Ongoing work by Darius Molark. Part One

PART ONE – The Ringing Thud Where with Enabling the Idiot to Speak

SO he asked himself why he would take up such an audacious project like that to question the party line and become and authority on something he didn’t at first know about but was suspicious that there was a string of knowledge involved that would lead him to a place allowing him to understand his own humanity and a way to get closer to her but for no other purpose at that point he stopped thinking and stiffed up another line of mexican brown and went about placing the chairs and things about the room in stoic order because the day was the day she was coming and bringing the kids over and checking him out to make sure he wasn’t on drugs and that she could allow him to be a father again to their two kids and maybe even when the kids were asleep on the sofa allow him to touch her again like it had been that day they had first met on the school grounds and he was researching some complicated project of which he did not want to tell her who was then an assistant to the associate librarian person in the school library.

This was a period when they didn’t allow people of his kind on the campus because the people were too stupid and didn’t know what to do with items such as a brick a book a stick and a pencil with an eraser that once you started you could go back to the beginning and erase everything that yesterday you thought was important like when they were lying in the grass behind the school’s lavatory the only place where they could really be in private and he placed his hand up her brown orphan skirt that dressed her to the knees like a bag only the spell at that place stanked in a most odoriferous way so like that had to make quiet whoopee if only to recover the things they once thought loss.

(You had to get over it. It was a an important responsibility to be that way. It was really heavy. At one time truly miserable and also purely pleasurable.)

He smiled at her and kissed the kids and the first thing she noticed was that he would not look her in the eye as he sat the kids on the sofa and turned open the pages of a big book on exotic animals like the ones you could find any day at the zoo.

She looked at him carefully to note if there were any change in his natural rhythms or if he were imperceptibly scratching all over his body and she went into the kitchen to get the paper plates and to cut up the slices of ham and bread that she had bought for lunch for the kids because she knew he would probably not have any food in the house but two cans of beer, one of the cans already opened and sitting dangerously at the edge of the kitchen sink. He and the kids were enjoying each other, laughing at the pictures

Sometimes while they were in class she noticed that he would begin scratching all over, first starting at the back of his hands then going to his thighs and one long scratch would lead to his chest and then hers and like the next thing she knew he was tearing off her brassiere and squeezing the little mounds he found bringing intense enjoyment to her.

By the time he had her panties off, from the tall grass they noticed the dignified figure going into the outdoor lavatory and they waited and listen and then came, as they expected, a long tearing sound as if the earth were finally in remiss and then with one great push was getting everything out.

They clamped their noses by which time he was inside her pumping her with all the care and sweetness of a truck driver gone blind because he had found such beauty and sweetness in the road which is not ordinary. After they showed them how to feed the breech then they would have what to do after firing like picking up the shells or making the people clean up the soldiers’ defilement from the streets with a tooth brush.

The other reason he was doing the project was so he could make enough money to take the kids to Riverview Park on the north side of Chicago where they could go on the various rides, one freely associated with another.

After the first whiff of pain and sound traveled over them they unclamped their noses and holding her firmly on the hips both of them could feel her coming as if Michelangelo had finally, finally, hooked up David with the creator, who despondent that day, figured neither of them had a chance to meet each other so that he may depart the spirit of life from his fingers to the chest of Michelangelo. The documentary pointed out how the Crow Indians would always steal the horses of whatever tribe was in the neighborhood and that this was important in showing off and developing skills of the young warrior into manhood.

The third part of the project, the reason he was doing it was to counteract all thoughts that they were docile. But actually on the day in 1919, October, he told her how the bivouacked soldiers had kept their guns and pistols and from the Wabash YMCA had kept the mad people from coming into their community by taking pot shots at them their their Springfield rifles.

After they had finished and saw the anointed one leave the lavatory a huge wave of ennui struck upon him but his member was still hard. She cautioned him not to do anything any more because she was late from her position as assistant to the associate librarian who laughed and crackled every time she saw the little boy come into the library and tried to check books out at that time when people of his ilk were not allowed.

It was a dangerous period because he could feel the wanting to know arising in him, bursting, actually, all the sinews of his brain and later his income. In come this, in come that. In come love and outcomes baby. Then a job and a family house. He had to wait in the line of the filthy underneath the viaduct on 67th street to buy his mexican brown from Deck and then the thing was to try to escape from the little kids in the neighborhood who had been hiding there behind the viaduct to jump on them and take their dope from them. This is why they tried to purchase in groups, when they were standing in groups like three of them at a time to get through the gauntlet of sadness and mad human beings who had a lot of passion that had to be placed under control by the dope or else they would fall away and be displaced.

Two poems by Kushal Poddar

On Instructiveness

Tim reads the instructions manual for death –
‘Live fully, first step.’

It is a chirping feather that reveals
a bird came to the window to proclaim –
‘Rain would visit; today a Sunday;
art acts free of instructiveness,
theories, politics, choice.

Tim turns and sleeps; believe me,
dream features a war psychedelic
between what he desires and where hate flips
a coin with two heads.


Night-lamp Is On

Every throb in my head
taps a prosign, connotes an SOS,
and on the sleep’s askew rhythm
an iceberg sinks an ocean
to the surface too real to forget.

Let’s spell elusiveness as translucence.
My darkness threads the night’s flesh.
In the fish exists everyone ever drowned
and it swims inside me.
Let the bait think itself a top predator.
I sleep not therefore I am never fully awake.


Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost AnimalsUnderstanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Author Page –

Two poems by Fran Lock

poem for an ideal reader

“how to create through writing an enduring extinction”- Miyó Vestrini

reader, accomplice in a thought crime,  sway,
witless, to my severest music. i will go away.
i will go where the air is clean. for a long time:
a crisis that renders all our disappointments
fatal. the lipstick, fatally smudged, the dress shirt,
fatally creased, the electric fan, fatally misdirected.
reader, i desire you how the poem desires you:
erratically, and forever. with teeth. you, fleshscape,
me, david croneberg. to incite your extinction,
over and over, that mixtape mumble. confusion
reigns. this, capital’s ideal carnality, love in
the precinct of monster gods, of men with gills,
of women with webbed earlobes. whatever.
there are pigeons befouling the lcd signs.
to be written into oblivion against necessity
in an angry font, all caps. and all the lemon-
coloured birds our sky is starved of. country,
wild and imprecise. persistence? pah! mess
of soft bones vulnerable to vertigo.
an ambulance, moaning like a melancholy
organism. early morning hours make
priests of us all. don’t give me your lust,
your dishevelled clemency.  finger under
a collar. come convulsively to grief.
there are cliques whose kiss is after
all a mute defrauding. what i want
from you is no longer love. there is no daring
to your desire, dear. i want you ungainly,
diseased. i want you, self-important ugliness;
that heat, that saccharine hostility. i want
your trembly rage over petty things, all,
all of your kitschy syndromes and gestures.
a colossal mistaking, want. oh, to say
shit you rather than fuck you, is my highest
ideal. i thought about blinding myself,
to be released from this storm of seeing.
the eye as an attack surface, keeps
filling me up with you. i want the tundra,
to be becalmed in your tedious green.
unfold me for my fortunes along each
sweating crease.




citizen citizen

“The catastrophe is not coming, it is here.” – The Invisible Committee.

woke, exfoliated cold, sat and waxed
her professional body. today, no more
decrees. only eulogies and anecdotes,
anthologies and manuals. to menace
with a series of sexless grunts, the kitten
faces of her readers. a poem is an advert,
what it’s selling is the future. even our
ghosts are correcting their period
costumes. the traitors. but fucker,
the dead understand that there is
still an alchemy to error. in a muted
light a soft-core wrongness prevails.
the editor is a white rabbit with
a hypnotist’s watch.  she must not
remember: the years of infamous
hunger, a flickering city, an enlarged
liver dying on a trolley. why bother?
sit instead, premeditate a common-
place all afternoon. communicate,
they said. such useful art. a word
is abject chamomile. weak heat
for shallow wounds. fucker, she says,
you insomniac smut-peddler, pepsi-
cola spokesman, hawking your spiteful
pulp. king xerox, pharaoh eating honeyed
locusts from the pages of a fanzine.
before the awards are given, she fusses
her narrow skin, the mirror’s vigilante.
is neither one thing nor the other.
they said, for years. and now each
metaphor, a cherry-ripe obscenity.
they said, they said. from nights
of balmy adolescent privilege,
holding an iphone six like a frog
prince. snivelling collective we.
and they said, and they said.
the pretend contempt of judges;
the prim intemperance of post-
doctoral lushes. a laugh like heavy
furniture being dragged inexpert.
she says: fucker, all names are dead.
poetry is digging shit with a golden
shovel.  you falsifiers, patting
yourselves down for imperfections,
night after night. fucker, fuckers
of inflatable consciences, if your
eyeliner is inseparable from your
politics then you’re not a comrade:
you’re canned air sold for a buck
ninety-nine, you’re a hair clot cut
from drains, you’re banal and explicit
and anything scrawled on the night.
she says she remembers: a blatant
hell, priest with his seamless
conjugal philosophy, his weepy
scriptures about nothing; the nuns
as white as laboratory mice,
lifting their pink eyes to a trophy
ceiling. where pure and intact
mean precisely the same. fuck
you, she was multiply sullied here.
and a body isn’t optional. it’s gristle,

Three poems by Paul Robert Mullen


i held you in my hand
like a russian doll
……………..excavating layer by layer
riding the curves
——-……..with my forefinger

the sac below my penis
……………………………………….aching heavy
bruises bending down my veins
your eyes ……………………..flirting with the tenderness
………………..of my throat

i have lived ……………………and you have lived
……………….but this is living


late october

the clocks go back tonight

…………….i’ll watch those hands
go round and round ‘till midnight comes
…………….take us all back to yesterday
with a simple twist
………………………….of plastic

there’ll be no knocks at my hunk of pine
no rattles at my venetian blinds
no tapping at the window panes
……………………….or vibrations on my phone again
……………………………………..and again and again

nothing but
the night and i ………………………… old lovers
unfolding …….relapsing …….remoulding
the crescent midnight moon
…………….high above the rain



your eyes
open up before me
like doors
………… something possible


Paul Robert Mullen is a poet, musician and sociable loner from Liverpool, U.K. He has three published poetry collections: curse this blue raincoat (2017), testimony (2018), and 35 (2018). He has been widely published in magazine, journals and anthologies worldwide. Paul also enjoys paperbacks with broken spines, and all things minimalist.

Twitter: @mushyprm35

Magazines/E-zines/Journals/Anthologies published in:

Allegro, Anti-Heroin Chic, Barren Magazine, Bees Are Dead, Bending Genres, Black Bough Poetry, Blossom In Winter, Bonnie’s Crew, Borderlines, Cephalo Press, Cleaning Up Glitter, Constellate, Crossways, Decanto, Dodging The Rain, Dreamcatcher, Eunoia Review, Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Digest, Fire, Four X Four, Ghost City Press, Heron Clan, Last Exit, Light Through The Mist, Mojave Heart, Poetry Pacific, Panning For Poems, Pendora, Selcouth Station, Silk & Smoke, Streetcake, Sub-Rosa, The Canon’s Mouth, The Fictional Café, The Fiction Pool, The Foxglove Journal, The Interpreter’s House, The Journal, The Mark Literary Review, The Pangolin Review, Three Drops From A Cauldron, Turnpike Magazine, Words For The Wild, Wellington Street Review

Zaum Is Autonomous, by Clara B. Jones

Feminism || ORLAN || Postmodernism→Interoperational
All Art is about women.

Käthe Kollwitz || Helen Frankenthaler || Matriarchy || Hierarchy
All Art is gendered.

Beauty || Perfection→The West [Arc]
Bell-Opticon || Bell Curve→Mathematics || Maps

Gender relations || Margo Emm || Gender dysphoria || avant garde || Formalism
All Art is [about] surveillance.

It’s hard. It’s just too hard.

Zaum || Futurism || Kruchenykh || Enchilada
All Art is [about] itself.

Excavation || Cave painting || Primitive→Hominoid

Derrida || Episteme [Green] || Okra || Pine
All Art is [about] nothing [nihilistic].

Marriage || Mother || Motherwell→Motherboard
de Kooning || Basquiat || “Woman, I, 1950-52″ || Linda Nochlin (1998)

Every love story is a horror movie.
All Art is [about] death [petit mort].

Mishima || Sadomasochism→Sword
Impermanence || Imperfection→Japan [Black] || Wabi Sabi [Beauty]

Lee Krasner || Anita Brookner→Husband
All Art is about sex.

Haraway || Cyborg || Science || Performance
All Art is political.

Identity || Decompensation || Asylum [Panopticon]
All Art is [about] madness.

Judith Butler || Anna Freud || id || “defamiliar”
All Art is [about] impulse.

Differential || Connectionism || AI [Deconstruct] || Resist [Disrupt]
Women placed in boxes—kitchens, nurseries, patisseries [Holly Iglesias]


Clara B. Jones is a Knowledge Worker practicing in Silver Spring, MD [USA]. Among other works, she is author of the collection, Poems For Rachel Dolezal, published in 2019 by GaussPDF.



Six poems by Mark Young

A line from Childish Gambino

I count each square. The use
of hemocytometer trypan blue
exclusion tells me which squares
are occupied by something other

than holographic images & which
are able to populated by house-
hold items. Vacancy is everything
in my job. I got furniture to move.


Two geographies:


Be’er Sheva

Back then, working out
where the miracles occurred
was an hallucinogenic night-

mare. Now every full color
44-page bible atlas has clear
plastic overlays of modern-day

cities & towns to permit a seam-
less studio-to-home experience.
It’s called adaptive immunity.


Was to be found hauling
his concertina up Shota
Rustaveli Street. Swallows
swept beneath his feet, in
some kind of toccata &
fugue pattern, dispensed
in the pitter patter plague
proportions that would
later come to be so well
known as the signature
intro to every performance
given by Johann Sebastian
in his Lovin’ Spoonful days.


As it comes

Hitting the cyber streets via
a highly predictable leak
this weekend is an image of
snow on the early flowering

cherry trees in Fukuoka. It
has been co-opted by every-
one from gun rights activists
to fast food chains, in tandem

with the observation that un-
truths are far more easily
swallowed when taken with
a small amount of nectar.

after touring your war museum

The Romans & the Arabs —
oddly & exotically — built
seaside towns filled with
guttered fields for grow-
ing rice in. But ever since
gift shops destroyed those
first attempts & allowed the
bubonic plague entry into

Europe, the principle of
asymmetry no longer holds.
Flags may be flown at night
only when fish or ducks or
any other actor in the economy
is suffering from a food allergy.

Grace note

What do we write about
at the beginning, at the end?

Two periods of fifteen years.
Twenty-five years of silence

in between. Began by writing
about lizards. Have come

back to them again. Outlived
the earlier ones. The later ones

will probably outlive me. What
is the angle of a turning circle?


The motel pool

The atrium is full of
canaries, & many men
in Armani suits & pointy-
toe shoes. Florentine is
big this year, alongside
fishing shirts & sweet
potato fries. A car
drives slowly along the
street. The canaries re-
cite poems in chorus
in Tibetan whilst a
black-hat lama does
a simultaneous trans-
lation. The words inter-
sect to make a third
poem, which is what I
am interested in. Children
walk their grandparents.
A group of new mothers
arrive dressed all in black,
almost as if they have con-
fused birth with death.
Emphasis is added for
emphasis. Avocados are
severely overrated.


Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry since 1959. He is the author of around fifty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are The Word Factory: a miscellany, from gradient books of Finland; The Perfume of The Abyss from Moria Books; & A Vicarious Life — the backing tracks from otata. Due out later this year are Residual sonnets from Ma Press & taxonomic drift from Luna Bisonte Prods.

Four poems by Kushal Poddar

Crumbs On Your Metro Seat
Your ex called you a whore,
although only as a metaphor-
a slap of leather on the days of tearing lace.
The metro asks you
not to have a quick lunch.
Your crumbs on the seat widens their discomfort.
Your ex called you last night
and apologized for calling you by mistake.
The station you alight is a Sunday clouded to loneliness.
Paper Monster
The monster lives in the papers
my father writes on my life.
Come to the basement,
meet the bushy cats, asleep.
In the cabinet, in the bureau
drawn by the years
the life sprawls deep.
We must tip toe. We must see
it from a distance so the ink
may remain blurred in
the cage and sky of obscurity.
You must be curious, and I desire to show
you the monster, you, the monster,
but the cats make my nose water.


City Jam
A vein and an artery
of the AC machine
seats when flies the finch.
The hot wind your fortress
adds to the gully summer!
The dwarf houses! The secret
of owning the street tap
before others arrive!
The swings of the red pipe, blue pipe!
On the cornice gleam
the contraceptive pills
you threw away on the Mother’s Day night.
Far below, city grows
with tin shades, tanned boys
arrowing the Venus of the dusk.
From the bay, a cyclone says,
” I’m inevitable.”
So are the finches. So are the finches


Finding Mother In A Closet
She thinks she has blood
on her hands-
the same those shake so
she can’t sew anymore.
I say,
“I’m alive. Father is.
There is no blood. At least
not on your skin.”
Everything was dead.
Night plays a little jazz.
Then begins the world news.


Edited the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’.
Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia), “Scratches Within” (Barbara Maat, Florida), “Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems”  (BRP, Australia) and “Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems” (Hawakal Publishers, India)

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Four poems by Dah Helmer


Without knowing
our beginning
we do not know
how far we have come
The first seed sprouted
as wordless space
Yes, we have named it
many times
and still
we do not know it


If only to drift away
to another universe
that knows
no objects
no boundaries
no suffering


We are like rocks
held in
deep agony
Sealed inside
the high pitched squeal
the shuddering heart


I say this softly / Man,
a forceful creature / a living
and misdirected


Dah’s seventh poetry collection is Something Else’s Thoughts (Transcendent Zero Press)
He is a Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee, and the lead editor of the poetry

critique group, The Lounge. Dah’s eighth book is Full Life In The Day Of A Poet
(Cyberwit Press).

Six poems by Alisa Velaj

Poetic Credo

I have always known where I come from, and I have always wanted the path on which I must go. I am not talking about visible paths, on which we travel every day, but those paths where the winds rattle and go crazy. I want to apprehend the language of those winds, their unknown tongues. Then, when I lie to myself that I have translated something from them, even a little bit of that rattle, I sit and throw it down on paper. There are other kinds of visible winds, the tangible and inglorious ones, though these cannot be compared to my original inspirations. They are faint but revolutionary; they incorporate the air of the cities and my breath. In them, they translate me and throw me down on paper as poetry. Yes, oh yes, I am their poetry. But as inglorious as they are themselves…


The wind foundations
Are to be found in Odysseus’ migrations.
The unwoven cloth
Is the building…


Translation from Albanian Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj
I fear the oblivion of a stone
At the dusk of a nameless city
My grandmother had told me that the stone
Has breathed sadness since immemorial times
For it carries the city in its bone…

Translation from Albanian Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

Taking shape after shape,
Matter translates into different selves
At the speed of light.
Paralysis shines in human eyes.
Translation from Albanian Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj
Shadow ravens
Preach by the river
Of the white lilies


Translation from Albanian Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj

A ring with a black ribbon
Running through it
Flies in the air
As if it were a flag at half mast
No cherub
Is raising toasts at the wedding party…
Translation from Albanian Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj