Bored, board some train of thought,

destination unannounced. Reality

creaks across TV backwards,

competing with, out in parking lots,

lots and lots of harlots. The phone rings;

pick up; some dumb whore

screeching in my ear I must buy more.

Hang up, sure as hung up I am

on combing through the honey of yet

a bit more money. Ask myself,

gazing out the window at birds

jerk worms from the grass: That phone

on the TV, inside me, nextdoor to insanity

or some other not quite reality

passing now by? Onto the

screen leaps a guy

training on me a gun.

This a problem, evil about to be begun,

or the answer to nothing better to do?

Recall then for a bit of peace and quiet

I am so long overdue. Snap in the horse’s mouth

a bit like the buy the whore hot to sell.

Cramming everyone, even a bored me,

onto this winding train

huffing and puffing straight to hell.

Why, oh why, if our lot be suffering,

must it be a lot of suffering?

And the dumb whore turns to me,

into myself dumbly turning.

Willie Smith


all is concrete

the sun aimless

like anthony in the desert

wanders through the wilderness

expelling demons

imps & lunatics.

the appearance & disappearance

into the

simulacrum of death

causes only disequilibrium.

all is a charade

the ceiling is obfuscated by a sea of smoke


coiling & uncoiling.

the walls

beside the mirrors

a myriad of mirrors

are covered in paintings of the countryside that is now covered in concrete.

Alan Turner


pockets full of stones

I am going to read. I am going to read Woolf. I am going to read Virginia Woolf. I am going to sit down cross my legs and read Virginia Woolf. There is only one Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf was born into an affluent household in South Kensington, London, England, the seventh child. Virginia Woolf’s father was a Sir. Virginia Woolf’s mother was photographed by Julia Margaret Cameron. Virginia Woolf had a Victorian Childhood. Virginia Woolf once dressed like a man. Jinny was a member of the Bloomsbury Set. The Bloomsbury Set were all upper middle class. Virginia Woolf wrote many difficult books. The book in my hand is To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. It is a difficult book to read. When I read Virginia Woolf I like to have a cup of tea close by and toasted bread with lashings of butter. Last night I read To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Last night I read a hundred pages of To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Last night while reading To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf it rained and the wind ululated but I was warm and secure and had a cup of tea and three slices of toast with lashing of butter while I read To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Over my head was an electric light and it illuminated the pages of To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Unfolding and folding thoughts dreamily wafting an opium dream of Augustus Carmichael melancholy thoughts permeate We All Die Alone such a sad thought my thoughts are now swayed by To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf drowned with her pockets full of stones in the River Ouse, Sussex.

T. R. Rayland



I wanna drink paint.

Gallons of to-die-for lead base.

Put color in the old GI. Experience

room temperature good ice cream consistency.

Taste a spike sledged through the throat,

pin ya to the wall. I plan to drink till

paint pupils orange pith white;

skin gangrene early blackberry green.

I wanna die from ochre, from scarlet,

from vermilion; head in a toilet from Jersey;

zapped on LSD under sputtery bug lights,

while the elevated thunders.

I wanna chug a pint of plum.

Finish off the belly with a yellow lacquer.

Paint the town red as a stop to the blues.

And no more shall the blues reign.

For this paint hath put me down.

Thick bitter tinct made me extinct.

Put me down here – to jitter with you dead.

To jig a cocoon no puzzle ever saw.

Put inspire to bed. Then inside that rattle –

clutched in a piglet trotter – puke pigiron pigment.

Not what meant mentally to blow into my horn.

But what see now meant stuck fast.

I wanna drink paint.

Willie Smith

Art Poetry


Owen Winn


The West is afraid

The people shook
Death wipes his mouth
Your mortgage
Kids and car lease
Darkness everlasting
Overtime and
Kissing the boss’s
Lock the doors
Silent dogs

Bogdan Tiganov



Magic betrays the senses & the will labyrinthine & serpentine unreal when you desire the real can fail suffer from entropy with smoke & mirrors & sleight of hand turn the drunk the dolt the pious the villain the parasite the gobshite into a God. That the moon goes around the earth & that the earth goes around the sun & that we are stuck to this ball shows me that there is real magic but I haven’t a fucking clue how the magic works. The term magic etymologically derives from the Greek word mageia (μαγεία). Men were butchered & women burnt to dissipation by a finger of accusation. Magic has to be simple if magic is difficult you hope the magician succumbs to the chains the handcuffs the rope & drowns in the tub of water.  

Larry Kevinour


Dad’s dead

Dad, cut himself out
of every photograph
so one day I would forget him

Dad, cradling me as a baby
Dad, holding a tennis racquet
Dad, playing football in the park
Dad, watching Jackie Chan movies
Dad, who turned his back on me

A stone is always a stone
and my dad’s dead

Bogdan Tiganov


the mind of the heart or the heart of the mind

Memories ramifying into imagination or imagination ramifying into memories the sea and its whispers metamorphose into the validation of Vico’s theory that imagination is memory reshaping itself within the cage that is the mind of the heart or the heart of the mind.

The sea is blue and grey and white the sky is a simulacrum of the sea.

With three fingers I draw three lines.  Watch how I move and draw. Follow the tips of my fingers. See the lines I leave behind. The three lines now ripple. Wave crash into retreating wave belching and burping. On the beach gulls create shadows and caw crabs scurry from hole to hole flies feed upon opened muscles children build cities upon cities with canals that they clog with seashells and seaweed and corpses.

Larry Kevinour



Let me be your amulet.

Let my words lift your eyes

to the heights of my life,

that you may see

what I cannot tell you.

At the day’s outset,

while the dawn moon sets,

hang me like Dooley around your neck.

Let me swinging in the sun wink.

Set me, come nightfall, on your vanity.

Let me breathe, as you sleep, my fill

of fantasy, the room filling with moon.

Let the night hold in gold my words.

Hang me like Dooley around your neck,

that I may scent your heart glint.

Ah – let me your amulet be.

Because I am your amulet.

Willie Smith