Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/22/21

Between The Yard And The Bars

An empty cell
amongst lines of empty cells
in which we project
worth;
insert
murdered artworks

depicting
the angels of our ancestors
with the ghosts of our grandparents,
the aliens of our fathers
with the celebrities of our youth,

mass produced,
easy to view
and filtered through
the eyes of the great marketing department
in the sky

who string up the painters
and kick the chairs,
line up the poets
and take pot shots at will,
slit the singers throats
with handed down shivs
and fuck us all in the showers,
their soap bars hidden
in monogrammed socks

where there were once gods
there are now chasms
of empty skies
and dark lies
which we abandon,
leaving only
the whispering songs of delusion
or the emptiness of the yard
we now call home.

©2021 Dave Cullern All rights reserved.

Dave Cullern is a poet based in Hastings, UK. He is a doting cat mother, the vocalist of the band Haest and runs the coffee company, Sham City Roasters. His debut poetry collection, Fuck Ballads #1 Modern Extremes is available now. @fuckballads

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/20/21

In the black of white paws

After he’d done his business,
we headed back upstairs.
You, me and the small white dog.

The stairwell seemed so ancient
in contrast to our shiny newness.
I noticed ammonite fossils
adorning the steps like paisley,
whilst lasagne-layered paint
drip-dressed the ore of the handrail
as we skirted the well ritualistically.

Our bodies floated up
through the floors like a stairlift
as I traced the brillo-braille of the old wall
searching for words I didn’t need,
while the small white dog raced ahead,
jumping two paws at a time,
tugging you away from me.

I tugged you back.
To stop all this.
To stop the moving of parts that cannot speak
– a call from the ancient deep.

You looked at me confused at first,
so I tugged you again for clarity.

The small white dog sat and pawsed,
eyeing us with a tilt of his head.
I tilted mine and leaned in for a kiss.

Just then, the stair-light tripped with a flick.

We dropped into vantablack
with a splash.
You, me and the small white dog.

Yet we carried on kissing
as if nothing had happened,
the darkness quickly pouring into us
like two empty, dirty glasses.

We became senseless,
in the sense that we were one sense less,
our kisses overcompensating
until they became a desperate
exchange of oxygen.
Our bubbles blowing into one another
like Champagne,
leading tipsy minds to stray
to the forbidden places,
where light rarely gets in.

My fingertips drooled like Pavlov’s dog,
as our hips bunched up against the wall
and the stairwell filled with the sound of
panting and whimpering,
but the small white dog remained silent
for a change.

Touch is sight, I thought to myself,
as I lifted your skirt
and you unbuttoned my flies,
our salty depths coming up for air
with the promise of bright lights.

In this blissful blindness,
we became perfect
and all-seeing,
as the greys that exist between us
became lost in the black
of that white-hot pause,
when a small white dog waited patiently
in the dark
for our fumblings to cease.

©2021 @thebloodofthesethings All rights reserved.

I’m a middle-aged-Londoner-Brexit-refugee residing in Lyon, France.
Poetry is currently just a hobby that I fit in around other things, but it has become an important creative/therapeutic outlet for me.
I simply want to write poetry I’ve not seen before. Devoid of cliché. I prefer to write about two things at once because it forces me to use words in unusual and unexpected ways.
All my poetry is published on Instagram: @thebloodofthesethings

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/18/21

Current

In another chapter were you a cutler?
Tongue like a cutlass
pierces my poise.
Cerebrations are communed
with self:
surmises mostly.

It is like pantology:
no single person’s appanage.
Let inflorescence of inscape
be my white whale.
If I play peever:
it will ensure my purple patch.

Sometimes

The unsaid resonates
more than its reverse.

A peg leg reaches
the finishing line first.

Without sighing for bifocals I can visualize
sorrow has whittled its way at us.

Sadness is profoundly attractive
it ties itself to intricate designs.

I wish poems are perused without focus
on outers. Read my art, not me, is the steer.

When things have to happen, they happen.
Klutz turns into a comer.

PDQ

Borderless is a misnomer at C-19.
There is an omnipresent gap.
Call it social distancing
or whachamacallit.

Aloofness
is the new sitch:
in etiquette
of social graces.

Fear of fomite is reality.
Pathogen is password
to conversations on
internet or ethernet.

Query

Dolor has greater porosity
than delectation.
Cheer of those in kinship
affects lesser
than their listlessness.

Dregs of despondency
persist unlike other cues.
Is this owed
to the earthlings
proneness to pain?

©2021 Sanjeev Sethi All rights reserved.

Sanjeev Sethi is published in over thirty countries. He has more than 1400 poems printed or posted in literary venues around the world. Wrappings in Bespoke is joint-winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It’s his fourth full-length collection. It will be launched in early 2021. Recent credits: NOON | journal of the short poem, The Big Windows Review, Life and Legends, Pomona Valley Review, Lummox Poetry Anthology # 9, Dreich, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/15/21

OSCILLATIONS ON THE BOUGHS OF TREES

a new day begins with a spill of ray-
so does ache cringe through a severed bone.
lips hallow with moans-
like guilt of a bitter confession.

everything seems heavenly-
until darkness doors our rooms.
if you scrum the lines again-
you shall witness light sitting by an edge.

there are voices in the letterings of silence
the beginning fricative noises to venus
brings back applause for the years of dogged-pull
through the glint of limiting heights.

throw chatters on the bough
& you will find your ears
reaping-the harvest of cheers for the wars of dreams
fought through the wrestling-jabs of perseverance.

©2021 Ojo Olumide Emmanuel All rights reserved.

Ojo Olumide Emmanuel is a Nigerian poet and book editor. His works have appeared and forthcoming at Shallowtale Review, Feral, Quills, Poets in Nigeria (PIN), WRR, The Nigerian Review (TNR) and elsewhere.
He is an Assistant Editor at The Nigerian Review (Teens/Interview Section). He is also an Alumnus of the SprinNG Writers Fellowship.