John Grey



The decay consumes me,

the constant erosion of the solid,

all shape in slow flux.

Wind whips, rain batters, air dissolves,

light fractures as much as it illuminates.

Everything from the screech of brakes

to the sidewalk underfoot

is in the corrupting pay of time.

I sit alone in a quiet room

yet still my molecules bombard each other,

a billion rounds in my head,

even my toes, a war zone.

And day, that great over-achiever.

can’t resist the overwhelming night.

I’m a day myself.

The sun within me is counting down the hours.

Everything is unrelenting,

is designed to be what it isn’t now.

Get over it. somebody says.

Or spend more time with the eternal.

Like the sea for instance –

those waves constantly remaking shore,

rubbing rocks the wrong way,

spitting out carcasses.

Or the stars –

wonderful glowing hearth-fires

but no wood-pile in reserve.

Everything is matter – that’s the issue here.

It cannot be created or destroyed.

But despaired of –

now that’s another story.



Michael Marrotti

Boycott This Poem!



Boycott this poem

for its candid display

of words that infiltrate

your much needed

safe space



Boycott this poem

for its recognition

of only two genders

I’m talking about

Adam and Eve

you assholes

Halloween is

a once a year




Boycott this poem

for verification of

the decline in poetry

the only people

reading this shit

are insomniacs

in need of a sleep aid



Boycott this poem

it’s a product of

a white male

who doesn’t subscribe

to what you say

most poets are

left leaning hypocrites

who combat

misperceived fascism

with fascism

ANTIFA is a terrorist




Boycott this poem

for pointing out

the obvious

there’s plenty

of parallels

when it comes to

the Alt-right and

Nation of Islam

but you won’t see

any stupid ass

white people


Louis Farrakhan



© Michael Marrotti


Michael Marrotti

Lost In A Fantasy



white boy

lost in a fantasy



his gold teeth

wearing his



Hard times

in Brookline

even though

it’s one of the

nicest parts

of the city


The same

old cliché


to be brought up

with nothing

every other word

is nigga


I guess that’s

what happens

when you’re

born into

a middle-class



This casualty

of contemporary


feels naked

without his gun


We’ve all

heard it before


The bigger

the gun

the bigger

the bitch


I too

was brought up

in the city


But the threat

was imminent

for all the

white reasons


Not much

has changed


since the 20th



Most of

the white kids

I grew up with

were enamored

of hip-hop culture


I’ll take it

a step further

they behaved

just like niggers


Me being

one of the few

who embraced

white culture

long hair


in hand


a Nirvana t-shirt


Left me vulnerable

for attacks

since I refused

to assimilate


A walk across

Grandview Avenue

for a pack

of Camel Lights

usually resulted

in a fistfight


After failure

blood and


came the ability

to defeat

three wiggers

in a single sitting


It wasn’t

an easy life

growing up

in Mt. Washington

but I learned how

to use my hands

and to this day

never fired a gun


I always believed

those who could not

fight with their hands

were destined

to take a beating


And I still

despise wiggers

to this very day


It’s a form

of self-loathing


how expedient

us Europeans

have been


We’ve given

the world

all these creations

to simplify life


Yet you settle

for the blue pill

instead of red

like a good goy

what did I expect


Hashtag disingenuous


The fluoride zombies

are among us


Dr. Randall Rogers

Thomas Locicero



Though there was the ritual, I remained

a stranger to the formalities of church.

Long Island was Catholic back then, before

the heavy-accented, gold-cross-wearing

Pentecostals traded holy water

for the laying on of hands. The ritual:

wake, groom, dress, Corn Flakes, get ready for church.

There, the ritual was to stay awake.

My father promised I could make my own

decision about attending at thirteen.

I did. I left the church. But he left first.

There is no secret to it: the son does

what the father does until he doesn’t.

Our world was an idyllic place then. We were

insulated from most global news, and by

global, I mean New Jersey and beyond.

We were truly part of the middle class

and just a short drive from the most beautiful

beaches in the world. Fake ID actually

worked, and if you were lucky enough to date

an older girl, no one cared about the law.

Perhaps “churchlessness” is not a word yet,

but to Long Island Catholics, it was heaven.

Now, I am older and everything has changed.

I bought a nicer home than my father could,

and I have surpassed him in education

and income, even after adjusting for

inflation, yet I am lower middle class

because the middle class no longer exists.

The world is also more dangerous, or, perhaps,

I have that perception because of the news

cycle that is unceasing. Regardless,

I take my children to a non-Catholic,

non-Pentecostal church and they thrive.

Still, I cannot ignore the fact that but for

my father not being Muslim, I am not

Muslim and my children are not Muslim.

We are not Jews because he was not a Jew.

I take my children to the hospital

because he took me to the hospital.

Then, I was fifteen passing for eighteen;

today, my seventeen year old could not pass

for twenty-one. And I thank God that we

do not live near a beach because I cannot

bear the thought of my children being pulled

away from me, the two separated

with me having to make the choice to save one.





The mouth of the harmless newborn is violent
with hunger.

There is no greater colliding force than when
truth confronts a lie.

Hermeneutical errors start a long war while a
surprise attack, unintentionally, shortens a war.

The anodyne water that comprises most of our
bodies and our earth, that alleviates thirst, cools

or warms us, helps the flowers to face the sun,
flushes away our waste, ends droughts, and

makes children celebrate knows no violent equal,

the lack of it as threatening as the tsunami.


A boxer who refuses to fight in an unwarranted
war proves to be a man of peace.





The whistle I’d always slept through
nudged me, and I knew that on this
day, only one after I’d quit school,
I would be crowned a man by your
brothers, another virginity mislaid.
I would stick close to your side and
pretend to be the obedient son. We
would share a vow reserved for a
husband and wife, a becoming of
one. Your lungs were now mine.
You said I could never quit and set
a date for me to leave home so that
I would stay at you hip, you who
just yesterday let me quit school.
Even in the mine, I am yours.


Jonathan Beale

Poem 1


Wittgenstein in the garden of Babel


After Peter Porter


is as, the world is as: words lay

As heaped autumnal leaves.

Devoid of life now – having

Been sent through – a mind and mouth:


Out of a window – trees evolve

Too slowly to be seen, too quick

For time’s body. The picture is hung –

At An Angle to complete – to perceive.


Xeno’s shadow; lurks around.

Before Wittgenstein’s light and darkness

Cast his shadow of the vision

Of the scene: cold light breaks in Finland.


Given the razored edge

Of Natures abstruse abstract.

Cut by silence the brooding angry

  1. whose language is what it is.



Poem 2


Lights wonderment


Pisa, Eiffel, Blackpool, and The Sears –

The light, the draw, the raw, raw power


Always empty. The space awaiting

to be filled, as Einstein sleeps on


The moons brief puncture

Is as it cuts land open before their feet.


The aged anger lies not far below –

Alongside the shark and serpent.


Among the mathematical cosmos

Remain rusted together.


Seen through a lens or eye.

As the night and the night roll on


Something unspoken is: or given over

To pleasure or pleasure



Poem 3


The new art school


Say what you want coz this is the new art school. Art School the Jam Paul Weller


Here! There! Here! Awaiting the new applause

Originality, the underlying clause.


Here, in this new art school

Is where every charlatan and every fool.


Is made, forged, and broke

The cost of seriousness is no joke.


The caged beast bites and claws

Smashing, minds, and smashing doors.


Into other worlds: that can never

Really exist, no one is ever that clever.


The new art school makes and fails in one breath

Awaiting your fame ’fingers crossed’ before death.