Erik Moore Variations by Michael Paul Hogan

baobab (3)[6]

a storm in the city

and the world is fine

one day we’ll touch

(the) girl in blue

(and) journey to the upside down tree

sunny by a lake

save me from myself


and the clouds just keep on rolling


a storm in the city

petrified /

         (the) girl in blue

& jour/

      ney) upsid/



e) t

the clouds they jus keep rollin


and the world
is fin (is


under a lamp-post

          Wardour Street

a cigarette /
                                 a match


k-k-k-k-k-k-shh FLARE
a plume of smoke
the girl in blue) sings –

In Soho Square in Soho Town 

A boy will touch me silently 

Under the tree the upside down 

In Soho from myself save me.

 I am the girl, the girl in blue

One day we’ll touch in Soho Town. 

The streets are paved with cigarettes 

And the clouds keep rolling down.


save me from my/self!


a storm in the city /

                 city blue

& the clouds ) a cigarette

a telephone kiosk Soho Square

and the clouds the clouds keep



rolling ) to the

             upside down tree


a storm in the city

and the world is fine

one day we’ll touch

(the) girl in blue

(and) journey to the upside down tree

sunny by a lake

save me from myself


and the clouds just keep on rolling


rolling to the upside down tree


Born in the countryside west of London, Erik Moore is a multi-instrumentalist whose life-long curiosity with music, sound, and the human condition has led him to the conclusion that the most important thing in life is to be content. His vinyl album Journey to the Upside Down Tree, in collaboration with Annabella Maneljuk, hopefully describes his view of the world.
Born in London, Michael Paul Hogan is a poet, journalist and fiction writer whose work has appeared extensively in the USA, UK, India and China. He is the author of six collections of poetry, the most recent of which, Chinese Bolero, with illustrations by the great contemporary painter Li Bin, was published in 2015.

leather jacket in the sun by Tohm Bakelas

leather jacket in the sun
he was hunched over his steering wheel
when they pulled his body from the car
it was about 9am
on the last saturday
in october heat
rigor mortis had set in
they attempted to conceal his body
with a white sheet
but they couldn’t seem to get it right
his body was contorted
like a dog begging for scraps
somehow they failed to cover him
what i remember most
was the look on his face
a dull yellow drained pink
empty and unbroken
his hair was a mess
greased and blown back
and his black leather jacket
shined in the sun

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published four chapbooks “Orphan Crows” (Analog Submission Press, July 2018), “Destroy My Wound” (Budget Press, August 2018), “In Living Rooms” (Iron Lung Press, November 2018), “Decaying Sun Under Noontime Rain” (Analog Submission Press, February 2019) and a microchapbook “We All Arrive” (Origami Poems Project, October 2018). https://tohmbakelaspoetry.wordpress.com

A Man Like Her Father By David Boski


A Man Like Her Father 

“I want you to stop drinking whiskey;
it changes you, you turn into a monster,
and I don’t want to date a man like my father”
she said as her eyes began to water.
“Ok” I said, “I’ll keep it under control.”
“No David, you won’t keep it under control;
that’s the point, you lose control; do you know
all the awful things you said to me last night?
do you know what my father would think?
my brother? my sister? or my mother?
if I told them? — they wouldn’t let me date you!”
she continued assertively.
“I’m sure your mother’s heard much worse
from your father” I replied defensively,
yet speaking truthfully.
“Well, that’s the thing, I don’t want to hear it” she said.
A few short months later our relationship ended:
she moved on and married a man who
cheated on her: a man like her father.
David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have appeared in The Dope Fiend Daily, Under The Bleachers, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review and elsewhere. His forthcoming chapbook “Fist Fight and Fornication” is being released by John D. Robinson’s Holy&intoxicated Publications in June.

A Poem by Gabriella Garofalo

Call them twice, bitch –
I’m white, I’m clean,
Dancing angels are no danger –
OK, I know the question, I’ve been diving into it
As naked Persephone in luminescent shadows
Dives into her moony waters:
Them their eyes –
She knows we give no nice answers,
She knows we don’t spin it nice,
Now that mothers look so dazzled
Walking to sunny afternoons with dearest daughters,
They’re holding hands, you know?
Ejit, in due time they’ll empty guns
At each other: blazing words, scorching screams –
Ejit, they asked for a loan
So she made them mortgage her soul
And now it’s time to give it back
To the water, our chief mortgagee –
Sorry, the nice little lady can’t help you,
That dyslexic light so busy splitting life from limbs,
Forcing open the blue, lashing bodies,
Yes, sure, so they traipse and choke and traipse again –
Sorry, mothers, sorry, daughters,
It’s her frantic week, simple as that –
The sky? Well, he’s fed up sick
With your cries for help, forget it,
Don’t even try to ask, hard cheese if the henchman
Wrests dead children, dead seeds, scarves, nosh or dosh –
A deranged diagram of love and whatnot –
And never forget he might bait
That ambivalent April against you.
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”, “ A Blue Soul”.

She Was Loaded by John D. Robinson

She Was Loaded
Earlier tonight
Miles Davis
take of
‘Time after time’
came from my
radio and the
last time I heard
that was when a
friend knocked
at my door: I
could see that
she was loaded and
she opened up
to me,
I could have
taken the
but rolled joints
and poured wine
and when I
awoke I was
alone and when I
saw you next you
were in a casket
and I walked away
from this funeral
as I have done
so many times
time after time.

John D Robinson

John D. Robinson is a UK poet. His work has appeared widely in the small press and in online literary journals. His chapbooks include Cowboy Hats & Railways (Scars Publications, 2016) and An Outlaw In The Making (Ibid, 2017).

Reprise by Frank Wilson

Mystery deepens as time proceeds. He knows
As little now as at the wordless start,
When all seemed wondrous. Only now, grown old,
In thrall no longer to willful reason,
Enchantment manifests itself once more,
In his patient garden during winter.
Awaking in the night, he finds himself,
As at the start, unafraid of darkness.
Frank Wilson is a retired Inquirer book editor. Visit his blog Books, Inq. — The Epilogue. Email him at PresterFrank@gmail.com

Tell Them You Invited Me by Margaret A. Campbell


18th-century depiction of Odysseus and Calypso by Angelica Kauffman

Tell Them You Invited Me
Inside the refrigerator box, his voice
smells human. Hard to come by, he says.
I lie down, beside him, to show my sympathy.
He pulls away. This refrigerator had a spigot
for cold water and ice whenever you wanted it.
Whoever. Wherever. We play house.
I open my mouth wide to unveil the house
within, the roof over words, the voice’s
river, the tongue’s root, gnashing teeth. It,
haven to the last sigh of the first cry. He says
his is a cave of cavities and spigot
to his phlegm. He rejects my sympathy,
pithy words that siphon off the little sympathy
he harbors for me. He will visit my house.
It is far, but he channels Odysseus, the spigot
story teller of men coming home. Voices
flow through my here to everywhere, he says.
I offer him a ride. Like everything, he refuses it.
On scrap, I scribble my address. He hands it
back to me. I remember all. I send sympathy
cards to the bereaved. I put money away, he says,
I’m a lot like you. Weeks pass. I wait at my house
for him. You probably think I hear voices,
that I am lost at sea with a drip drop spigot
leak of good sense, that I forgot
how dangerous people can be; this is it,
my courtship finale. The coldest day, voices
serenade the door; he expresses sympathy
for the policeman who doubts that my house
is his destination. To me, he says,
tell them you invited me, he says,
he is the trouble I thirst for. Many a spigot
he fixed; he knows the bones of my house.
Wrap my arms around him so it
looks as if we fathom a sympathy-
infused embrace. That our voices
are one voice plus their voices. He says
tell them I am not afraid. I just forgot,
in antiquity, to give him the key to the house.


Margaret Campbell of Easton, PA has a BA in French from Muhlenberg College and an MA in Comparative Literature from NYU.  In 1995, she edited Family: A Celebration, a collection of essays, poems, and short stories about contemporary and non-traditional families with photographs by Joan Beard.  Since 2003, she worked with artists on installations at Lafayette College, Northampton Community College, and galleries in Long Island City: “Physical Sentences: James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, and Samuel Beckett,” “Housedress: the Sheltering Dream,” “Reading the Shared Hallucination,” “I Stand Here Ironing: Homage to Tillie Olsen,” and “Linguaduct: Diagrammed Sentences from Here is New York.”  The Journal of the American Medical Association published “Still Life Within the Painter’s Heart,” “Hands,” and “The Dust Bowl of My Elbow.” Fox Chase Review featured eight Abstract Poems and the American Journal of Nursing published “The Vessel of a Nurse’s Voice.”  Lehigh Valley Vanguard featured numerous poems.