Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Poems By Timmy Mars

This Timmy Mars has grand  intentions on a marginal drive, trying to line up the holes so to trace the trajectory of the spark that first did pierce him so.  Published lately by Zombie, Neologism Poetry Journal, Blue Collar Review.

The Shower Scene

We are one and half of it is bathing.
I hold the soap with my knees
as your voice knifes through the curtain
again and again.
It is not enough to be clean and responsible;
the self-contained play their hand
close to the sudsy chest and risk
leaving their bowels on the tile.
English is a lovely language, not universal,
but can get us to the edge my dear,
tangling fully extended on the sea floor
well beyond protection.

                   Kink in the Flow

The tube is blocked with debris,
hubris, the letter A in amalgam;
lotus blossom must go brown.
"You should never have said that,"
another bound pig over the cyclone fence.

We go about love kicking and pitching,
dynamic motor drive, pneumatic pistons.
Thus I left the girls behind
to chase the white whale
as a salty lap dog to the Captain's fate.

The iron strikes and leaves a mark.
Second honeymoon sun sinks
like a used Aztec heart in a bodega broth.
Old two-stroke could use a valve job,
but we don't give a damn for the smoke.

                         Breakfast with Ducks

Multiple ducks line up for a biscuit.
The white star cluster last night
filled a vessel with cold milk.
Our sun again spreads butter up
the east trees, and the mist
smells of reptiles for the frying.
I turn the day to be over 
and then I turn it back again;
a fever prickles my fingertips.
The ducks have a biscuit habit;
I hear them outside the door
shuffling and quibbling.


we burned a shed full of our clothes
heat and smoke across the cracked ground
the stench was the essence of our modernity
we felt strange for several days
then went to shop again
I bought a new green belt to tie off with 
you got some silk to cover your wrists
flaming dogs pull meat from the fires
but eat none of it.

               Lifetime with the Sanhedrin

"Goodbye old head ," they said.
"Goodbye old mission accomplished,
tattered baboon of the mist-
a wretched eye on your summer door.
You may not enter the still purse again,
cheated by your bridges,
poked by sharp rocks everywhere."

I laughed and tumbled down the slope,
cutting several members.  Our union
was an explosion on the horizon.
One dinner of light could be enough, like
red doughnuts and St. Pat's beer in a boneyard.

If I must cross these mountains again,
I'll take an empty birdcage and sing to it,
but it won't matter since already I feel
the degeneration.  I walk floppy,
the sinuses drip blood, and
not frightening but annoying-
it's not mine.

                         Scary Legs

the spider came down oh the spider
came down and sat beside my head
the spider washed out the gutter oh
that thing with the scary legs
and that stinger oh
she whispered in my ear and left a sac
and I am very careful now
the boiling waters rise now
and I am careful with my prizes oh

Monday, February 11, 2019

Rob Quill Two Poems

Rob Quill is a new writer. 


I strip
away my
in awkward
a clown.
Macbeth.  Whoever.
Don’t eat the
chips.  They are full
of worse poisons
than lead.
But they
go nicely
in a word salad.

Star Horizons
I’m a space
traveling mama
who’s really
a man.
I go from one
planet, your inner
self, to the next,
your enemy’s garden.
I’m everywhere,
nowhere, collecting
evidence to hold the
rest of the universe
in celestial contempt.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019

Five Poems By Sean Tierney

Sean Tierney is a 31 year old poet with OCD and a panic disorder living in South Florida. His poetry often reflects the derealization he experiences at times.He has been involved, both as a contributor and editor, with Ra Press of Vermont and the Adirondack Center for Writing going on eight years now. This year he will be judging the poetry contest for the Poetry Society of South Carolina.


I mean, like staples
in a telephone pole

there is often something


drawn / erased

like a moth without
his sunglasses

it made sense
a second ago

just fill the
page, buddy
you'll be OK


it's just a feeling
you get
while the
and people
move with
great speed
all around

like someone is
hitting the gas
then the brake
over and over

and sometimes
your mind
is like a toilet

and to keep from
you focus
on a single
brick in
the road
and move
towards it
for the rest
of your life


the slow pull of an endless worry
tied to itself like a magician's scarf


there you are
like the cardboard lip
of a milk carton

oh, and there's me
like a bee with
a plate of cookies

I see us
from the airplane

in its reflection
as I avoid

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

Poems By Matt Barrell

Matt Barrel has been suffering from schizophrenia for 25 years and also draws and writes comic books. NIGHTMARE SCENARIOS was published earlier this year. Please check his site


Sitting in the library 
Passing the time
Reading three books 

Poems on the underground 
The night torn mad with footsteps by charles bukowski 
And the complete family guide to schizophrenia 

There's a guy opposite me
In a leather jacket       in summer
Laughing madly at his phone
Teeth bared       like some wild animal

Maybe I should feel for the guy 
But as the family guide tells me 
Schizophrenics suffer from a lack of affect 
Besides the poor attention span
Which prevents me reading further 

I give up halfway through 
The first chapter
After learning that the SPLIT 
In SCHIZOphrenia is between
Perception and reality
And not between personalities 
As is commonly thought

The guy goes out
The guy comes in again
And sits on the floor in the corner
By the water fountain        
Still laughing and muttering to himself

He seems happy enough 
Maybe I should ask him to swap places
For half an hour       so I'd be the one
Who is unpredictable and wild
And he'd sit here       outwardly calm
Suffering only from the delusion 
Of possible escape from the dog
Trapped in darkness in his head 


So it's my turn in the ward round
Doctor Gordon (his foot keeping time
With some imaginary chorale) asks me
How I am
                                Not good I say
My voice leaking out weakly
I've been feeling very bad
For over a year now

And he doesn't ask what sort
Of thoughts have you been having?
Or what's been troubling you?

He says we can lift your mood
                         Er Matt
Before confirming a course of Seroxat
With his junior and out I slip
Through the curtained door


I clutch the cool apple
And begin to cry

Only a beef sandwich
Or maybe potato salad will do

Or sprouts
At the moment I can't get enough of them

My father's reading the paper
I feel a formal love for him

My hope is in her pocket
Far far away

All I have is a hole
Where my stomach should be