Friday, August 31, 2012

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla



Massacre at Houla.


She was no more than 10 years of age.
He could have been a grandfather.

Young, old, women, girls, men, boys.

108 lives.

Now they are buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.

Killed by knives,
shot at point-blank range,
slaughtered, mowed-down.

108 lives.

Snuffed-out. Decimated. Taken-out.

108 lives.

As Damascus lies blatantly,
spewing forth untruth,
108 warm, dead bodies,
remain buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.

108 lives.


Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla







Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.







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Thursday, August 30, 2012

This Post Will Reflect Badly On My Character



Previously Published For A Few Minutes On Craigslist in 2010


Found a strap-on harness and bridle in the laundry room of my apartment building. The harness is frayed at the edges from multiple uses with a big black mule cock. And the bit in the bridle has a few teeth marks. It is sanitary now it has been sterilized of all possible bugs in steamy hot water. And all the moving parts have been replaced.

It’s past home found its way into a sweet innocent lipstick candy girl. She was the owner of the bridle. Her teeth marks in the white bit illustrate how her burly master loved her. Their bucks, grunts, moans of pleasure are no longer heard through open windows reverberating off tall walls in the inner courtyard of the Manchester.

This set up is lonely and is seeking a new home. If you can imagine yourself reined into a female beast brandishing a big silicon mule cock then this harness and bridle is for you (and your partner). Experience the exhilaration of a powerful vagina fucking into a lipstick candy-girl pussy with this comfortable worn-in strap-on harness, bridle, and hard rubber bit.






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Wednesday, August 29, 2012

An Attempted Like Poem



Sweet Regrets Crushed Over A Daiquiri


Every time I get a facebook note from you I think strands of what ifs. I muse about our lives if they had been twined together. I scribble your name in the sand and marry your last name to mine with a hyphen just to hear if it fits. It does. When I sing it out loud.
I wish that when I lived near you that I would have asked you out to an evening of board games and beer. But I was too shy. And I thought that you were younger than you looked. I wanted to ask you many questions about your simple lifestyle and your non-traditional Seattle beliefs. It intrigued me that you made beautiful things out of used fabrics and cords for people to wear. In time, I know you will make a living at it.
My thoughts trail off pondering if you could fit into rural life with an old guy like me. And into the evening breeze this thought fades, "do you ever think of me?"


The answer, of course, is probably no
and by morning dreamings of living an ordinary life united to you into old age feathers out into the sun rise like morning dew on blades of grass in autumn

—until you message me again.






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Saturday, August 25, 2012

Penhead Theater Presents: The Emperor Bonaparte



How to become friends with an Albion sword




Copyright © 2012 by Kurt Studenroth

I am a knight:

       the ones that people say
       go searching for adventures.






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Friday, August 24, 2012

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla




The Shedding of Skin.


parched lullabies seem jarring,
gentle persuasion an assault,
quiet understanding reeking of decay,
fatigued under this skin in which I must stay.

Dreams of moulting,
shedding the hubris of crafty words,
flushing away all famished rhymes,
ripping the fibres of an ink-stained past.

Knowing.

Always knowing,

that honey-soaked kisses, seem destined,
breathlessly,
never to last.


Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla







Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.






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Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Carla's Birds: Gender Equality, an easy fix.‏



King County Executive
Mr. Dow Constantine

Dear Sir,

Gender Equality, an easy fix


I appreciate there are more important issues, but this is an easy one to move on. It might just take a memo, or be an item on the agenda at a meeting with your dept heads.

Could you ask them to ask their staff to look over the way forms are printed, data is asked for and filled in, information is presented, and find ways to be more gender neutral.

Example. I see HUD's when I pay real estate commissions, lots of HUD's and it's beginning to make me weep at the persistence of the MALE name in the primary position; that is, the upper left hand corner. There is no sense to it. Instead, why not give instructions, citing a goal of gender neutrality, and suggest that when there are two names, they are put in alpha order - by last name if different, by first name if their last name is the same.

EX: Zeke Anderson would come before Ashley Moore, but Betty Johnson would come before Michael Johnson.

It matters. The message I've learned all my life starting with Mr. & Mrs.; is that men are #1 and important, and women are #2 and less important. We need to stop that.

I would also say the same of those race tables ... Are you White/Black/Alaskan Native/API, etc. They should be listed in alpha order. White/Caucasian does not need to be first.

If you think it doesn't matter, then why was there that upset over pressing #1 for English? And can you imagine what would happen if they had chosen #7 for English and #1 for Spanish? Yet, logically, what does it matter? Either button on the phone is the same distance away.

Stuff like this affects how we think about things, it matters. You can make a huge impact simply by raising the question, and asking the heads of your agencies to talk about it with their staff and come up with some solutions/changes. It's a process, and we need to get started.


Thanks so much,

Carla Blaschka










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Monday, August 20, 2012

What Is This? I Vaguely Remember Writing It.


Written Taking A Number 2


I see you staring at me through a crack in the wall. I’m drinking you in licking you up and down savoring the experience of it. Everything appears as it should till you begin to speak. The paint on the exterior does not always present the same image as what exists on the other side of the door. Some illusions can never be fully manifested into destiny. No matter how hard we push to make it so. I don’t understand what the allure to illusion is. I continue to fall into the same puddle. When I come face-to-face with my fantasies, illusion shatters. In that moment reality is never the same again. It is like wrestling with the same river twice. I wade in and fight to maintain position in the swiftness of the current. I cling to a branch on a concave cliff. It is a spindly little thing bent near the breaking point. I’m afraid to let go. Afraid to fall into myself. Into who I was created to be. In my dreams, I can fly unfettered by luggage. I’m a time traveler into strange landscapes and otherworldly realities.

1/18/2010 Bus Ride





Issue 1: The Texture of Words




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Sunday, August 19, 2012

Did I write This? (I hope this isn't a re-post)



Switch Now or Pay Later


Metro Chariots line up and scoot forward like how a veteran warrior does on a frost bitten dolly with his legs shot off. Confused and betrayed, he is too poor for a powered wheel chair. He was fashioned this way, like how a mythological god shapes a lump of clay with a twig into a human being, and then broken by a political body that cares naught for its youth. We the People pay for the elite to have power (over others) with tomorrow’s imaginings, which lie shattered on cobbles of bloody shrapnel. Golden stones pave over bombs and bullets with empty promises of American Dreams.

1/21/2011 (Photo found on facebook)







Friday, August 17, 2012

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla


The Vagabond Within.


I slip through cracks,
my memories dimming,
as thoughts of yesterday swirl,
down dreary tunnels of decay,
into the chasm that is today.

Waiting, forever waiting,
to belong, yearning to fit in,
taking solace in transient cities,
wearing masked faces,
tailored for fleeting places.

I stagger each night, lost,
wasting precious breaths,
drawn from a lifetime of sighs,
no consolation from the cruel,
while donning the skin of the fool.

Wrestling unseen demons,
dreading tomorrow as it nears,
ripping away my shallow smile,
withering into a hollow shell,
seeking comfort in everyday hell.

I stumble, I falter,
words slipping off pen onto paper,
fickle doleful murmurs of distaste,
at the gradual emptying of a soul,
needing to shed it all to be whole.

Stray dogs savage each other inside,
a body lathered in deep muck,
soiling my pants, wetting my being,
whistling promises that turn into lies,
the plaintive songs of a clown that cries.

I am momentary,
a soap bubble on the breeze,
just smoke clearing into thin air,
wasting away in my cocooned lair,
too old to change, too young to care.


Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla







Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.






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Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Purple Words: Alba And Gorodish



Alba And Gorodish


As the Sun rose his hopes of seeing Alba faded.
He felt like a burdalone now that his world
had been almost accidentally expanded
to include another within his grasp.

Each time he walked by the Malevich, it and the skirr
shook him so badly that he began to question
his sudden distaste for rectilinearity:
buildings should look like buildings after all.

Gorodish was strolling along the boulevard
Saint-Germain where every now and then,
he stopped to admire a painted wooden buddha,
some piece of furniture or a picture of a girl

remarkably like an Alba of another age.
When the Sun broke through, Alba stretched
like a cat. Her stride lengthening, becoming
more fluid, taking on a tropical rhythm.

Summer had finally come and she was glad
of its sultry heat reminding her of her home
in the quiescent rice fields of Vietnam far from
the hustle and bustle of tonant Paris.

At first the innkeeper was reserved, almost mumpsimus
yet the mention of Luc Plassin’s name brought smiles
and a display of warmth. In the space reserved
for listing occupation, Gorodish wrote: Painter.

---Purple Mark 08/04/2012





Purple Prompts:                                                                         

From the books by Delacorta Ballantine Books:
  1. As the sun rose higher in the sky, and the city awoke, his hopes of seeing Alba faded.” (Luna, 1984, page 42).
  2. Each time he walked past the Malevich it shook him to the depths of his being, shook him so badly that he began to question his sudden distaste for rectilinearity.” (Vida, 1985, page 122).
  3. At first the innkeeper was reserved, but the mention of Luc Plassin’s name brought smiles and a display of warmth. In the space on the hotel registration card meant for listing his profession, Gorodish wrote: 'Painter.'” (Nana, 1979, Page 11).
  4. The sun broke through. Alba stretched like a cat. Her stride lengthening, becoming more fluid, taking on a tropical rhythm.” (Lola, 1984, Page 91).
  5. Gorodish was calmly strolling along the boulevard Saint-Germain. Now and then he stopped in front of a display window to admire a painted wooden buddha, a piece of furniture, or a picture.” (Diva, 1979, Page 64).
  6. Random words from Dickson’s Word Treasury by Paul Dickson, John Wiley And Sons, Inc. 1992.
  7.            Burdalone: a solitary person
               Mumpsimus: a pig-headed person
               Skirr: the whirr of birds in flight
               Tonant: making a deep, loud sound






Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.



Monday, August 13, 2012

Guest Author: Valentina Cano -- Hunting


Hunting


A question hovered
like paper in a breeze,
without direction, flat.
I looked at you
with your shirt of fishing nets.
Your smile tucked
like a gun on your face.
Your eyes, knife blades.
I wanted to speak.
I wanted to pry my lips open,
to allow the bubbles to surface
and burst open with screams.
Watching your hands
drop the work you carried,
scattering the fragments of thoughts like scents.
I closed my mouth again.
The trap was already sprung.

Copyright © 2012 by Valentina Cano





If you haven't already, check out Randomly Accessed Poetics first publication: Issue 1: The Texture of Words.


Circled Words Form A New Story


Before The Lark


Don't Shoot!
What do you want?

A muffled voice disquited the dog
He whined
Thor, calm down!

She didn't detect anything threatening
her glance traveled suspiciously into a brown face
He pushed his hat back on
I scared you, he said

I saw your horse
I went for my gun

He turned,
his tone serious
I come from Kansas City
I ain't well
a cloud darkened the morning.

---William James, 08/13/2012







Saturday, August 11, 2012

Penhead Theater Presents: The Emperor Bonaparte



"If there push'd any ragged thistlestalk Above its mates, the head was chopp'd" — Browning




Copyright © 2012 by Kurt Studenroth

I am a knight:

       the ones that people say
       go searching for adventures.





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It Feels Good To Do Something Creative



This Poem Is No Longer Missing A Word





---William James, 8/10/12






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Friday, August 10, 2012

Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla



A Celebration of Apathy.


Cellophane smiles devoid of feeling,
Saccharine laughs hollow and tinny,
Frigid words wrapped in rich syrup,
Cashmere shawls thrown over sleek shoulders,
Beluga spread on lightly buttered toast,
Champagne kisses stripped of passion,
Happy days and feast-filled evenings,
Devouring canapés, sipping Martinis,
Empty banter seducing thoughtless puppets,
Opinions flung around like soiled underwear,
Vacations planned while on vacation,
Banquets,
Lush parties,
Inebriated soulless cadavers cackling,
As flesh and blue-chip options are traded,
Lipstick imprints on fine cut-glass,
Silk suits barely concealing hard-ons.

Screwing, fucking, laughing, posing,
Pretty people in designer camouflage,
Blind to a billion naked children,
Deaf by design to tired cries,
Mouths unable to whimper,
Stuffed with Kobe beef,
Consciences guillotined,
Screwing, fucking, laughing, posing,
As God looks down benevolently.

Filling mosques, temples, synagogues,
Stuffed into churches, coffee-shops, delis,
Praying on bended knee for absolution,
imploring a higher power to deliver,
Yet more Kobe beef,
Beluga Caviar,
Cashmere shawls,
Silk suits,

So that the screwing, fucking, laughing, posing,
Remain wrapped in cellophane smiles,

So that the saccharine laughs never cease,
While apathy secures yet another 100 year lease.


Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla










Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.






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Thursday, August 9, 2012

"I fall in love with everyone" -- Big Poppa E


Randomly Accessed Poetics August 5th post Crepuscule by Peter Marra reminded me of a song played by the English doom metal band Cathedral called Corpsecycle. I don't particularly care for the band Cathedral. My favorite Doom band is Evoken. Their sound is sludgy like my father's coffee and their lyrics read like freestyle poetry. Also, I've never heard music played so slow. As musicians, they are extremely talented. Only a person of great skill can play so slow and keep themselves rhythmically tight. Pentagram and Wolves in the Throne Room are my current favorite bands. The sounds of Cathedral's music especially with the only album I purchased, "Garden of Unearthy Delights," grated in my ear like screeching fingernails across a chalkboard.

I am not trying to say that Peter Marra's poem, "Crepuscule," was horrible. No, quite the contrary, I chose his poem, because the title reminded me of metal. I love metal because it is dark and is associated with the sound of evil. I also love metal because it represents the side of humanity that is often forgotten about or shuffled and locked away in closet or spoken about gated hush-hush tones. And any poem that reminds me of a metal (song good or bad) I like. For example, Slipknots' song and album "Disasterpiece," sucked, but as you can see by looking at this blog, I fell in love with the name DISASTERPIECE itself.

Lastly, I personally do not feel that I have been successful writing metal on the page, but Peter Marra, with this poem, has. Here are a few lines from "Crepuscule" to wet your whistle:

naked spirits invited to the burning buildings
see black weather flights of skin.

a feast begins and a slow dance
truncated.
noise has diminished.

If you wish to read the rest of Peter Marra's poem follow the Unearthy link to the Crepuscule.



A FEW WORDS FROM PETER'S BIO:

Peter Marra is from Williamsburg Brooklyn. Born in Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979-1993 at the height of the punk – no wave movement. Peter has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Symbolism. His poems explore alienation, sex, love, addiction, havoc, secrets, and obsessions often recounted in an oneiric filmic haze.





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Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Carla's Birds: During the creative process I've ended up as my sister's killer...



Beastie or Not to Be


"That's wrong, just look at him," said Mitt. We peered over the side of the dumpster and agreed. The naked man lying on the garbage looked peaceful as he slept. One tattooed arm coming up to unconsciously flick the flies away from his face and his three foot long dreadlocks, his only defense against indecency. The other arm was underneath, his hand cradling his head. We let him be, he seemed O.K. and there was little chance he would be dumped and thrown out.

We had gone behind the white-washed concrete block building housing the liqour store because it had a little strip of grass to sit on and was away from prying eyes. There were five of us, laughing as we guessed what happened to the naked man. It was a young group. I was by far the oldest and the token bad ass, a real ex-con, tolerated because I didn't try and take over and could buy the booze. There wasn't much else to do these days but to hang out. They passed the Thunderbird around. I took a swig, a small one as I had to be careful of my parole. Inside I could get alcohol and drugs, I could forget, but not here, not outside, they wouldn’t let you. I listened while some naive white guy with mommy issues and some expensive ear lobe jewelry wondered how you could sink so low that you could end up in a garbage can. What kind of beast did you have to be? he asked. Like it would never happen to him.

A kitten mewed, and we saw a cat head poke out from the tent made of wooden pallets stacked up against the wall, listen, then streak to the garbage can, vault to the edge, disappear and reappear a moment later with her errant kitten in her mouth. Another jump and streak and she was back home, no doubt giving her kitten the licking of its life.

The Thunderbird went around again and a cigarette was passed between knuckles. Sticking it to the man, rebels without a cause, every one, that was what we were. My lips twisted in disgust at this. What did they know about beasts. So innocent, their life of crime consisted of lifting cigarettes and Icehouse beers. Thinking they were free, weren’t part of the herd that went to work, the sell outs supporting corporate greed. They weren't beasts. A memory surfaced; the same one. I grew rigid until is passed, then…released, breathed again. They didn't know. Didn't know how little it took. Talking trash between friends, in a group just like this, a daddy with a gun and the next thing you know that uppity white 7-11 night clerk they'd kidnapped along with the money in the till and some beer was dead. Shot full of holes. Full of the beer they had stole, the four of them had taken turns. At the trial they said it was the fourth shot that had killed her. I couldn't remember when I took my turn. I didn't want to remember. It was my turn now. I took a drink, trying for oblivion, trying to forget, one mouthful at a time. Trying to forget the beast. Trying to forget myself.

---By Carla Blaschka




Carla's Strange Birds:                                                                         


Beastie or Not to Be

Challenge from The Stranger July 25-31, 2012, Vol 21, No 47

This fictional story was created from five random elements plucked from the pages of The Stranger, a Seattle weekly. The theme comes from the cover art. The elements were:


Theme: Big Wheel Keeps on Turnin’. Cover Art by Stacey Rozich 3 kids…in terrorist masks, with dynamite, air horn. 2 on tricycle.


  • Location: White painted concrete block wall, grass in front (pg 36)
  • Plot Point: Naked man in Dumpster. Drunk Photo of the Week (pg 45)
  • Quote: “That’s wrong. Just look at him.” By Mitt Romney in The Man Without Qualities by Paul Constant (pg 16)
  • Rhetorical Element: Kitten (ad, pg 28)
  • Character Trait: Tattooed arm scratches the head sprouting 3’ long dreadlocks (Bauhaus 8/6/12)






  • Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.






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    Monday, August 6, 2012

    Purple Words: Art & Money, God & Sex



    Art & Money, God & Sex


    “Art and Money, God and Sex”, the dripping crowd chants
    No one knows how this relates to Fashion while Viktor
    puts out the flaming gowns ignited by the runway candles.

    He too has been changed transformed utterly:
    a terrible beauty is born out of the claws of necessity
    it was all rather a hellish collection of smoke and mirrors.

    ‘From Burning Bodies to Building Bridges: Improving the Image
    of Crematoriums in Your Community’ was what the sign read,
    Ironic wordage considering the fiery parade of materials and models.

    “The worst thing, I’ve ever done?” he questions a critic’s query
    “I won’t tell you that. But I’ll tell you the worst thing
    that ever happened to me... the most dreadful thing.”

    His dreadful thing had been the time when his star performer
    had died on-stage in the worst possible way by Spontaneous
    Human Combustion midway through her performance.

    He had lost all the proceeds in the panic which ensued
    he had to cover the damages to the stage, her funeral
    as well as deal with the Police and Fire on top of it all.


    ---Purple Mark 07/21/2012





    Purple Prompts:                                                                         

    1. From Burning Bodies to Building Bridges: Improving the Image of Crematoriums in Your Community.” Bill Richardson. Bachelor Brothers’ Bed & Breakfast Pillow Book. (A Wyatt Book for St. Martin’s Press, 1995) Page 41.
    2. What was the worst thing you’ve ever done? I won’t tell you that, but I’ll tell you the worst thing that ever happened to me...the most dreadful thing.” from Ghost Story by Peter Straub. How To Write Horror Fiction. (William E. Nolan Wrier’s Digest Books, 1990) Page 63.
    3. He, too, has been changed in his turn, transformed utterly: a terrible beauty is born.” W.B. Yeats. The Collected Poems Of W.B. Yeats. (Wordsworth Poetry Editions, 1994) Page 153.
    4. Art & Money, God & Sex,” the dripping crowd chants, having no idea how this relates to fashion. Then as the show begins, Viktor narrates the outfits. He keeps on cue while putting out the fires ignited by gowns meeting the flames of candles.” Michael Lane. Pink Highways: Tales of Queer Madness on the Open Road. (Birch Lane Press, 1995) Page 34.








    If you haven't already, check out Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words.


    Sunday, August 5, 2012

    Please Give A Few Pennies To A Poet With A Dream






    Matthew Brouwer is a friend of mine. I met him up in Seattle in the slam scene when it met at the Spitfire in Belltown. I always enjoyed listening to his word. Stylistically, he performed differently than the prevailing winds of slam at that time. If you have a love for the spoken word, help Matthew voice the word that boils within his heart and rages out of his mouth like a hurricane.





    Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary e-zine called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.



    Saturday, August 4, 2012

    This is a video re-post of my favorite poem



    Poem Unknowingly Read Before A Lady's Prayer Group At An Open Mic in Everett




    Copyright © 2012 by William James Lindberg





    Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.



    Friday, August 3, 2012

    Friday's Children by Afzal Moolla



    Apples and Spinach.


    The foul odour of fire scarred flesh

    Reeks of decomposition.

    Fleshy bodies
    once animated
    now are scatter-shot across
    ground irrigated with blood.

    It was a surgical strike,
    of the smartest weapons
    a human can conceive.

    Deployed,
    with pin-point accuracy,
    they decimate
    “the bad guys”

    Black and brown people
    pummeled into a
    purple and blue
    Purée.

    “The good guys,”
    behind LCD screens
    in climate controlled rooms
    scan and surveil villages
    for potential targets.

    The evil doers—

    Camoflauge themselves into a blanket
    of mothers and daughters
    selecting apples and spinach
    at the marketplace unaware that they

    —are standing
    squarely
    in the cross-hairs
    of a Shakespearean tragedy.

    Copyright © 2012 by Afzal Moolla



    Thursday, August 2, 2012

    Time Masheen -- Fall Birds



    Fall Birds


    Fall birds speaking chattering tongues
    Assemble at the train yard.
    Swirl around billowing like pillars of smoke
    After starting one formation then changing their mind
    They Settled back down between rusty lines of boxcars.

    Over and over again the flock danced
    Following one leader then another darting different directions
    Gathering momentum for autumn’s journey.
    After the noon sun ascended above the fog,
    The yard revealed silent cars spackled white.


    ---October 17, 2006: WJ Lindberg







    Wednesday, August 1, 2012

    I am in love...


    with the poem called Murderer by Shannon Barber. It has got to be the most deliciously dark poem I have posted on Randomly Accessed Poetics in a long while. Don't take my word for it. Stop on by and read it for yourself.


    "I dream of murder.

    Hands around a supple throat..."



    Click Murderer to read the rest



    ---W.J. Lindberg, Editor of R.A.P.

        Submission are open for Issue 2: Paint Darkness into Day.
        See Guidelines for instructions.