Seeking publication? Well, Underground Books is interested in what you have to say.

either by putting stuff in the box below (to the left) or by mailing to : UBsubmit@gmail.com. currently accepting submissions for: the kitchen poet : send 1-6 poems/flash/artworks or 1 longer piece,…

Nerve by Andriy Antonovskiy

Cheap beer roams in veins and
The moon is black like a square
The relic child -
Ethyl decor for the grave -
Sad red eye
is doing traffic light routine
By it’s rapacious gaze
on the crossing a
K
I
P
Junction
The Rental State of Love
That begins from the smile
of a slut
and then
there is
Short-eye silence
full of the sand of empty words
and rolls…
in…
Charismatic kinks
Infinite eyepiece of nature
Trembling
Reactive
Alco-nerve

(translated by Volodymyr Bilyk)

[published by The Kitchen Poet, Undeground Books]

“First Tulip” by Donal Mahoney

Sometimes you sit for days
sucking yourself in 
praying the right words
will fall in your ear
toboggan over the whorls
pierce the canal
and settle in your brain, 
an embryonic delight.
Sometimes you sit for days
and finally the words come
and they’re always a surprise
like the first tulip in April
or a sudden
orgasm for your wife.

 

originally published at the Guest Blog

“Don’t Disturb The Dead Bird” by Jeremiah Walton

Don’t Disturb The Dead Bird

Don’t disturb the dead bird
Its dry cry goes unheard
Poked at by sticks broken off a nearby rotted tree
Near its’ body underneath the marquee
With young knuckles wrapped around its imagined hilt
Its body tossed like a rag doll embossed
With cheap black tattered imitation leather
The slick tick of time on rain pattered feathers
A charred cheap treasure
With cracked wings amongst other small things
Pulled joints and ligaments tied with bodily strings
It will never be buried, only spat at
Small children squeak “Look at that!”
Running off, giggling, with their swords
Pretending to be ladies and lords



Nostrovia! Poetry

DIY Shaving by Jeremiah Walton

DIY Shaving 

Youth with grimy
stubbles of black hair
DIY
tailored chins
bristles propping
up, words
sentenced to
death

Pin back layers
of onion eyes
bleeding, but 
never crying.

Mantle jaw
churning,
needles piercing
the pulled back flesh
to the dissection table
pouring soul
into the core
where it’s
sentenced to
death.
published in Streetcake, Issue #28

“For the dancer, Ruby: If I had more than Love, I’d give it to you” by J.P. Collins

Light breaks
across the breast of a ruby.
Somewhere, they’ve got chimps
in cages, and they’re learning all about
the misery of the human condition,
And taking many notes.
I tap my heel ­
humming along to it all.
A dance can end;
A poem could outlive stars.
Neither of us are going to
learn to sleep near the ocean,
with tricks as filthy as these

 

Published at Nostrovia! Poetry’s Guest Blog.  Why not sign up for a weekly email update in order to see what Nostrovia! Poetry is looking for, and if your writing fits with Nostrovia! Poetry’s goals?

“Beneath the Surface Lie Down a Demon” by Nitin Soni

Beneath the surface lie down a demon
Above skies he tries to hide his sins
In the middle, jolts visible evils
Change, apostles attempt surrounding
Where live those humans? 
Weeps masters; why not?
Demon eyes on archangels
Worshiped immortals rub eyes
Evil was from him
Demon climbed from underneath
Where I find me, my palace?
Everything’s mine…
Archangels are of kinship
Isn’t she creating them?
Fires the motherhood,
Same did occur to me,
Now, has it found her?
Not again;
Swabs tears from cheeks many shadows,
The wall’s burdened with shadows,
Me likes, however, can’t paint the wall again
Who’s the weapon to wipe off tears?
Beneath the surface lie down a demon,
In the middle, demon meets his own shadow
 
 
 
You can now subscribe to receive a weekly email of poems published through Nostrovia! Poetry’s blog.  Why not sign up?  It’s a great way to see what Nostrovia! Poetry is looking for.
 
You can contact him directly at; nitin.0759 [at] gmail.com.  Let him know what you think!
 
Check out Nitan’s writing at Folk’s Voice

“Listening To Bob Dylan (1971)” by Tim Brennan

All of us boys heard the stories

about those senior girls,
the girls with cigarettes 
between their red lip-
stick lips—red lips 
that could do anything, 
at least those were the stories
us boys heard

One of the girls, the one
in the light blue halter-top,
the one showing the shadows
of her nipples in the fluorescent
lighting of the sea green-
tiled hallway—
the way the circles changed color
when she walked from outside
in to the school’s stale, humid air
She was so physical, she was so well-
known, she was known to sleep
on a brown beach, to let the water
lap against her body, allow its coolness
to surround her

And when she passed us boys
in the sea green-tiled hallway
the next Monday morning,
us boys would stare at her
darkening nipples, trail after
her every step, pray to gather
even the slightest granules
of her still shedding sand

 

Tim Brennan is the Poet of the Month for the month of March!  Want to submit to be the next PotM?  Read the submission guidelines, and send in your best!

 

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