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Experimental Poetry


i’m lying in a body of salt

the universe collapses around me

i breathe atop rolling energy


this is non-verbal communication

an intimate conversation between particles


oxygen whispers down long corridors of waves

traveling from surface level to internal

dead cells swell and expand

our souls become conscious again


i’m floating in the nourishment of a fool-proof recipe

the ancient sun breaks

a smile glides across my face



slntstrwbrry is a writer from the USA. They have appeared in wine cellar press, ink sweat & tears, and misfit magazine. They enjoy guacamole, live music, and sunshine.


Insomnia’s Non Sequitur

Caught in interstitial stuttered times, night will not

follow into day. A gibbous moon grins lewdly as

rankled reveries and shaggy sheep snag wool on lost

back fences. Crickets, stridulating visions, walk

backwards, while in black and silver satin, sequined

harlequins toss pyrite dreams over eyes that will not

close. Dawn is held captive by the caws and the claws

of a williwaw, while limning shadows scrape façades

like pitchy scars, marring finely chiseled exteriors. Old

fallacies sieve through this fissured world; glow,

squirm, and writhe like the frenzied hair from the head

of an antique Pergamon god, around feet that cannot

move forward. Falsetto voices, giggling, stake their

claims, spin on a premise, and conclusions that once

came following, easy as obedient dogs, now squat

like stunned spiders spinning insomnia’s darkest


Pamelyn Casto has articles on flash fiction in Writer’s Digest, Fiction Southeast, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction, The Greenwood Encyclopedia of New American Reading, and Critical Insights: Flash Fiction. Her poems have appeared in several publications.

Lobster Telephone Salvador Dali.jpg

Lobster Telephone by Salvador Dali

lady day (for Billie)

it’s true        the light

is cruel


moonsplinters bruising

bloodshot eyes



as clear as water


)I will


give you that


much(        now


tremors of sorrow

skip the record

glacial lullabies of lost




scraps of your

handwriting on clean

white sheets


I keep(


your words tucked

behind my ear        a white gardenia.

Danielle McMahon graduated from the University of Pittsburgh writing program in 2006. She has been previously published in Spinning Jenny and Wicked Alice under her maiden name.

Form Poetry


long drought

our prayers for rain

go unanswered

the one cloud on the horizon

mushroom-shaped and growing

Tracy Davidson writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications, including Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Common Riches

Tiny diamond sparks

Soft crunching underfoot

Peace in the soul . . .

Tree limbs cast in stark relief

Against the white shawl thrown on Earth

Julia Murphey is from Russia, but she is now residing in the US. She teaches English for a living and writes poetry for recreation. For her, writing poetry is a safe harbor to find rest in and draw energy from.


on getting sober

abandoned                  in the dust

beautiful earth             in my heart

caved with                   roses

dragons in                   the dungeons of my sleep

esculent                       roots of the garden

fluted bones                fruit into marble toes

God’s silence               never break(s)

holding                        a fifth of whiskey


I crawl                          like an ant in mourning

jaw unhinged              grin crooked

kissing my mouth      my nose, wind

like                                 a leopard’s breath

muscle through           clean-setting waistbands


nothing is                    as it should be

out of                            a chipped white cup

peace                            comes in the generosity of water


quartz-flake                 feather of a rose

rising from bed           meeting the sun

staring                          in the round deep eye of a bottle


to think about              God

unfolded                       from the folds

voices around              you kept shouting bad advice


with leaves                   around the edges

except that death is     so everywhere

yearning and               swelling of heart

zinc-white                   snow



Charles Bukowski- Lines 1, 4, 8, 12, 14, 19

Mary Oliver- Lines 2, 7, 11, 15, 20, 22, 24

Sylvia Plath- Lines 3, 6, 9, 10, 17, 23, 26

Walt Whitman- Lines 5, 13, 16, 18, 21, 25

Laurie Kolp loves the great challenge of writing abecedarian centos. Her poems have been published widely. Laurie is the author of Upon the Blue Couch and Hello, It’s Your Mother. She is working on a chapbook about her late father.

Geometric Forms by Jean Arp

Prose Poetry

Isolato Permutations

The wintry slopes of my thighs collapse into a flat Midwestern prairie as my body releases the tensions of the day. The Word settles into the pocket of my cheek, patient and sweet as a lozenge.


I close my eyes against the comet tail of headlights that streak my window. Laying on my side, my ear fastens onto the strains of the mechanical lullaby of another plane completing its parabolic arch over the Pacific before winging its way back East.


A series of anonymous faces imprint themselves on the backs of my eyelids. As I fall asleep, the night watchman appears — the solitary outline of a crow perched on a billboard against the industrial purple of a dying LA night.


The Word beats out a treble of notes running counterpoint to my REM cycle. I dream a recurring dream of my father’s hands wrapped around a chisel while his back bends into the concentrated curve of a chair leg whirling round the center of a lathe.


I awaken in the predawn to the entomological weight of syllables slipping from my mouth into a glowing silver puddle on the floor. My strabismic gaze framed by a pair of disheveled braids stares back at me.


The crow snaps his beak in farewell. In the milky light, my eyes fasten onto the ludicrous fruit of a rubber sandal that blossomed overnight among the barren branches of my favorite pomegranate tree, its postmodern beauty as iconic as a Warhol soup can.

Marie C Lecrivain is an author, photographer, and curator of Dashboard Horus. Her work has appeared in Nonbinary Review, Orbis, and other journals. She's the editor of Ashes to Stardust: A David Bowie Tribute Anthology (forthcoming, 2022 Sybaritic Press).

The Fine for Littering the Roadside with Marijuana

The girl I love most fogs rumble strips with the aftermath of white lighting. A descendant in a bloodline of forbidden inevitables that first coursed through duct taped copper pipes cause the plumber might’ve leaked of it cause we all work for the highest bribe. The girl I love most tucks the lighter where the bloodline ends and spills through laced lips when an expecting mother dies. My distraction is that it’s night but the constellations look like clothes hangers and the moonshine looks like bleach.

Sam Baker, from Louisville, Kentucky, is an author of poetry, fiction, and essays. His works have been featured or are forthcoming most notably in The Pinch Literary Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Blue Marble Review, Polaris, and Susquehanna Review.

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