Feature Poet: Khalil

Khalil once leaped into the moon from his college dorm window. He subsequently majored in psychology and trained as a psychotherapist. He has since lived on the road practicing folk medicine and creative resistance.


St. Joseph’s Song

I tried jumping out a window
after spiritually awakening
thru the myopic underground
(third eyes and bald heads)
detecting apocalyptic codes
thru broken compositions

Following a semester of
animism, auras, and rituals—
reading animistic philosophy
outside empirical classrooms
where integrated athletes
were intellectually abused
by politically-correct beards
(reverse-racism being Freudian)

I escaped, with my tribe, off-campus
to the rural college town beyond
complete with white trash creatives
and monetarily dishonest hippies

Where the real drugs were done
and the real parties were had
and the real music was heard
and the real talks were had
(where interracialism was OK)

This is who I really am:

a man desperate to be imperfect
rather than one who is failing
when not striving to be perfect.


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Previous Feature: Ken Allan Dronsfield

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a disabled veteran and poet from New Hampshire, now residing on the southern plains of Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, music and time spent with his cat, Willa. Widely published, his poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize awards and the Best of the Net, 2016.


Concrete Willows Sway

I watched the sunrise on a cool day
ducks spar for bread at the city pond
hot coffee steams in cups of gold hue
bikes on parade, just another Sunday.
I play the worn paths in red flip-flops
amazed by the dresses on little dogs
owners guide or lead from tree to tree
I’m watching the concrete willows sway
as toy sailboats race off in harsh winds
I fidget and quiver in a strange warmth
listening for coins dropping in my cup
colored balloons on sale only a buck
clown looks like Gacy, nefarious in life
I ponder my escape on a different path
but ponies pass, maybe lost unicorns?
I sit on a bench to enjoy a nice burger,
squirrels run up and snatch the thing;
but was it a squirrel, or a huge city rat?
I’m not sure, as I’m blinded once again
the self-medicating will do it every time
cotton candy selling in rainbow or pink
strum a tune and a quarter to the cup
during another lost day in the city park
whilst enjoying a handful of skittles.


Muddle and Spittle
Track of salted tears
   follows a lesser path
      limited worded strife
         lost tissued fantasies
            nightly stellar display
            wanton fog reflected
             my single paddle digs
             in circular travel only
            shake a motley mix
          tempting wicked fate
       ivy vine covered wall
    adrift well past twilight
  muddle on down the rail
a spittle train of cocaine.



In the Palace of Doubt

Waltz on the rings of Saturn
inhaling the drift of Neptune
sand castles of tall gold walls
stand by the sea of tranquility
soft blooms of white oleander
softly steeps in your black tea
you devour crispy saltines with
spoons of cold Russian caviar
needle digs deep into the vein
ears humming in the key of D
I descry a black bitching sky
with a kaleidoscopic blue lens
from atop the palace of doubt
sits the wizard of an aging sun.


All Hail! Ken Allan Dronsfield’s full-length poetry collection, The Cellaring (2016), is available via its publisher, Creative Talents Unleashed. To learn more, simply click on the cover image below . . .

Previous Feature: Peter Magliocco

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he occasionally edits the lit-zine ART:MAG. His neo-speculative novel, The Burgher of Virtual Eden (PublishAmerica, 2009; America Star Books, 2017), is newly released and available for free as a Nook ebook.


The Drinking Tricksters

No longer your wasted lifeguard
when the air is thick with smoke,
sirens sound in elemental places
we all hung out together in
{before the flood}
desecrating our minds
with exotic potions
time won’t easily erode
any cosmic cycle happening

then I see the one who sleeps with shadows
suddenly dance-stepping on sidewalks
teens rattle threatening skateboards over,
flashing peace signs at our cockeyed eyes
peering out in meme splendor from tavern windows

where we still hazily wait
as years trickle away,
corroding waterfalls of spirit
old orgies cast into absolute midnight.
I’d crawl over broken glass
becoming a living mantra without pause,
stop my bloody fingertip-tears

spotting the silk kerchief
of your magician
making our sobriety
in the infra-red shadows

our hungover bodies
for truth


The Skin Virus

Musk sweat seeps from your skin
as angelic birds rise in the distance
taking lust’s bad ass stigma from us
for the blackbird is of your face & hair
tying us together while shipwrecked
on some bottomless sea of lassitude
it’s more than a video sex game today
played by estranged love slaves
in a serial rapist’s closet
the skin of infinity swallows
the voyeur eyes of god before
we can see him watching us
trying to escape then be born again
in the waiting arms of sweet flesh
it’s all typical bourgeois meat-stuff
sometimes on a par with whatever
crimes of passion going viral tonight
on the raw web of baser interest
the black market butchers sell us


All Hail! Peter Magliocco’s recent sci-fi novel, SPLANX (2014), is available via Cosmic Egg Books. Simply click on the cover image below to learn more . . .


Previous Feature: Bradford Middleton

Bradford Middleton was born in London in 1971, but eventually found himself in Brighton in 2007. There, he began writing because he knew no one and had no money. He has a couple of poetry chapbooks, namely Drink Drank Drunk (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2015), and  A Life Like This Ain’t for the Faint-Hearted (Holy & Intoxicated Press, 2016).  To learn more, follow him on Facebook at bradfordmiddleton1, and on Twitter @beatnikbraduk.



I sleep whenever I want
I eat whenever I want
I drink whenever I want
As for me life is easier
Spent alone

I wake up
Smoke a joint
Drink some tea
And go about my day
With no one to moan

About my wasteful practices
And all the things I should be doing
Rather than sitting here stoned
Writing some words for you to read
It wouldn’t be possible if I wasn’t


Never to Escape to The Last Resort

Tired wasted and back
Back here at the last resort
Seemingly stuck forever
Here at the last resort
As another flat falls through
Meaning I remain here
Stuck in the last resort
With my whacked-out
Neighbours; drug addled
Number 7 whilst behind 4
Sits a woman convinced
We are all alien, a believer
In L Ron Hubbard
The nice guy downstairs
Well he got lucky and
Escaped a life stuck here
Here in the last resort
A dream I have of one day
Getting out of here and
Not having a life routed
Permanently here stuck
Forever in the last resort


All Hail! Bradford Middleton’s novel, DIVE (2015), is available via New Pulp Press. To learn more, simply click on the cover image below . . .

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