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 : sendÂ 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
The Rental State of Love
That begins from the smile
of a slut
full of the sand of empty words
Infinite eyepiece of nature
(translated by Volodymyr Bilyk)
[published by The Kitchen Poet, Undeground Books]
Nostrovia! Poetry offers a variety of ways for emerging and established writers to publish their works and expand their fan base.
Too Obscene is a one-shot zine composed of poetry and flash fiction deemed “too obscene” for publication by other presses and lit mags. Enjoy the obscenities!
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“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.
“Don’t Disturb The Dead Bird” by Jeremiah Walton
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
DIY Shaving by Jeremiah Walton
stubbles of black hair
Pin back layers
of onion eyes
the pulled back flesh
to the dissection table
into the core
“For the dancer, Ruby: If I had more than Love, I’d give it to you” by J.P. Collins
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
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“Beneath the Surface Lie Down a Demon” by Nitin Soni
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?
Archangels are of kinship
Isn’t she creating them?
Fires the motherhood,
Same did occur to me,
Now, has it found her?
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
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“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-
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