Anthony Ward

Lonesome Traveller

I, for one,

Identify with the isolation

Of that itinerant writer

Who went searching for his soul

And lost it within himself,

His enthusiasm for life

Siphoned by the despondency

He found in others

Who could not share

In his beatific nature.

I too identify with the inherent sadness

Of realising such an abundance of beauty

While aware that one life isn’t enough

To know everything there is to know.

Bob Eager

 the Atmospherical Attic


Coming up for air,

Escaping  the Exosphere,
Throttled in the Thermosphere,
Mangled in the Mesosphere,
Strapped into the Stratosphere,
Trapped in the Troposphere.

Depending on current conditions
Head in the clouds, literally.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About Bob

Bob Eager loves to discuss random topics, insignificant theories, and other "meaningless" subject matter.  Of course having said that, that is really in the eye of the beholder. Mr. Eager furtherly pontificates in  Rusty Truck, Static Movement  and Exercise Bowler.

John F. Buckley: Two Poems

The Rainbow Coalition

On his new red BMX, Freddie rode wheelies down the road

and swooped in front of my battered Schwinn whenever he

spotted me. “Whose bike do you like better, retard?” “I like

yours, Freddie.” “Mine? Why?” “It’s big and looks very

nice.” “Wanna touch it?” “No, that’s okay.” He laughed.

Bike was local slang for penis, I learned a few years later.

Jack tied me to a tree after St. Benedict CCD, all stale sweat

and orange hair falling into his face. He wrapped me in his

clothesline, knotting the cords. He called me St. Sebastian

and brought the lawn darts out of his garage. One-two-three,

a shaft flew between my legs, into the oak with a sharp bite.

He would have stuck me good if his mom hadn’t seen.

Alone at recess in winter, I sat and read fantasy novels, until

Mike C. would come and snatch my book away, tipping me

over, facedown into the yellow snow. I felt his weight at my

back, wrestling me, mounting me, writhing about for a grip,

for better purchase on the slippery ski pants. Or at other times,

he pulled them straight down, filling the back with ice crystals.

Jimmy, he of the mean, green eyes, dropped his hot dog on

the ground at lunch at camp. I smirked and he saw me. Here

he came, knowing he was faster and stronger, that he could

catch me, then do what he wanted. Here he was, holding me

down, hot dog clenched in a fist and dripping warm mayo.

“Eat my dirty weiner!” he panted as it hit the back of my throat.

Always around when bullying occurred, laughing, pointing

with chubby fingers, offering helpful suggestions on how

best to squeeze out more tears, Mike M. was the henchman

nonpareil. When they found him hanging in the garage, his

face was blue. His parents had found out what he did with

the smaller boys, neighborhood boys even younger than I.

Indigo bruises would flock to my buttocks after Kurt whipped

me with a smooth, thick stick. I don’t know where he found 

it, but out it would come from his pants, having been nestled

down one pantleg, and hit me. Sometimes, I saw it coming;

sometimes, it came a surprise. I spent most of that school year

feeling blood pool in lines in the back of my underwear.

Mark’s rage and purple shoulder acne came from the steroids

he poked into his ass. He hated me with passion and fidelity,

holding me close in his arms, pressing my lips to his pustules

until I licked creamy discharges off their tips. People thought

we must be very good friends because we were always

together, the gymrat and the wimp, gross unlikely partners.

No brides for seven predatory brothers, just me. These are

the guys who made me the man I am today, who broadened

my horizons with a spectrum of experiences, opening my eyes

to the wonder of future failed marriages and midmorning

bottles. I see them when I look to the sky, when rain thickens

air that would otherwise stay wasted on sunlight alone.

All Lyda Wants

All Lyda wants is a loving heart, someone to accept her and her two daughters.

All Lyda wants is fidelity and commitment, two loyal souls united as one.

All Lyda wants is for one of his body parts to be as beautiful as her eyes.

All Lyda wants is the ability to hold an intelligent conversation on a variety of topics, both trivial and profound.

All Lyda wants is a well-evolved sense of humor that verges on the mildly scandalous but remains ultimately respectful.

All Lyda wants is a pretty face.

All Lyda wants is a pair of kind hands attached to nice arms and broad shoulders.

All Lyda wants are washboard abs, unhairy nipples, and a fetching collarbone dimple.

All Lyda wants is to have her mind blown in a completely brand-new way every time they have sex.

All Lyda wants is a fantastic dresser, fashion-forward, classic, and trendy at once.

All Lyda wants is unbounded compassion for the downtrodden, for the maltreated, for the way her anxiety disorder provokes insecurity and caustic comments.

All Lyda wants is a six-figure income and a generous spirit; she’s had enough of unpaid loans and Dutch-treat dates.

All Lyda wants is someone to counterbalance the weight of her self-regard.

All Lyda wants is a smack-talking gigolo who’s good to his mother and hers.

All Lyda wants is a man who never gets lost, despite her penchant for giving deliberately bad directions.

All Lyda wants is a ten-inch cock wrapped in bacon, covered in mustard and onions, and served on a poppy-seed bun.

All Lyda wants is the man who long ago moved beyond becoming the man her father could only ever hope to become.

All Lyda wants is a reason to run.

John F. Buckley lives in Orange County, California. His work has been published in a number of places, one of which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize in 2009. His chapbook Breach Birth was published on Propaganda Press in March 2011.

A.G. Synclair

Facing West

The Jazz station is playing Chet Baker
something recorded near the end of his life
he sounded like chocolate
if chocolate
was ravaged by heroin
and time.

In Europe, Jazz is revered
crowds jam darkened doorways
and tiny tables lit by unscented candles
at clubs like Ronnie Scott's
or The Vortex
which could also be a metaphor for all of this.

The shoulder cracks under the weight
I stop for a moment to consider the red sky
and why they jump from buildings
Baker, McCorkle....
they wore their scars
softly, I think

like rain.

Bio:
A.g. Synclair is the editor and publisher of The Montucky Review. He doesn't have an MFA in anything but still manages to publish regularly. He lives, writes, and collaborates in southwestern Montana with his significant other, the artist and poet Heather Brager.

Matthew King: Two Poems

A Time to Live

In the darkness of the sun,

I contemplate the shadows,

and sketch your portrait upon a blackened palimpsest.

When the night falls at last,

I’ll see what I have drawn:

only shadows on the canvas dropping down into the west.

Every time I gaze into the stars’ shine at night,

I’m reminded of you:

the way they glow amongst the dark.

But when the stars topple down

and are extinguished from the heavens,

I can only ask myself why our love was laid to rest.

What is love lost?

a rose upon the vine,

withered in the sun with only thorns left behind.

Or is it a masterpiece,

constructed over time,

stenciled and then colored in, pictured in a frame of mind?

Everything it seems,

regret turns to perfect,

and makes us contemplate what could or should have been.

The beautiful burden of thoughts

that turned you into an angel,

when even God knows that we were both born in sin.

So please forgive me this:

The musings of a leaky pen;

but even the darkest ink couldn’t drown these thoughts of you and

me.  Somewhere we’re together, perfect, until the end.

But in the end I realize, we’re only perfect in my head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   

                A Clock Tower.

               Time in a Bottle.

              Regret and Ecstacy.

            A Double-edged Surface.

         I Sit Staring at the Clock,

        Hoping that it Will Disappear.

    But the Only Thing I See are Sands,

       Slipping Down the Bottle’s Neck.

       Moving Towards the Bitter End,

          Or to a Life that Never Ends;

            To End: To Begin Again.

              The Grand Spectrum.

                Everything and--

 

     

      Title: Nothing and the Grand Mosaic

 

SUFFOLK PUNCH

You can now read SUFFOLK PUNCH, the personal blog of Bruce Hodder, BEATNIK editor, by clicking the link on the right of the page. He's reluctant to tell you your lives will be enriched by reading his ramblings because they probably won't, but he does assure us (and on checking the blog we agree) that S.P. can sometimes offer a pleasant ten minute distraction on a dull afternoon, or occasionally make you so angry you wish you knew where he lived so you could firebomb his house or report him to MI5 (who already know where he lives). Try it anyway. What have you got to lose?

Clinton Van Inman

REPLY TO POETS

REPLY TO BLAKE

Poor William you were not the first.

That invisible worm that flies by night

Had found her bed before you had thirst

For crimson joy with all your might.

She preferred to dance the tango all night

With the Puerto Rican the most

Than listen to all your poems that cursed.

REPLY TO KEATS

Forever desiring, panting in mad pursuit,

Forever young and green like painted fruit.

She cannot fade, you are right to see

And she eternally flees in her ecstasy.

Yet how dare you call this real bliss

As my outstretched arms forever miss

Those lips that I will never kiss.

An eternity of mad pursuit proves mundane

As stretched hands reach out in vain.

Unreal her flowers and her beauty such

That I reach for but can never touch.

REPLY TO HOUSEMAN

Yes there was a time I won a race

As they chaired me shoulder high

Up and down through a market place

And past the place where I now lie.

For I knew then and so did she

How frail the strings of mortality

As a widowed mother wished me stay

At home and nurse the time away.

But you do not know why I ran,

Not to defend some challenge cup

Not for laurels nor to prove a man

And not for the record still pinned up.

The rows of pictures on the piano

Top have hardly moved to show

One last smile from one smart lad

Who had won one for dear old dad.

A REPLY TO WHITMAN

When I heard the learned astronomers proclaim

From proofs and charts and periodic tables

With H&R diagrams, and overheads and visuals,

With projectors and all to show the history of stars

From flowers to quarks and on to quasars

Then the latest theory that everything is string

Not like strings sticking out of their backs,

Like children talking of tinker toys,

Erector sets, and building blocks,

The blue print for everything in a box

As their greatest mysteries unfolded,

From hydrogen to hardware, from hogs to Hector,

From hairy apes to hippies, from hedgerows to helicopters,

From double helix to haloes, everything up the chain.

But among all the applause, I felt sick

And arose and went outside for some fresh air

Where looking up I beheld the stars

Until I discovered I was in the planetarium.

REPLY TO WORDSWORTH

To fret behind those narrow walls

In idle hours in the land of blest,

To loom a life behind an endless wheel

Is not for me especially when I feel

The westward wind that calls

Me again with its joyful unrest.

Speak no more of happiness or bliss

Or contented hermits, maids, or nuns

For I am like the wind born free

To pass my song from tree to tree.

Your happy life more a prison is

As I still dream of distant suns.

I will lay down my loom and go

Wherever the blue sea leads

For I was born to create and discover

As Truth is both a liar and lover

As strain and struggle is all I know

In a life filled with endless needs.

The story ends when the last page turns

And what lies beyond we cannot know

But to drink some aged Aegean wine

Lost in some sacred, Sapphic shrine

With only this flame that burns

Is to triumph and celebrate Apollo.

I am a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida, am 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. I was born in Walton on Thames, England.  My recent publications include Down in the Dirt, May, June, July, The Inquisition, The Journal, the New Writing, The Hudson Review, Essence, Forge, Houston Literary Review, Greensilk Journal Northwest Spirits Magazine.  On-Line publications in BlackCatPoems, Munyari.com, Cynic Magazine, IZ, just to name a few.  Hopefully these poems will eventually be published in a book called, “One Last Beat” as I consider myself on the of the last Beats standing.