Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/26/21

morning in new york

on white sheets
turning yellow,

you smoke
a cigarette after
we make love,
& turn away.

the scar on your

rib cage sticks
out, & i stare at
that little cut

on your ceiling
patched up
in band stickers 
& scratches,

at your lopsided book
shelf, with dusted
cassette tapes
i gave you
on your birthday. 

& the cold cup
of coffee on the

©2021 Emma Geller All rights reserved.

Emma Geller

Emma Geller is a poet, singer, and actress from Boston, MA. Her passions include cinema, listening to Elliot Smith, and drinking too much coffee. You can find out more about Emma on Instagram at em_me_line.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 11/08/21

Frailty’s Baggage~ Dreaming of Jim Morrison

There is no grief in language
when you’re stricken, cast down,
changes silhouette past silence
pausing sullenly through the
echoing corridors of my mind.
Torn posters without poetry,
without song, without love,
face hopes and fears in the mirrors
of pain; and his sex hangs unhidden,
and his metal heart sweeps through
abandoned philosophy as the curtain
closes on the sensual train.

I want repetition of song, recollection
in truth; to create from the oblique,
denying the erotic, an obeisance to
the power it steals from those of us
who can’t find anything to live for,
but everything to die for. Cast not your
demons of treachery, tears, anger, and
betrayal on me; the elevator is rising.
There’s fumbled endorphins offered
up as a cocktail with some really good
whiskey and meth cocaine. Smell the
lily and the rose,

let the bricks soften to deep greens,
let God speak austere though vacant
fields while you grow stillborn
through drugs so sweet. Let the
suicide take on its own craft and magic,
as daylight comes and a stranger’s face
brings forgiveness; blooming, blooming,
in the scent of your sweet blood. Your rib
is gone, son of Adam and He shall
have her heart; lowered lids expand as
they rise in total annihilation. Tick tock.
White roses growing in the corner,

lilies dead on the sidewalk.

©2021 Theresa Gaynord All rights reserved.

Theresa Gaynord

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies, and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium/reader, and advisor.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/20/21

Wanda (no. 110 of Women’s names sensual series)

I never depended on the
sexual kindness & comfort
from complete strangers.

I was raised on Dateline
& after hearing all about my girlfriends’ crazy shit,
the pepper spray was in my purse half-cocked,
ready to strike any madman
like a cobra.

But I have to stop
sleeping with you—
this will be the last time
we make any form of love
together—I was destroyed
by our last congress.

Since you left me,
I’ve been an empty shell,

& I know I have to move on,
& I will find someone else
I will let it slip in,
& when I feel comfortable
with myself, alone,
love might happen

like a surprise hatching
of tiny snakes,
stunning their prey
with good venom.

Damn boy,
you look tasty—
let me tread on
you lightly.

©2021 Carrie Magness Radna All rights reserved.

Carrie Magness Radna

Carrie Magness Radna is an audiovisual cataloger at the New York Public Library, a choral singer and a poet who loves to travel. Her poems have previously appeared in The Oracular Tree, Mediterranean Poetry, Muddy River Poetry Review, Poetry Super Highway, Shot Glass Journal, Vita Brevis, Home Planet News, Cajun Mutt Press, Walt’s Corner, Polarity eMagazine, The Poetic Bond (VIII-X), Alien Buddha Press, Jerry Jazz Musician, Rye Whiskey Review and First Literary Review-East. Her poetry collections: Hurricanes never apologize (Luchador Press) was published in December 2019, and In the blue hour (Nirala Publications), was recently published in February 2021. Born in Norman, Oklahoma, she now lives with her husband in Manhattan, New York.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 09/17/21

Downward Dichotomy

What the drugs do
is render you hopeless
then helpless till you
spell nihilism and ennui
backwards in your sleep.
When your real thoughts
come primal as beatings
in high school or at home,
where the drugs render
you numb enough to
stumble through the
lost and preconceived
until bloodied fists in
a botched drug mugging
go worse than sideways.
Sirens swallowing your
Fate while guilty and unclean
you watch the ambulance
cart your victim to hospital.
The cop says get in the car,
headed to lockup straight
wishing you were high or
could afford a good lawyer,
but you’d buy your high first
and save your life second.
It’s what the drugs do.

From Lower Depths

Too many ways
to drown with
someone you can’t save.

Wearing as much
sadness as any
beautifully masked face.

While getting high
in alleys with others who’ll fall
as hard from the lower depths.

Yet with each
unwrapping she still remained
outside the box.

Her bordello smile
welcoming me to lies
I preferred to truth.

Until she stole from me
precipitous amounts too often
not to be for narcotics.

I left her to memory
unable to forget
all she wanted me to.
I stay now in shadows
dreams telling me I’m closer
to finding a new lost cause.

Of Joyrides

Her loud carpenter, with hammer
driving nails tells me
the sex will be hot.

She takes her shirt off
slower than most strippers do
With the same junkie marks.

Pierced in more places
than the slain matador’s bull
before the dying red sun..

Her conversation
excoriates ex-husband
who stole her car.

For a meth fueled joyride
ending in a crash without
insurance or a driver’s license.

Her lips do their worst
and me no good,
as much as I like it.

No preliminaries
like we’re used
to avoiding.

She wipes black
lipsticked lips with
back of her hand.

After swallowing
there’s enough truth between us
for a false confession.

Count my twenties,
like a pit boss,
says “later baby.”

When she leaves
I can only think
later will be soon.

©2021 Rp Verlaine All rights reserved.

Rp Verlaine

Rp Verlaine lives and writes in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College and taught English in New York public schools until he retired. He has several collections of poetry including Damaged by Dames & Drinking (2017), Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018), and Lies From The Autobiography: Vol 1 Seany, Vol 2 Natalie, & Vol 3 Dawn (2018-2020).

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 08/04/21

My parents had some sex and here I am

but there’s a lot of detail I don’t have
though I guess I could ask them but they don’t
know that I know what I know that they think
I don’t yet know but that’s why they’re parents
and not children but on the other hand
they have parents, too, though all four are dead
but that’s not my fault, I’m just ten years old
–but I forgot my paternal grandma,
she just acts like she’s dead, ha ha, and on
our last visit to see her she told us
that the doctors told her she was was dying
of cancer and on the trip back home
Father pulled over, he was weeping
so much he couldn’t see. So mother drove.

©2021 Gale Acuff All rights reserved.

Gale Acuff

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.