Wednesday, October 29, 2014

This is What We Wonder ~ Seth Jani

When the moon raises its mast
Amongst the trees
They glow like bone-bright cages
In the night
And you stumble through the wood
Trying to pull one over
On the arresting wind.

The world is a prison perhaps,
Or maybe a pitying shelter
Built up to blind us
From the darkness overhead.

Either way we push the borders daily.
Always wondering if on the other side
We will uncover
Some marvelous secret
Or just the shambles after the show:
The goddess who revokes all I Love Yous,
The scenery dragged out
To a dumpster in the rain.

Seth Jani is the founder and editor of Seven CirclePress ( and his own work has been published widely in such journals as The Hobo Camp Review, Foundling Review, Eunoia Review, Phantom Kangaroo, The Buddhist Poetry Review and Gutter Eloquence. He currently resides in Seattle, WA.
More about him and his work can be found at

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

City of Ideas ~ Peter Taylor

You must be in your own right
a member of the city of ideas
                             C. P. Cavafy

Habits line a path where bonecage
drags idea to his death,
raw metaphor locked
in the mind's erratic crucible.

My selves enact a war:
the one animal, needing
restraint; the other escaping
the skin's excursion

into raw zones, suburbs
of a universal sanctuary,
the conscious hologram
of thought's flawless crystal.

The Glass Flowers at Harvard ~ Peter Taylor

Engorged with blood, the ravenous Eden

bends unabashed in timeless copulation,

seducing generations of dazed onlookers

smeared across the glass.

Pistil and stamen, the glazed gynoecia,

lie sheathed in a whorl of calyx

and corolla, their ecstasy exposed

in perfect Engler-Gilg classification.

Unsated, these, too, mock nature’s cathedral.

Fixed in the intimacy of exquisite,

breathless as to fool butterflies,

they are almost the illusion of touch itself.

First published by Pirene's Fountain

Chicago Picasso ~ Peter Taylor

The two wing-like shapes that are her hair suggest with equal truth

the fragile wings of a butterfly or the powerful flight of an eagle,

while at the same time the rods that connect them to the profile

seem to contain the music of a guitar.                                    Sir Roland Penrose

One hundred and eight floors up

in the Sears Tower

you can see it all:                               

vertebrae of a city

hugging the lake front

like an exhausted animal,

steel wheat

rising from the plains of Illinois.

I think of Lincoln and fires.  

After two hours in the Loop,

the mind still wanders 

with the despair of a commuter,


coming down Dearborn there it is—

50 feet high, unreal at first,

icon, grotesque butterfly,

the bird in the horse in the woman,

162 ton offspring

of Picasso and US Steel,

weathering graffiti

with the patience of a saint

in the Richard J. Daley Plaza.

Across the street

a 39 foot MirĂ³ looks on,

its sensuous ceramic

nestled between

the First United Methodist Temple

and the Chicago-Tokyo Bank.

First published in StepAway Magazine

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Grand ~ Steven Waling


bust      we have the truth            gull sentinels
on every lamppost            we keep it in a bag

everyone needs to be touched            donkeys
with card readers on Blackpool                     by

morning                        grey sky settles blue            keep
calm and have a milkshake            walks

the inevitable hills            whenever you
walk through the door     a reservoir drowns

creamy stone and stream thru            the dead
arranged on comfortable sofas    village hall

the middle of life                    the message
is simple            I came upon a dark

why go on a cruise   just to play bingo
signs    CLEAN & TIDY              horse blankets

half my e-mails              ask me to sign petitions
worthy causes            a speciality            sometimes

I’m a sore thumb            wherever I go
and a somnolent line            of mobility scooters

CASH MACHINE INSIDE out            lettered rock
bedded down for the night            on ancient cabaret

some of my finest works


faded glamour edge of the cliff             he says
arrives from a feeling of profound            tumulus

whetting the appetite                        weather
does not come into it    eating sandwiches skeleton

of a man in his sixties   on the path      more
like it    a thermos of tea               strong and big

his worldly goods his             sadness of a moment
dagger his gravegoods his            passing

remarks                        global warming and the air
voice emergent with song            fresh orange juice

from the musicals            I’m always touched
hotel opened 1867 and was            by your presence

light      iron age                  steps everywhere
in our eyes obscurities                    holding hands

down to the sea                        on the walk or following
behind              twist            look up at the

cornices            well I suppose            herring gulls
lodged on their ledges            inventing something

that doesn’t exist     frontage shabby genteel
as the sea takes a bite                   climb the steps the

rules of abstraction


Spicer Flarf ~ Steven Waling

evil boy genius

my vocabulary

slowly become

a towering only

getter of Collected

Poetry of Jack

comments the older

of two sons listen

to the complete

perhaps object-

ionable now I

take pictures and

have opinions on

composition by

“dictation” most

of my friends like

words too well and

if you had a chance

to eliminate diff-

errant goals the

world’s largest

business notebook

in a list of his poems

I should credit the

same kind of hook

introducing his diiffi-

cult friend the night

custom reserves

from the spirit world

Bullet Point ~ Steven Waling

He used to work on the railways                       goods yard

Fascinated by language shape sound               heft

If you could have your life over                         no use

Crying over spilt bullet in the arm                     blood

Don’t know why he came to me                        tenor

After all this how one thought leads                 sax

To another in unstraight lines                            house junk

Everyone has to make a living                            alone

War he said was always a crime                        useless

Could have played in a dance band but             left arm

But you can’t go dwelling on fought                  jazz

I think he once said in the desert                      music

Nothing else he wanted but to play                  no wife

His long life’s improvised broken                      solo

Steven Waling is the author of several books, including Travelator (Salt), Captured Yes (KFS Press) and most recently, his book of internet updates, Hello GCHQ (Dept) which is being launched in November of this year.
He lives in Manchester.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Blue Babies ~ Lucy Hilton

I see a generation of
Remixed geniuses
Weakened and dreaming
And seasick from unrelenting undulation,
Caught between destruction and distraction.
Conditioned by the screen and watched over by machines
of loving grace.
Connected but never seeing.
Never Being.
Swimming in dubious data pools,
Transmedia, transcending.
Their new age appetite
demanding instant enlightenment.
Too bored and blundering to boycott
The Ipad is their Clairvoyant
Demonstrating the presence of spirits in the room.
Notable charlatans.
Ringing bells, levitating objects, performing the rites of passage
Coming of age in the technological rocket ship
and moving freely through unutterable margins
Infiltrating the co-operations,
Sidestepping the protocol.
Power to the hijacker,
hacker, slacker,
Happy slapper.
The twinkle of his phantom eye
Stills behind their webcams.
No where is safe for the pilgrim.
He cant escape the omnipresent rhythm.
They must
Draw the line between truth seeking and obsession.
Answers lead to utopia or hysteria.
You have a choice
to live in
Permeable membranes, spindly fringes of the hive
Or reach the limits of what you can cognize.
Neil Armstrong is Alien backwards.
Space helmets are halos.
Over saturated and shattered by
Broken promises of salvation
The pool of inner peace,
Your true nature is a
Watery end.
The future is transcendence.

I love you from Holland to England ~ Lucy Hilton

Deep in a cathedral of spiny rhubarb
Stalks look like reptiles and birds.
Where stalagmites made of succulents,
Bloom around a primordial ooze.
Palm paradises are placed on leaves shaped like clawed dinosaur hands.
It’s all about scale.
Large stars through telescopes and tiny crystals resemble each other, and
that’s a scientific fact, not a belief. Moon craters are raindrops on sand.
Puddles of liquid onyx.
Azure screens are surfaces of dominions to different realities. Like tabs
opened up on Chrome. Browsers and house elves can enter with a click of the finger.
I sense a message coming through from the other side.
The radio is intercepting a spirit.
I swim between islands in the sky of
Ganges River Dolphin pink,
 wizard white,
 warmest blues,
 holy hues.
The printer spoke to me in handwritten letters,
there was an
Image cannot be framed.
How does it feel when you are experiencing the impossible?
Tangerine porpoise shaped bolted together
papery sliver.
Aluminium seals
floating on one push over aquarium tunnels,
morphing obscenely obese then stringy
in Escher’s orbs.
Transcending time zones and species boundary in the belly of a narwhal.
A fish with a womb.
Buy a ham and cheese melt and receive a free twix!
Why do planes make your armpits stink?
Unanswerable questions.
The Netherlands are watery lines and drowned worlds treading water.
The mouth of the Thames is a lizard of languish
lovingly lapped in snakey snails and shingles.
The moment of reunion with my mother is imminent.


Lucy is a 21 year old fine art student studying at the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague, Netherlands.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Angelus ~ Howie Good

I began this fall by watching a thin red squirrel it would be worth it to go ninety miles out of your way to see. So what shall we do about this angel, broken wing on the left? The smell of piss is what. When I woke up this morning I knew there was horror. It will always be invisible, it will. My friends, still of this world, follow me to the bottom of the river. Suddenly there are hundreds of fishermen on the road.