Tiana Lavrova /Abcessive Abacai/

Abcessive Abacai

hungry hemorrhoided duodecimal bok cantankerously Alabad
hungry hemorrhoided duodecimal
scone ignoble made of horse carca bistro
hiawathholic paparazzi Kyrsteihan Henrietta salami Batista
hiawathholic paparazzi Kyrsteihan Henrietta salami Batista
hiawathholic paparazzi Kyrsteihan Henrietta salami Batista
chemical Zuma boko-dysentery
elderberry salsa Keanu liveris salsa crusted trainers
biscuit trifectically sweet home moan
intangible Dyson’s lambasting alfalfa catch-wire back bone fat lip tight obtuse to mecca-syntactics
hiawathholic paparazzi Kyrsteihan Henrietta salami Batista
mount zion serafina-esque elderberries silhouettes breeding
grounding dumping serpentine Hillel
chemical Zuma bok-dysentery
mount zion serafina-esque elderberries silhouette breeding
zealomille proof in the: Heraclastes HD porno noona Yoko informatized Althusser
ransacked lighted synesthesia’s
ejaculate grunt gaping uvula vulves
fishhook Liveris “windshield Kilos baby gravy” “Azeri acryllic wimmin”
Jessica ovule
thulydisces zero-sum
the ascetic missionary’s Jessican alfredo
Jessican ovule
womb-men zero-summed
smack-talked thulydisces
thulydisces zero-summed womb-men
mortician Thucydides
hour glassed embanked Alto-Benetaro cogystem horseradish breached dollars Azeriji Hajian poor
grammar illiterate Ogilvy uvula vulves.



Tiana Lavrova is an avant-garde writer from British Columbia, Canada previously published in magazines such as Rapoetics and A Story in 100 Words. Their interests include digital parts-to-whole philosophical musical instruments; open-source philosophical treatments, and Absolutist self-reliant living.


A. R. Morrill /Dead Turtle/

Dead Turtle

I don’t have anything to say
To a dead turtle.
Really, at first
I didn’t even know it was dead.
The dog just paused
In the water and sniffed,
Then licked and
broke the surface tension
With her questioning pink tongue,
And tried to decide
What that thing was
That bobbed
Limp arms and legs
And lolling head
In the scentless shallows,
Distant as the craters
Of the moon –
Just as inconceivable
To her.

We stood and watched it for a while,
Neither of us truly convinced
That it was dead.
Those regular, jerking movements
Could have been
A seizure —
Or some mild
Turtle confusion.
A concussion, maybe?
Or choking,
What if it were choking?
There wasn’t much to be done
But peer through the netted shards
Of sunlight that exist
Only in transition from one moment to the next
On the surface of the water.

I could have said something,
I suppose,
But nothing
Felt quite right –
And what do you say to a dead turtle,
Sorry for your loss?
I did wonder how
I might get his shell –
And yes, I am a little ashamed
About that initial instinct, but
It glistened green and yellow
In the crystal shallows
Like the ordinary, everyday
magical things
A child happens upon
And simply must have,
Those things that wind up
In tiny pockets and lunch pails
Or tucked hypnotically beneath the bed.

Thank god for turtle flesh
And rot,
Bones that would nearly be
Impossible to separate
From the shell.

I don’t need to talk much
To a dead turtle – still,
What might that shell sound like
Full of air,
Whistlin’ Yellow Submarine
Strapped to the hood of my car?



A.R. Morrill is a poet and creative nonfiction writer from Seattle, Washington.

Roy White /Invasive/


Hormones are to women what water is to plants.
                –Billboard advertising Happy Hormone Cottage

If Hormones are to women
what water is to plants,
then happy is to hormone
what cottage is to cheese,
and a woman needs a fish
like a man needs a bicycle.

The garden at the Happy Hormone Cottage,
started out with analogies in tidy
rows, seedlings ordered from
the Educational Testing Service.
Sometimes a woman would collect a few leaves
to liven up a boring literal salad,
or arrange the blooms  to make a bold centerpiece.
But the cottagers couldn’t resist
feeding them leftover hormones,
and (hormones being to plants what water is
to humans) they grew and grew.
Soon they were crawling up the walls of the cottage, so
you had to fight through them to get out the door;
then they invaded roadside ditches,
crowding out the merely botanical weeds
and taking over the billboard that used to show
acres of oily orange supermodel skin.

In the end, analogies ate away the borders
between everything and everything else.  People
wandered the malls, staring at shelf upon shelf
of similar isosceles triangles
in Regular, Economy, and New Fun size.



Judith Steele /Banjo and Cello/

Banjo and Cello

Banjo loved her singing
torrents of music, deep rhythms of her seas,
ascent of sunrise notes,  grace of solitude
in monologue.

Cello yearned for laughter
of rollicking strings, pluck and twang of good jokes
on a wooden veranda with a raised glass,
endless summer.

they played together
his monologues, her laughter
for a while.




Ashley Farley /Labelled: Mute, Multi-Personality, Queer, Suicidal, and None of the Above/

Labelled: Mute, Multi-Personality, Queer, Suicidal, and None of the Above

My sister’s first personality didn’t speak,
Lips that fear stitched together by the hand of her mother’s and sister’s anxiety
The volume turned all the way down
While still playing the music
So we missed all the songs
Without even realizing it.

My sister’s second personality wouldn’t stop laughing in the car,
hysterical woman, is that her fortune to be sitting in the back her whole life
Why did the chicken cross the road, is it because the doctor lived on the other side?
And no one else could understand the joke and my mother didn’t tell us the testing and the autism or the asperger’s or the attention deficit
And the hysteria was just a joke, just sleep-deprived children stuffed into a mini-van as a roller-coaster flew down the highway.

My sister’s third personality rode in police cars and held knives
to the throats and stomachs to the wrists and I wondered the whole time if she got it from me.
As thirteen year old’s toast to the short-lived angst and dream of cherry stained champagne pouring from their bodies as a celebration, but the chemistry in our brains told us it could be a celebration and we believed the possibility that someone would celebrate us.

My sister thought her next personality kissed the glitter-glossed lips of girls with long hair and chipped nail polish. And I tried to tell her that love doesn’t need to be put into a label, taped onto our backs to say that we belong in aisle 7 with the rest of the white girls from suburbia that soccer moms will criticize with a wine-stained thermos in hand.




Ashley Farley is a senior in The College at Brockport pursuing her B.S. in English Literature. Ashley has been passionate about writing for most of her life, her first published piece of writing being from when she was 11 years old. She has had work published in Poppy Road Review and forthcoming in Calamus Journal, Leaves of Ink, and Amaryllis Poetry. She plans to continue her passion in all things English, and hopes to one day live on the beach and write children’s books.

Nick Orf /Eyepatch/



people watchers have all gone
digital & cell phones have wristwatches
on the endangered species list.
my pulse still tocks & ticks
wishing to synchronize itself
with someone else’s heartbeat but
the closest i ever even get to eye
contact is the cold gaze of the dating
website. i leave the caffeinated daze
of the coffeeshop where
people are all socketed into gadgets,
return to my apartment & put a piece
of electrical tape over the lens of my
laptop’s webcam while i watch free
pornography or else it never
blinks. it never ever blinks.



Nick orf is from the future.  come visit him at www.nickorf.com

Nancy Iannucci /An Oh to Syd Barrett/

An Oh to Syd Barrett

How I wish, how I wish you could have tasted my mouth after it dropped when I first heard your voice/ How I wish you could have felt what it was like to see you for the first time / your dark eyes & thick mane / you made me ovulate well before my season / your words wandered worlds licking at my ears in thunderclaps/ I saw your diamonds spinning above the vinyl/ some fell to my ankles in bangles that called up at me / lean out your window, golden hair / some crawled on chords to my closet like daring trapeze artists/ others scratched clef spirals on my tiles/ you were writing /  to me / lyrics / a new love song /  but I couldn’t wait / I was late for the Temples concert / I jumped & gathered you up in haste like the White Rabbit / shoved your gems in my pocket & left for the Bowery/ Temples played Baby Lemonade to warm the crowd, but I was the only one there who felt your heat / I held out your diamonds in the palm of my hand but the crowd didn’t see them / you were a merman to them/ odd / your voice only soluble beneath the sea/ you were singing to me/ & so I wound around the rockweeds of your voice with my eyes closed/floating above the crowd / holding on to you as if you were here.



Nancy Iannucci is a historian who teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. Her work is published/forthcoming in numerous publications including Bop Dead City, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Star 82 Review (*82), Gargoyle, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, Poetry Breakfast, Rose Red Review, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, Yellow Chair Review, Dying Dahlia Review to name a few.