Subprimal Poetry Art/Music

Welcome. Here's some excerpts from out latest issue. Or see all of it here.

After The Movie

by Brad Rose

Just finished yelling fire in the jam-packed cineplex, when Peaches said, What are you trying to tell me, Eddie?  Of course, I wasn’t at liberty to divulge any trade secrets, so I said, I prefer it when my stove cooks itself. While we were being escorted to the parking lot, Peaches reminded me that there’s nothing more beautiful than a fat man who can dance, but the angry satellites continued to circle overhead like a pack of jackals orbiting a nest of fire ants. Nothing good happens when your back is turned. I was just about to take a swig from my weekday flask, when I remembered a lawyer may not assist a client with a crime. So, I asked Peaches if, after she threw the bodies into a shallow grave, she would mind lighting them on fire?  She didn’t say no right away. Hurry up, I said. We haven’t got all night.

Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles and lives in Boston. He is the author of a collection of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing and Amazon.com.) His two new books of poems, Momentary Turbulence and WordinEdgeWise, are forthcoming from Cervena Barva Press. Brad is also the author of five chapbooks of poetry and flash fiction…

Googling for Natives (#4)

by Janne Karlsson

Regarding his work, the artist says:

I rarely draw out of inspiration. I draw because that´s the only thing that keeps me sane. Describing individual pieces is hard. As I recall this particular piece was taken from one of many strange and bizarre dreams I’ve had. Hell knows what it means. Your guess is as good as mine and I thank you for viewing it.

Janne Karlsson is an underground artist from Sweden. His often surreal and bizarre work is widely spread over the world. When Janne isn´t busy drawing he’s working in the psychiatric health care. You can find his books on Amazon or Lulu.

Early Darkness

by Meg Smith

Cast your sorrow
into the purple clouds.
Time is burning beneath them.
A brook curdles, in
a rush of pebbles,
and dried reeds.
That's where we can go
when the hours move.
That's where we can go,
though it will be only,
I alone,
one foot on the stones wedged
along the bank,
while you lay amid
the rattle of oak leaves.
We will go,
and those leaves and stones
descend in their path
to waters
that do not turn back

Meg Smith is a poet, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass.

Her poems have appeared in The Cafe Review, Poetry Bay, Astropoetica, Illumen, Dreams & Nightmares, the Dwarf Stars anthology of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association and many more…