THE OLD WITH THE NEW by Stephanie Lakos |
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EVERYTHING FOR THE RED QUEEN
by Michael Lee Johnson Everything is red in the kingdom of the queen. Matador hat with barnacles, witch white hair to the shoulders, tickling the breast. In her eyes are the blood shot of many vampires; in her heart the daggers of many soldiers. Five inky fingers cross her throat like an ill-fitted necklace. Her dress is like heart charms, scales of fish dripping blood toward her toes. Withy, twists around her throat. Anglers of the court toss hooks toward her cherry red lips, capture the moment of the haze of purple surrounding her head. Everything is red in the kingdom of the queen. Death changes colors from red to blue. |
BAT MAN by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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UNDER THE BLOOD MOON
by Thomas Piekarski Banshees bubble from the roof of my mouth, bloodless banshees. They squabble to high heaven forgotten in tenuous excrement of lost events. Mortally absorbed by incremental death no sense fretting that I'm twisted outside in. My principal occupation capturing meaning of black monoliths that block supernatural orgasms within which imbedded impressions I'm shredded like yesterday's confetti. Fait accompli: humanoids luxuriate in brimming ambient light, wade the Alpine lake while flaky snow sprinkles them. I'm sidetracked gathering burnt starbirds, giving salutations, and working on exoneration from onerous charges issued by invisible false witnesses. Doomed to ultimate futility are icons, Gods, monarchs, synthetic prosecutors, proselytizers and puerile opponents with souls frozen irretrievably in the annals of crime. They fail to take root in this inexorable mystical communion that we collectively strum like a blue guitar under the big blood moon. |
WELCOME TO THE DARKNESS by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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TARANTELLA
by Viola Weinberg A black velveteen river of tarantulas coming down El Valle Grande, one after another, the road eclipsed cracking on our tires like eggs Flying up the vents and smacking the little metal doors, dear God They were on the march and we were in their way, as they tumbled Creeping, a mob on the dark road in a column on the asphalt as we migrated bravely against the black tide Crunch on drang, a bad dream with The foil of little freaky creatures their insect fur and all their bright eyes rimmed in brash sun, headed south with their egg sacs and twitching limbs Like Scorsese's eyebrows jumping at an idea treacherous, disturbing, stomach-turning We stubbornly drove against the grotesque as they whirled, wheels of hairy little, tiny legs Click-clacking against the windshield and bumpers, the headlights and truck bed We shouldered on, became angry, we sped for 15 minutes in shivering tarnation until We passed out of the storm, the sandy road ahead clean as a beach, and we were quieted, but even now, just the thought of it, the madness of it will possess a stray hair to tickle us to death |
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