March 2002 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Collision of Madness and Sin[/b]
stealth mode activated
shiny, jagged memories escape; soar
scorched blasts of my reused, mental sponge
feast upon an uneven, blood red core
which seeps with mutilated slivers
of misplaced truths, wretched acts
Sh! I dare not speak, nor even think
decomposed dreams of wailing; torment
haunt my midnight spirit; twist into a merciless rage
hindsight bites with icy fangs that slowly drip
with no one to accuse, except my unspoken name
scent of an aged soul smoldering cries out
weeps of regret forge from within
my victims now will sense my collapse
a soldier no more; not even a man
alas, I’m exiled to radically rule
dominion in my death land
[b]Blinded Twilight[/b]
Red hot, smashed phrases, spread
to burn her pale, scarred wishes
of soft, blue, cotton candy yesterdays.
Twirls of slush ridden, rotten promises
now engulf her exhausted spirit; attack her need
to feed and breathe of earthbound magic.
She craves to toss his maddening,
anger kissed words aside; drink
in soothing relief; full tide of calm slumber.
Nightscape whispers quietly laugh,
tell her to dance, join the living;
escape his soured, dark vision,
that bruises everything, anything.
Bolt of sharpened, jagged reality jolts
her to cough up some nerve and stand.
Future twilights shall not blink quickly
to be blinded from her sorrow;
she knows one life, one soul
are trapped only in this mystical flash.
Without hesitation she packs,
leaving wasted words, mind blowing fits,
and lies to slowly drown in her aftermath.
[b]Agitated Angst[/b]
Cooled, brittle magma
angrily tastes defeat; cracks.
Full moon stains
of red wine relaxed; spilt.
I peer through blackened holes,
perpetual pits
that singe my sub-zero,
yellowed bones with contempt.
Yet, you live to breathe
of glorious human tales
and lick of their mortal,
delicious, fearful wails.
I aged, rotted
in your midnight hurricanes,
no sleep; hunger buried, saturated
by your seamless terror.
I shall not weep,
nor attain you for your sins.
Feel my bottomless rage; gasp
as it begins to frantically boil,
escape, then seep
into your poisonous brew
of unjust eternal afterglow.
by Christina Croft (c)2002
([email]no****@**********ic.net[/email])
[b]Author’s note:[/b]
Christina Croft was born and raised in the quiet town of Wheeling, West Virginia, in 1962. Life has been a whirlwind, as Christina married, became a teacher, freelance artist, and mother of six children. After moving all around WV, she finally settled in Canonsburg, PA.
Christina has pubished both short stories and poetry. Her writing can be found in [i]The Murder Hole, Shadowkeep Zine, Dark Moon Rising,[/i] and [i]Insolent Rudder[/i]. She will have another story in an upcoming issue of [i]Steelcaves[/i]. Christina is currently working on more poetry and the completion of two novels.
March 2002 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
My neighbor’s television mumbles
all night through yellowed wallpaper.
Beer commercials, game shows,
Star Trek theme at 3 a.m.,
I play puppet to ventriloquist,
lip-sync every sales pitch;
sing their vacuous anthems.
There is safety in this stale room.
Sleep will not come.
My mind sprints,
I am a step behind.
Traffic snarls,
rises from the streets.
Sirens sing to me,
divas fill the night
until morning’s air spills
through my window,
sun warms the floor.
Outside, lions pace
among crowds of strangers
in their stone Serengeti;
they wait for me.
Lions first appeared in [i]Literary Potpourri[/i].
February 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
standing in the
yellow light of december
trying to believe in war
casting a shadow along the edge
of whiskey hill road
i am not a ghost yet but have
been playing with
the idea of disappearing
have been considering that
what i may actually be afraid of
is happiness
that what i may actually be
in love with is fear
i spent twenty-seven years fighting
not to be my father’s son
then married a woman who wanted
only those things i was
unwilling to give
found myself in a falling house
with the need to
inflict my anger upon others
and it’s not that
i’m opposed to vengeance
and it’s not that i don’t believe
in freedom
it’s that i have walked through
the screaming crowds promoting
their own self-righteous hatred
outside of abortion clinics
and i have no faith in their god
i have no use for their dogma
i will not be branded a witch
by anyone as lost
as myself
February 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
in the empty house
where no one believes in
empty houses
truth is not an object
with any value
a man says [i]i love you[/i]
to his wife
or he doesn’t
and either way she has
already left him
a child is found murdered
in the bathroom and
then another
and then three more
the words
[i]there is something wrong here[/i]
are left unspoken
the refrigerator hums
and the clocks run backwards
and the kitten is two months old
but will have to be
given away
and why should it live
in the face of these
five drowned children?
the answer depends on
who you ask
and it’s too fucking hot today
for these abstractions
say the word five times
and get it over with
dead dead
dead dead dead
go to the kitchen to find
a cold beer
call your wife’s name and wait
the rest of your life
for an answer
February 2002 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
I walk reverently,
footsteps soft as
feathers falling.
I am humbled
by giants, asleep
in Muir Woods.
Solitary sentinels
reach for heaven,
scrape the sky.
End of daylight
tiredly slants,
filters through
canopied roof,
ageless shadows
of God’s cathedral,
illuminating my path.
Overwhelming silence
enraptures me
as angels sing
of God’s gift to man:
the sacred redwood.
Cathedral first appeared in [i]Melange Journal[/i].
February 2002 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
phone rings.
he wants me,
I can tell, or
is it those red shoes?
sounds made
by high heels
on reflective,
wooden floors
bedevil him.
I am someone else
in scarlet spikes.
my skirt swirls
freely
in the warm air
surrounding me
like a swarm of honey bees.
my legs, longer
in those red shoes,
belong to a seductress;
a stranger to me.
I am rhythm.
my breasts bounce
upon the off beat.
he is at the door.
my pulse quickens
as I slip on those red shoes,
and one thing leads to another.
