Poetry Issue # 149

“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

love in
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

Negative Poetry
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.


gods.  Un

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.comShe 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 impress

To stroke

To massage

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

includes Sputnik

memory may lean

on the clock

to recollect

Jimmy Carter

Jimmy Stewart

Jimmy Hendrix

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

get catapulted

these days while

trying to lower

the drawbridge of


held captive like


Route 66

omen 666

six of one

half dozen

of another

this retrieval

can break up

like puffs

of marijuana


astro turf

Maui wowie

such moments

get foggy

as I acclimate

between fjords

and caldera

facts which clown

around my head

honking their horns

while I attempt

to explain them

with a straight face.

: 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.


Christopher Columbus
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.


Urban Sprawl
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

the disadvantaged

becoming gears

by spitting wasps

and parroting the speaker’s crackle

is the only way to gain respect.

A shopping mall

the only aspiration




Published by peace is illegal

I am a writer of pornography, of politics and murder.

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