Catégories
the unexpected

Calefaction

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’.

Catégories
the unexpected

Fading

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’.

Catégories
the unexpected

Hierophant (Tarot Major Arcana 5) // A Főpap (Tarot, Nagy Arkánum V.)

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.

Catégories
the unexpected

Philosophy of The Blind

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.

Catégories
the unexpected

The Bad Hire

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).

Catégories
the unexpected

The Unexpectable

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

Catégories
the unexpected

bring down barriers

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.

Catégories
the unexpected

The Ghost of Ivan Milat

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.

Catégories
the unexpected

Az Ősök // The Ancestors

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.

Catégories
the unexpected

Projection

Samuel Strathman

I shake the dust

From my coat

until it blazes,

turns to ash.

Great witch Edith’s

sneer projects

onto a wall.

Her laughter 

invades the halls,

makes a pendulum

out of me – 

arms strung

around my head,

windshield wiper legs.

Suddenly, the conservatory 

grows quiet, 

a pin drops.

A door screeches open,

and in rolls 

a troll’s head

that stops and smiles,

sprouts limbs.

I bend to pick 

the creature up.

Edith edges near,

but I do not feel

her until she sticks

the pin in.

Samuel Strathman is a poet, visual artist, author, kitchen coordinator, and the founder/editor-in-chief of Floodlight Editions.