My Kind of Woman by Dion Watkins

give me a
meat-eating
woman

a woman who
looks at a map
and doesn’t see
countries
but cuts
of meat

a woman who
wears earrings made
of meat balls
a woman who’ll
give you a black eye
and slap a steak on
it

medium rare
well done
medium well
any way
you like

a woman who wears
a pork chop as
a badge

a woman who can hit
a home run with a
roll of salami

give me a woman
who bites a pig’s ear
like a knock-down
drag-out fight

give me a greasy
pan fried
deep fried
woman

Don’t give me
a woman with
seaweed for hair

don’t give me
a woman preaching
until my brain becomes
covered with algae

don’t give me a
woman with compost
in her bed

give me a meat-eating,
no fillers, by products, artificial
preservatives or colorings
woman

give me a woman
who sticks to
the ribs

give me a woman
who wears a
belt made of
bacon

give me a woman
who wears a necklace
made of neckbones, oxtails,
fishbones, wishbones

give me a
woman with fish scale
skin

That’s a woman
i can call
my kin

a woman of
the same
skin

give me
a meat
eating
woman

Famous Last Words by Andy J. Murray

War broke out today.
I have arrived here from somewhere I never was.
Scant sun skims its pattern on my floor
and time hangs heavy as last year’s leaves.
The Lord made a crack in everything,
wedged twilight into a triangle,
filed summer away in a vault,
clasped the galaxy in a palm.
Out past the singing door
night blazed the road that leads to nowhere,
a yellow moon had evaporated
into the rustling robe of autumn,
Yesterday golden-sandalled daybreak
dabbed the chimney-pots.
Now the fields grow thinner,
molehills metamorphose into unreachable peaks.
Down by the drooping copses
where the windy willows wend
sleeping ferns purr.
Does love end that way?
A bang or a whimper,
a patronising pat – irredeemable
as you walk among dead notions
in a cul-de-sac between yes and no,
as the taxi-meter ticks away
by the old gasometer
taking the eye from a blind man.
Better being knocked down
by a hearse.
Do dead men’s lips keep the shape
of famous last words?

Survival by Karen Johnson

Hungry is the night
when the angry moon howls
every lone wolf-man his own keeper
in the cold harsh winds of jungle war
to fight with the crawling skin
that shows our scars of survival
the heartbeats one-by-one
in this sorrowfilled world
march in tune to the empty tomb
firmly planted on a land defiled
miles-to-miles the blood river flows
as our hearts stretch like open hands
wide searching souls for the promised
land, every man to each his own
if only for this moment
let us not look at the confusion
but the hope
with eyes of vision
beyond the cluttered roads
with ears and open mindedness
let the darkenss not blind us
for the light will find us
if we only believe.

I Heard Your Tread by Kathleen Anne T. Asejo

I heard your tread in the wind
In the wind outside
As my spirit shivered
In the silhouette of a wish
Your cheerful facade in waiting
Visitation, lips locked
To warmth brought back.

Was it the edgy rustles
Of your busy hands — a feeling here
And there cuddling mortal tie
On books, a picture album treasured
Beyond confines — no longer there.

The scuffling tread upon our
Giving floor, knowing the caring
Force of the master once no more.

O beloved soul, the days have
Glided pass my clutch, the nights
Stay broad conscious, eavesdrop
Was that your voice
Or the wind playing with my grief?

Death has offered me
No pick.