“What happened to December’s issue?” You ask. You ask because you read poetry. You ask because you read poetry featured on Gloom Cupboard.
“I think the poetry editor guy is kind of batshit and inconsistent,” You say. You say this because you’re right, and if one wishes to subscribe to batshit crazines, let him or her be consistent with it. But, alas, the poetry editor is not.
December was a month of moving, a culmination of my junior year at California State University, Northridge. So some stuff fell through the cracks, one of which was releasing a poetry issue for the month. I apologize. But enough of that. In the immortal words of the Alien Poet Lil’ Wayne, “On to the next.”
In this month’s issue you will find poems about love and bullshit.
Gloom Cupboard Poetry Editors
Luis Rivas & HenryAjumeze
By Steve Black
let us barricade ourselves in
let us hold eachother to ransom
let us stockpile guns and ammunition
let us prepare for armageddon
let us make our love on a bed of dust
let us gift the world our pornography
By A.J. Huffman
I am writing myself
out of words. Adjectives, adverbs,
modifiers of all shapes and
part[iciples] of my mind
‘s passion. I practice
patterns of past icons. Whispering
towards the whims of aged phallusees.
coiled. I am foiled by such
folleys. I turn
a new page. It is/
blank. An Ode to
There is nothing else
Bio: A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
Peaks & Troughs
By Anthony Langford
I wished I cared enough
About ducks and tulips and moss covered hills
To write poetry about them
And about writing letters to Auntie Edna who is 114
And the frost on my Garden Gnomes feet
(I would have said balls but it may hurt my chances).
Odes to Keats, Yeats, Patrick White
And Weetbix circa 1956
And random intellectual whisperings
Of an academic’s thesaurus hunt
To draw the highest bow
And hit as many targets along the way
Not even they know
What they’re saying
Perhaps in a broad
Upper echelon manner
In the stratosphere
Where the excogitating giants live (see?).
I keep my feet here on Earth
And my heart beating vulnerably
On my tainted sleeve
And while it’s still not enough for them
(never will be)
Ground level is where I belong.
Bio: Anthony J. Langford lives in Sydney Australia. He writes stories, poetry and makes video poems. His story, The Long Jetty, featured in the Verandah 25th Anniversary Edition. Some of his recent publications include Backhand Stories, The Curbstone Collective, Crack the Spine and Eunoia Review. He works in television and has made short films, some of which have screened internationally. His novella, ‘Bottomless River’ is out now through Ginninderra Press. A poetry collection, Caged without Walls will be released in 2013. A wide selection of his work can be found at www.anthonyjlangford.com.
Know Your Mind
By Dane Karnick
Since my past
memory may lean
on the clock
Jimmy crack corn
and I don’t care
it all fits somewhere
in that coiled
piece of meat
but recall was sure
as the click of
when Lassie was
as Father Knows Best
although those shows
these days while
trying to lower
the drawbridge of
held captive like
six of one
can break up
as I acclimate
facts which clown
around my head
honking their horns
while I attempt
to explain them
with a straight face.
Bio: Dane Karnick grew up by the Colorado “Rockies” and lives in Seattle. His poetry has recently appeared in Ditch, Jellyfish Whispers, The Neglected Ratio and Dead Snakes. Visit him at www.danekarnick.com.
By Max Ingram
I thought of you once,
While brushing a few breadcrumbs off my sports coat.
Surrounded by geriatrics in a crowded room,
All chasing the American dream.
A horrible pretension, maybe:
Associating meager endeavors with those bearing foundation and grit.
Champagne bubbles, gray hair, and cigar smoke,
Are the only things I saw.
Stocks, bonds and precious metals discussed.
Complacency and happiness,
Practiced without that old notion of Manifest Destiny.
Gluttony and Pride, no longer deadly sins.
America singing through those with lesser souls
Not a mason or carpenter in sight.
Just plastic figurines, content knowing,
That when buried,
They won’t be victims of decomposition.
I believe in the American dream.
However, often I wonder, Mr. Columbus,
Why Whitman didn’t hear the conquistador singing,
Bellowing from a ship, starboard.
A sympathetic conclusion might suggest it was a slip of mind.
No suggestion of pillaging, rape and desecration.
I believe in the American dream.
It often seems, though,
That the envisioned life is not often sought.
And the American Dream,
Died, with the docking of the Santa Maria.
By Jon Wesick
a machine designed to annoy.
Houses of hostility
sidewalks of clenched teeth
roadways of livid faces.
Narcissism and cutthroat economics
the feedback loop
driving the engine harder and harder
to squeeze dollars from less and less
Driveshaft of insults
flywheel of overcrowding
clutches and brakes of boorishness and short tempers
turn the generator
power the loudspeaker
amplify the boast of commerce
the deceit of the powerful
the mediocrity posing as art.
For the young
by spitting wasps
and parroting the speaker’s crackle
is the only way to gain respect.
A shopping mall
the only aspiration