOU every morning in the mirror. i curl you back from your pacific grave by the rope i buried you in just to hear you scream again.

it’s your tired eyes that shimmer patiently in the placental dark that makes me hold my breath, makes me ooze ‘why?’

some silky word you cup over my mouth like a burglar’s glove;
sometimes i glint like a knife under the moon.”
 sometimes i want to die.

here lies me, the view from the prison behind my eyes. they have to saw a hole there someday. maybe that’s when i’ll go away.

there was the picture of dorian gray that he would hide from everyone. the monster gnawed by its own teeth, the truth.

i am the picture & somewhere is my…

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Guest Feature – A Dim View of the Hippie Movement ~ Chris Rodriguez

At the dawning of the Age of Aquarius,
Strawberry Alarm Clock awakens a
stream of consciousness,
artificial spirituality laced with LSD.
Transformed Beatniks don beads, become hip in
bell-bottomed hip-huggers encountering
their id at a Human Be-In.
Back to the land communes in Strawberry Fields
support organic humanure-spiked food
free for sexual favors at local markets.
Nature Boys in old timey clothes fertilize
filth-crusted bodies with free love,
In a Gadda da Vida, honey!
Urbanization spurned, freaks still choose
Frisco as their center of (de)light.

Free press rings in news,
Feed My Headlines proclaim –
Dr. Strange and Jefferson Airplane attend an
Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test at a Grateful Dead revival,
the church of drug induced Nirvana.
Liquid Light Shows draw tie-dyed run-away teens,
down the rabbit hole of
wide-eyed, White Rabbit wonder.
At the Height of Haight Happening,
Hare Krishna chants induce superficial
infatuation with Asian etiology.
‘Keeping it Real’ gets Gays
out of the closet (Far out!),
riding a rainbow of psychedelic ribbons
of Pride to The Castro district.
Hirsute Flower Children with lice, but nice
bare-breasted chicks making love
in patchouli-scented crash pads singing
“love the one you’re with,” oblivious
ball and chain toking through hours
and daze hazy nights.
The free-love train is not a smooth ride.
Stick it to The Man – the mantra in a man’s world.
The Bearded Curtain lacks money,
root of all Establishment evil.
Women serve as replacement currency
coerced to entice new males’ members to enter
the communal state of orgiastic bliss.
Babies abused in false belief,
“It’s alright, it’s his bag. All love is beautiful.”
Magical Mystery Tour, Woodstock,

Summer of Love sexual stew of STD’s
spawns a free clinic that treats
Joplin’s botched abortion.
By all means do your own thing,
tune in, drop out, turn on – blow your mind as
Manson’s musical of murderous missions
taunts L.A. Elysian Park love-ins.
Tricky (Sock it to me?) Dick, with a double (under)handed flash of the peace sign,
tries to send Jo-Yo packing back to Nutopia.
The “Death of Hippies Funeral” buries the
counterculture movement, but uptight,
hung-up, assertive feminists
rise like the Phoenix
from the ashes of burned bras,
born of the so-called age of enlightenment
which kept girls prone,
minds closed
legs open
to Masters and Johnson’s post-revolution probe.
Ouch!


Chris Rodriguez has retired from the horrors of conventional life.  She
now lives on the brink of inspiration in a 100-year-old cottage in
Pocatello, Idaho. Her works have appeared in various themed anthologies
including Rhetoric Askew, Kelly Jacobson’s, The Way to My Heart: An
Anthology of Food-Related Romance, Anchala Press’s Flash Fiction for
Flash Memories and several by Horrified Press/Thirteen O’Clock and
coming soon to Left Hand Publisher’s, Mindscapes Unimagined.  You can
find her latest at https://www.chrisrodriguez-onthebrink.com or
https://www.amazon.com/author/chrisrodriguez-onthebrink.

NOISE IN FASHION~BOJANA STOJCIC

MORALITY PARK

Exhausted by the war, sanctions, and criminality seeping into every pore of society, Serbia was unstoppably sinking into deeper crisis. Furthermore, every attempt to criticize communism and authoritarian national leaders was choked off, which would leave deep scars in public opinion visible to date.

In Nov 1996, demonstrations began in the third largest city in Serbia where I studied in response to electoral fraud attempted by the Socialist Party of Serbia (SPS) of President Milošević after the local elections. Although the majority of the seats in the Parliament were initially given to the pro-European opposition coalition, a revised count gave the control of the city once again to SPS. The underdeveloped south, traditionally supportive of the Socialists, voted for a change, which expressed widespread public dissatisfaction with incumbent politicians and the government’s economic and social policy. Upon witnessing Milošević’s attempt to outflank the opposition, university students and opposition…

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Ice-Ribbons

chrisnelson61

I watched the planes trace ice-ribbons

Across the sky before

They were lost to the

Cirrus wisped blueness

And their tails faded

Like promises written in

Tide-threatened sands,

And hopes took restless souls

To the promise of utopian shores

Not realising that they

Like all that came before

Wore the mask that hid

The fault-line masquerade

That spread like disease below,

I watched them come and go and

Taxi slowly on the grey

As if discarding the seeds of doubt

That grew beneath their wheels

Like ancient gods burying

Defeated foes unaware that

They would rise again,

And as the stuttered raging roar

Splintered hearts like candy then

Tore holes into the sky

Which like starving angels

Swallowed fleeting flailing dreams

Cocooned within a safety shell

They never saw,

As standing rooted in my

Futures past and present

I watched the planes

Trace

Ice-ribbons.

© All original writing copyright Chris…

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