I don’t sleep
Anymore.
The world is a safer place
because of it.
When I slept people died
And greenhouse gases grew.
I don’t fart any more
Either.

I don't sleep,

Anymore.

When I sleep wars start. 
And people in far away
Lands got hungry.
I don’t eat any more
Either.

I don’t sleep
Anymore.
Because the lady on the breakfast news
Told me that bad things happen
While I slept.
I gave my tv away.
She had a nice smile
Though.
I miss that.

I don’t sleep
Anymore.
And nothing bad ever happens.Now.
I guess it was all
My fault, for closing
My eyes.

Alun Williams is a Welsh, Bukowski lover with a penchant for noir stories and films. Member of Crittersbar, Zoetrope and Scrawl, the writers' asylum. Published in A twist of noir, Secret Attic, Twisted Tongue, Cambrensis, The Legendary, Bonfire, Darkest before Dawn and Write Side up amongst others.

I traveled along
the concrete road
and glided to a stop
I was invincible
Not even rush hour traffic
could bother me
I floated through traffic
At the stop light
I wanted to open my door
and stick my feet
in the concrete river

My wife asked me if I was high


 

There’s a lot that comes from a box with strings,
Elevations and escalations that do not break down
In the face of the fire of their own creations,

The classical and the punk, the folk and the pop,
All come from boxes with strings, the curves
Mix with the edges and hang notes up to dry,

Unexplored sorrows come out or virgin joys
Are embraced, and voices warm up either way,
Bodies move to these containers, empty otherwise,

Yet they are full when hands stroll over them,
Over the wood and the plastic, fingers make magic
And leave the simple tasks of survival for a dance.

Put cables, threads, and rubber bands over my coffin,
Whatever it takes to keep me alive in your dreams,
Wearing the mask of Orpheus, night after night.

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in
Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, and SoMa Literary Review among many other publications. In addition, he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU . His blog can be found at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

The winter sky releases
constellation ice
like a frozen waterfall
over the fields.
Beside the road
the car is warm
we watched the lights
flicker like dancers.
Eventually dawn unscrolled
I thought about horses being born
like our secret
when we were neighbors.

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky.  His work has recently appeared in Shoots and Vines, Asphodel Madness, Gloom Cupboard, The Plebian Rag, and others.