international-zineOormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is an Indian-Australian artist and poet, who serves as a chief editor for Authora Australis. Her recent artworks have been showcased in Otoliths, 3 AM Magazine, and The Amsterdam Quarterly, and on the covers of Ang(st) the body zine, Pithead Chapel, Uppagus, Periwinkle Literary, and The Rat’s Ass Review. She received two Best of the Net nominations for 2021.
Kushal Poddar
Chickens and Kalashnikovs tumble
from the postern of a blind truck.
It zigzags, fades into dust.
The old man picks up the birds.
The child expects the gun to be warm
and his chagrin will make you so.
Nowhere sprawls everywhere.
The hut hosts a business of flies.
The scraw nibbles at skin, feather
and the metal so dead, heavy and cold.
And this settles a new township.
Children sell cold. Old ones sell heat.
Sometimes the eyeless truck
returns sniffing for the things it lost,
but picks up no scent, or perhaps this,
a recurrent succubus, the child sees,
the old too, and the heat seeks equilibrium
we know. Fever flows. The chickens,
drained of blood, turns to be ice.
The calefaction of those guns, used
when a sale goes wrong, marks
the user’s skin with signs as old as lightning.
Kushal Poddar is a poet and father. He has authored seven volumes of poetry including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’ and ‘Eternity Restoration Project – Selected New Poems’.
Kushal Poddar
The fading begins,
and the tiny monkey
that hangs from the tree
in your forlorn rooftop scene
ghosts the twisted wind.
The strange light is actually
your eyes
staring at all those strangers
walking.
Below a hallowed hollow grabs
every feet.
Beat it; fading begins.
Veil your heart; blood fades your flesh.
Bow you are
only a flow and nothing else.
Kushal Poddar is a poet and editor of ‘Words Surfacing’ magazine. He has also published ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse – A Prequel’.
László Aranyi
Drinks his blood, eats of his flesh, the « No »
promises « Yes »; that, which is broken, forms itself
into a whole again. The pupil is prepared,
a net is his attention, his bag a harbour to the loot.
That obnoxious Ubu-puffball maltreated me,
like that teacher Mr Hébert did Jarry,
and taught that teachers were the foe.
(Tyranny is pathetic and childish,
it whips about, canes spouting volcanos,
disciplines the storm.)
Do not teach: learn! If you have talent for notoriety:
that is what Teaching is!
In vain you sneak
into dark doorways, you will
vomit and crap on the cassock anyway!
I never become a chair-clown,
remained a lone Searcher. Every sentence I write is
a newly discovered continent,
(rain makes the reed cry, it delicately bows and leaves
the spider-web that hides by its roots untouched).
The shoddy, the profane, the petty retreats.
My mastery cleanses to inhumane.
//
Vérét issza, húsából eszik, a „Nem”
ígér „Igen”-t; ami tört, roncs, egésszé
formálódik. A tanítvány felkészült,
figyelme háló, zsákja zsákmány-menedék.
Ocsmány Ubu-pöfeteg gyötört,
mint Jarryt Hébert tanár úr, s a tanítót
ellenségnek látni tanított.
(A zsarnokság szánalmas és gyermeteg,
kitörő vulkánokat vesszőz, vihart fenyít,
korbácsával csapkod.)
Ne taníts: tanulj! Ha képes vagy hírhedtté válni:
az a Tanítás!
Hiába osonsz sunyin
a sötét kapualjba, úgyis
lehányod és lefosod a reverendát!
Nem vált belőlem katedra-bohóc,
maradtam magányos Kereső. Felfedezett
földrész minden mondat, amit leírok,
(esőtől sír a nád, érzékenyen hajol,
érintetlenül hagyja a tövénél megbújt pókhálót).
Hátrál a bóvli, a profán, az alantas.
Embertelenné tisztul hatalmam.
László Aranyi is a Hungarian poet. He has published work in English in Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine, Briars Lit and many others. His work often explores spiritualist mediums, art and magic.
Kushal Poddar
The way someone blind
wears his ignorance
and gallivants through a throng.
Tim holds his hope, says,
« It’s me. » over the phone
to the number his deceased
wife used until the May end.
May means many things.
May all calls are answered.
The blind reaches the crossroads.
Here sometimes sights return
although it costs the vision.
Kushal Poddar is a poet and father, and editor of the magazine ‘Words Surfacing’. He has authored seven volumes of poetry, and more of his work can be found here.
Aditya Shankar
The bullet is an employee stuck in the wrong job.
I prefer missing the mark, it says. The perfect shot
turns four-legged bulkiness into overturned cars.
Two-legged egoisms, flattened like the stuffed hide
on a hunter’s wall. One-legged leafy wisdom, reduced
to inaudible sobs. Never pierce a pound of flesh, it
prays. No splattering of plasma or blood then. No
post-mortems and surgical removals. No unwarranted
limelight or people gathering around. No forensic
examinations to track the fatherhood of violence.
Loud bawls that descend like a dark cloud, an
unending drizzle of grief. The sharpshooter isn’t my
best friend, the bullet clarifies. Bestows the infamy
of single-bullet theory. Perched in the hands of
children, I turn the City of God into a raging hell.
The aimless shot is the best shot, it consoles. To soar
over the sky, to fall in a deserted strip of land, to
be lost in a garbage dump, to not be accused of
murder. The bullet wishes to retire, to be ignored.
To be lost in layers of soil, to dissolve like a penance
over centuries: a native that longs to return to the
elements at the core of the earth.
Notes:
Single Bullet Theory – JFK Assassination
City of God, directed by Fernando Meirelles
Aditya Shankar is a poet from Bangalore, India who has been published and translated into Malayam and English. He has work that has appeared or that is forthcoming in Buddhist Poetry Review, Columba, Collective Realms Magazine, Slippage Lit and so on. Books: After Seeing (2006), Party Poopers (2014), and XXL (Dhauli Books, 2018).
Carmine Denis
watchman watchman during dawn
what have you seen that’ll make us frown?
*
rocks
my sister
rocks started floating
and a stray star went dull
and the milk plate went sour
*
watchman watchman during the day
what have you heard that’ll make us stay?
*
streetcars dance in noon’s shadow
and said shadow rejoices
but make no mistake
grab its hand and get poisoned
*
watchman watchman during the night
have you smelled the latest blight?
*
I smelled it first, o my sister
its heart of white, its bones of rot
it ate us whole like grains of salt
o my sister
your shawl is loose on the great walls
what did you taste
when death went live
*
watchman watchman dusk has risen on the horizon
leave the tower and carve some rest
out of the night that crawls quickly
feel its hot rain on your fresh corpse.
– Haven’t you heard?
O my sister, ‘twas me traitor
who let it enter.
Carmine Denis écrit de la poésie en français, anglais, et franglais. Vous pouvez retrouver son travail sur son Patreon : https://patreon.com/carminedenis.
Teri Anderson creates work that looks into the idea of craft in art, textiles, installation and sculpture to create a linear or surreal environment which the audience have to inhabit. The work links to their heritage and how textiles were key in their family history including sample machinists and pattern cutters. Building on this, Teri proposes an art practise which incorporates a craft-based technique into the art-based discipline of installation. You can find Teri on Instagram, Facebook, and delve into Teri’s work on Teri’s website.
Kris McGinnis
As warm acidic tears slowly bite my sunburnt cheeks, as his crooked grin leers from the shadowy driver’s seat, as the thud-thud-thud ruptures from the trunk, an epiphany strikes, jostling for position where fear resides.
Regret can only be nurtured into experience if you live long enough to caress it.
Regret that campfire stories which scar the nation’s underbelly, of its vast emptiness, of disappearances, of monsters like Ivan Milat, were brushed off as tales of yesteryear on the sun-kissed beaches and bustling city streets of my Melbourne life.
Regret that teenage stubbornness masqueraded as adulthood, that assuming travel by foot and thumb to view the apocalyptic opal town of Coober Pedy and coppery sandstone terrain of Uluru would provide a more freeing experience, that sisterly scorn refused a brother’s companionship.
Regret that when the rusted yellow station wagon slowed down, tired feet willingly accepted, that his eerie silence, broken only by a gruff demand for my name, was initially viewed as restful, that my weary mind was too slow to connect the glint of sharp metal, duct tape and body bag; that I can only save myself.
As I slowly grip the door handle to the thud-thud-thud of his trapped prey, he reaches into his pocket. In the glare of moonlight, I notice streaks of blood on his arm. Without pause, I thrust the door open and throw myself out . . .
My wife calls me introverted, says I need to open up more to enjoy the sociable aspects of life that raising children denied. I promise to try but I prefer solitude and the outback provides that.
There are abandoned opal mines around Coober Pedy which resonate with my inner prospector. It takes patience, but gemstones will come.
She said my car wasn’t suitable; I’ll get stranded. I somewhat agreed. The rear suspension’s loose and thuds like a headache, but I’m fond of the old yellow rust bucket. Loaded with supplies and mining equipment, I set off.
It got dark just after Glendambo, that’s when the oil tank leaked. Patching it with duct tape, I cleaned my oil-slicked arms with tissues and continued on.
Not long after, I saw a girl walking down the highway. Dark, desolate; it’s not the safest place. With a promise to socialise more, I offered a ride.
She was quiet, but starting conversations chokes me with dread, so the thud of the rear suspension filled the void. It felt awkward. She noticed my camping tarpaulin, shovel and mining pick. I considered explaining my hobby, but decided the youth of today wouldn’t be interested.
Anxiously, I asked her name. ‘Heather’ she meekly responded. Tongue tied again, I smiled nervously and noticed she was crying. I reached to offer some tissues . . .
And that’s when she fucking launched herself out the car!
I searched but there was no sign of her. Driving off, a sense of fear overwhelmed.
You grow up hearing tales of phantom hitchhikers. Last time I’ll ever try to be sociable.
Kris McGinnis is a Scottish writer of flash fiction who has been published in Clover & White and ‘Less Than 100 Words’ e-book anthology.
László Aranyi
(English translated by Johanna Semsei)
Az égből érkeztek ők, a Letaszítottak.
Bebábozódva szunnyadó Ősök. Őrzők,
tengermély törékeny poklából
millió kriptaéhes késztetés…
Ereskidal is szunnyad, ágya véres háló,
nyirkos leheletű kagyló-száj tárul vádlón,
üzenete hívás: „Tedd amit akarsz, nincsen más törvény!”
Borostás Lenin-fiú biciklin tolja Krisztus keresztjét,
a bámészkodó maskarák falanxa nyílik,
öblös röhögés nyugtázza mutatványt.
Ocsúdnak a letaszított Ősök, lélegzik,
gyűr és gyúr, újból vért iszik a tenger,
s már másznak,
másznak a bárkasor, a part felé…
//
They have come from the sky,
the down-hurled.
Ancestors tucked up in warm cocoons, sleeping.
Guardians from the depth of the oceans Hell,
the urge of millions — Cryptic like hunger Ereskigal
fast asleep,
his bed — like a blood-soaked net, Damp breath, clam mouth
opens suggesting
accusations, his message is a call.
‘Do as you please, thats the only law.’
The Lenin — boy, face full of stubble,
pushes the bike with the cross of Christ Gapers everywhere,
staring, orotund laughing confirms the end
of his performance.
The Ancestors who have been pushed aside,
looking confused, its breathing.
Kneading and malaxating,
and finally the Sea drinks blood once again, and
they are climbing,
arks are climbing.
László Aranyi is a poet, anarchist, and occultist from Hungary. He has been published in a wide-range of journals and books in Hungarian and English such as Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine and A Nap-és Holderők egyensúlya. You can follow him on Twitter @azmon6.
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