A little less than a week to get your own copy of The Laura Poems!

By Juliet Cook

“Death decides it is hungry”
for her stained slip, raw wrists,
mangled fish gills gasping, gaping,
glittered with red slime. (Every time
she grabbed handfuls of air
like invisible rungs. She tried
to hoist herself up, but
he grabbed handfuls of hair;
yanked her down again again again…)
from a poem within “The Laura Poems” by Juliet Cook, temporarily available again in the Blood Pudding Press shop.
HERE – https://www.etsy.com/listing/58029753/the-laura-poems-by-juliet-cook-temporary?ref=shop_home_active_3

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

Hessler Street Poetry Contest — The Aftermath — The Bard Newsletter #13.5

By Writing Knights Press

Hessler Street Poetry Anthology 2017
Buy it Here! (link coming soon)

(click any pictures to make them bigger)

Azriel Johnson (photo by Anita Keys)
Just a short word about the amazingness that was the Hessler Street Poetry Contest!

The lighting was fairly bad for photography, but people tried anyway. I personally did a little, then gave up, but encouraged others with better cameras to try.

The lighting was not a deterrent to the poetry shared. Our judges had a difficult time putting together the winners after a good hours worth of poetry. We had poets from all over Ohio and beyond participating and the inspiration ran wild. 

Christine Howey (photo by Geoffrey A. Landis)

Mary Turzillo (photo by Geoffrey A. Landis)
The venue: The Happy Dog at the Euclid Tavern was gracious to host us and we appreciated the space. Pretty soon the lighting didn’t matter and we all just enjoyed the poetry.
The judging drew to a close and in my hand were the winning envelopes. Third place: Keely Aaliyah with her poem: I am a Soldier. Second place was Devlinbleu Chambers with his poem: Environmental Super Nova. 

Azriel Johnson (photo by Anita Keys)

Keely Aaliyah and Devlinbleu Chambers (photo by Indigo Orion)
At last, after the perfunctory delays to increase the drama, I revealed the 1st place prize…

Vince Robinson with his poem: Star Struck,

AND Christine Howey with her piece: I Was a Male Impersonator for 40 Years.

Keely Aaliyah, Christine Howey,
Vince Robinson and Devlinbleu Chambers
(photo by Geoffrey A. Landis)

A special thanks to Mac’s Backs for giving me and Writing Knights the chance to put together this anthology. Thanks to all the contributors to the anthology. Thanks to ClevelandPoetics Blog for helping cover this event. Thanks to the Happy Dog at the Euclid Tavern for providing the space. And the greatest thanks of all to the Hessler Street Fair for continuing year after year to bring artistic and creative joy to the Cleveland Area.

We hope to see your entry next year!

Azriel Johnson
Director of Writing Knights Press

Source:: Writing Knights Press

NEW! The May Myna Birds Flock Has Arrived!

By Juliet Cook The May flock of Thirteen Myna Birds has arrived, filled with new poetry by Eileen Murphy, Alyssa Yankwitt, Darren C. Demaree, Craig Firsdon, Julie Jacob, Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe, Bob Walicki, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Wayne F. Burke, Heath Brougher, and John Grey!

“tear this website down with my teeth, find another inside of me – over the insanely sharp edge – the sheep skull knocking – always heavy with a bucketful of evil – you need a lobotomy – from the plume of exhaust – I have already been called kindling – Liquid shards of glass pierce the tongue, esophagus and comprehension – They stay away as if he’s contagious – From a bubble trapped under a fragile film blue rivulets burst forth – electrocuting his testicles many times – defining their glass heads propped on a strict spine – the cheeks doused with rouge to the point of partial red – she went up in flames, to wherever…”

HERE – http://13myna.blogspot.com/

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

NEW in FLAPPERHOUSE #13 and NEW in Concrete Meat Press Recommends

By Juliet Cook

fighting game.
Not part of a dog
fighting blood bath
that ends in death. But essentially
part of what it is that keeps
the world apart from itself.”

from the collaborative poem “Never Be Stuck” by j/j hastain and Juliet Cook, that was published in FLAPPERHOUSE #13 and now appears on the FLAPPERHOUSE website HERE:https://flapperhouse.com/2017/05/22/never-be-stuck-poetry-by-jj-hastain-juliet-cook/


ALSO, a poem by Juliet Cook, surrounded by other poems, newly appears at Concrete Meat Press Recommends HERE:

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

Blood Pudding Press Finalist Poems

By Juliet Cook

Blood Pudding Press Finalists

~from the Finalist manuscript Prone As i Am by Bree – three poems


in the fore of winter brown trees
and orange birds like laser points

you give an awfully good presentation.

just your forearm is exciting.
i dont know yet you would hold it

against my cheek while screaming
vile things- my heart a checkered

flag to signal the end of a race.

in the damp, once-burnt grass

i inhale you deeply. you point

to a coyote pastures over,

running with pleasure through
star chickweed, presumably.

and even though it is early, it is
so dark, and evenly, we neither
of us make shadows.

goodbye kisses

your goodbye kisses are among

the best ive had. you say

its cus they are see you later kisses.
i answer i surely will.

you are my taste of true country.

your loud muffler accelerates me.

youre so wrong. cant get wronger.
purple deadnettle sprawls the

way to the red barn. we cant
go on like this, i say-

you say we just need to do it

more, and longer.

just the tips are yellow of

gold grasses and bronze

sedge combine in the advent

of antlers. trees markedly bare,
just the tips are yellow of
frame the creek a county
over from mine.

clouds striate the sky like vinyl.

hawks cry in the grooves, taking

advantage of warm shafts.

the last time i saw you before
the women pulled your oxygen tubes
firm young red maples clinked together
like red stemware outside the lodge
where we danced to Neil Young,

even though it embarrassed us.

i stand alone, not even the sound
of a far-off car or cow, and i hear
you quip,

i mean the deal wasnt
supposed to go down
that way

as a shy hen plants her face in the
crook of a pussywillow, filling me

with all of your grace.


~from the Finalist manuscript Uncanny by Judy Ryan Hall – three poems


I am too sad for sadness. Grief is too small a 
word. I need something with heft, something multi-
syllabic and synesthetic, some word which could be a 
paperweight on the pages of this long story.

I need it to have the bittersweet aftertaste of red 
wine on my lips and tongue and the barefoot echo 
of dancing in the living room. I need it to smell like the 
kitchen floor at 2 am and to leave my hands with the 
feeling of the pages of a book with beautiful 
verbs. I need this word to be the rabbits, dead 
in your yard; I need this word to be that noose 
hanging around the rafters of your immaculate garage. 

I need a word, something guttural, Germanic and 
long, a word you need a phonetic guide to pronounce 
and even then, not be sure you’ve said it just right. I 
need a word with a complex etymology, a word which 
only linguists and word nerds would know. I need a 
word appearing in the Sunday Times crossword, stumping 
all but a few.

I need a word which means the way we clicked; I need a word 
which explains the emptiness that a lover cannot fill; I need a
word in a language written in late night interchange – uncanny,
uncomfortable, unforgiving and rotund with love. 

How I Became an Atheist and a Writer

I am a storyteller
It’s just what I do
I tell tales here in 
The hall, I spin yarns.
Fiction, fact, fantasy 
Merge – I once told a 
Husband that Fact devoid of Fiction
Was boring – and it is.

When I was seven I told
The story of how my family
Almost fell off a cliff in a Jeep
In Egypt while the enemy chased us. 

It wasn’t really a lie. 
We were in Egypt. 
We were in a Jeep. 
Cairo in 1976 had cliff-like 
Potholes that
My mother said looked like
The Grand Canyon. 
It was fact. Embellished. 

That was in catechism class
And I was chastised and told
To ask forgiveness from God and Jesus. 
I started to pray but it turned into
The story of how I saved all the children
From a burning church in Birmingham. Singlehandedly. 

My mother patiently told them
I wasn’t a heretic but that I had a good 
Imagination. (Are these things counter posed?)
But in the white station wagon on the way home she 
Said, while driving from Hicksville
Down Haypath road to our house
Maybe I should write these things down
And stick to the boring facts in Catechism 
Like a man rising from the dead
Or the Virgin birth or Moses parting the Red Sea
And that God and Jesus were Father and Son but still the same guy
That incest was bad but Adam and Eve were the first man and woman
And I wasn’t supposed to ask where their sons got wives
That God flooded the earth and put all the animals, two by two
On a really big boat – and it wasn’t even Monsoon season
I figured that these things were about
As likely as my own heroics
Some sort of truth – embellished – 
Some sort of lie – for fun. 


I wear bifocal lenses with which to see

As I walk, bipedally: Me up close and

You far away;

I am bisexual – loving boys and girls is twice

The fun and I am

Bipolar so I get to do it birhythmically.

My heart is said to have four valves, but I don’t buy that

It is bivalvular, bifurcated between You and Him

Or Me and Them or Us and Us and sometimes Me and Me but often You and You;

Our lives are bisymmetrical – we meet at right angles and then part

On our bicycles for our bicoastal friendship

(Or whatever we’re calling this bizarre singularity).

My brain is bisected into blazing hemispheres of

Lucidity and sense residing

Where splendor and make-believe refuse

To tread – it would be easier if I was bicorporal –

All this is a bit much for one uncanny head.


~from the Finalist manuscript Paper Doll, Heart of Ashes (Erasure Poems from Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time) by Melissa Atkinson Mercer – three poems


People of my time: lonely: the bughouse

is full of women: blessed

virgin, the taste of raw mouse: ask her

if she believes in the whole

sequence, everybody who could push. Let her bury

the house with a knife. I can’t fix it:

perhaps too confident,

too conscious in the wrong kind of way:

a new heroine,

the first animal to learn.



A girl in any sea

like scales of an enormous fish.

Friend of our long table: run when you want:

the sound of water, you know what it’s like:

dark dragonflies glinting

and humming

with their terrible teeth and claws.



Four moons;

electrical itch of wanting.

May I


at the heels

of Asylum: bent close in the grass, a bowl on the floor:

nothing lived but her.


~from the Finalist manuscript Not Your Father’s Nightmares by Scott Anton Morgan – three poems

Ululations Beneath the Sheets

My love life is like a David Lynch film;

a conundrum with a Fortean soundtrack.

My skull is ticking, but my hands

are too corroded from playing in the dust

of my parents to hold it steady.

I see now that the exorcism

at my seventh birthday party wasn’t very successful

because I’m still spinning around and around.

I remember your breasts leering up at me,

twisting into hazy eyes swimming with tears

across a malachite skyline peppered with ill intentions.

Your face becomes an inkblot test

which I fail under pressure.

You treat my mind like a maggotorium

and that’s why I can’t get rid of the creaking noise

you hear every time I open my mandibles to kiss you.

The bed shivers, repulsed by my naked corpse:

it thinks I am an indignity,

telling me so in muffled screeches

and corybantic thrashing.

Violently choking on your tequila,

you morph into the Blue Man Group

I stuff your convulsing mass under my bed

to give the Bogeyman his nighttime soup.

Date Night

Her web already held a certain regalia within its silk.

She spun faster, dampening it with droplets of milky sweat.

Our velocity had changed the morning into a cloud-swept dusk

that shivered when she curled her hairy legs in profane pleasure.

I shoved a kiss between her gibbous lips and caught her by surprise

and her growl reverberated through that tranquil gossamer sheet.

Unbolting my eyelids, I watched as she twisted and turned

while a solemn drum cried out somewhere in the bituminous landscape

with a vibrating dread. The peevish moon crawled out to peek at our affair,

curiously illuminating our dusty silhouettes as my girl thrashed about.

My inertia shook, irritable at what the moonbeams had to say.

Then I was blinded by a faintly-scarlet hourglass

eager to spill my hope through the small crack in its bottom.

As she lunged forward, I could only smile stupidly

at the Vespertine gloom. The late hour was penetrated

with bits of my skin being swallowed up.

I took this to be the conclusion of our tryst.

Even now, I can still hear her yowling into the cold night air.

Saturday Night Satyriasis

“Little by little, I shall play her like a fiddle,”

thought the maggot

as he crept through forests of pink pubic hair.

The girl cried for hours, now that her gangrene nipples

were starting to pucker outwards like blooming mushrooms.

The rose-splattered walls peeled away

into a panorama of

angles and perplexities.

The eyeball, irradiated and

locked between her legs,

glared forward through the cherry bubblegum

miasma of ruination.

The suspended baby upon the dresser oozed

charitable waterfalls of LSD and


Mouths opening wide to devour

all of her leftover follicles.

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

NEW in Unlikely Stories Mark V! – Three collaborative poems by j/j hastain & Juliet Cook

By Juliet Cook

Delighted to have three collaborative poems by j/j hastain and Juliet Cook, appearing in Unlikely Stories Mark V!
“Stippling,” “Candy Sex Toy Rally,” and “Meat Carcass”.

Partake of more HERE – http://unlikelystories.org/content/stippling-candy-sex-toy-rally-and-meat-carcass

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

Twin Peaks Returns (in the Blood Pudding Press shop)!

By Juliet Cook

In less than a week, Twin Peaks Returns!

If you’re a fan of Twin Peaks AND poetry, you might want to get yourself a copy of The Laura Poems by Juliet Cook, which is temporarily coming back to life, for the month of May 2017 only, in honor of the revival of Twin Peaks!

This was the very first chapbook that the Blood Pudding Press shop made available, over 10 years ago, in 2006.

Now available again for a short time only, HERE –

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

NEW in Street Light Press

By Juliet Cook

“The black swan is back
inside me again”
Two poems by Juliet Cook appear in the new Street Light Press today!
“Pink Smear” and “Dark Hail”.
Looking forward to reading all the other poems too.
HERE – https://www.streetlightpress.org/

Source:: Blood Pudding Press

The Black Between Stars – by Elliot Nicely (CC#89)

By John Burroughs

Dear Readers,

I’m beyond excited to announce the release of my latest chapbook The Black Between Stars through Crisis Chronicles Press. John and I saw this collaboration as an opportunity to create a book thats writing style and design would mark a major departure from the familiar conventions that our readerships have come to expect. We set out to develop a new work that is both startling and stark, a book which invokes a sense of disquiet and discomfort. Through John’s brilliant usage of binary colors and negative space, there is no question that the chapbook’s design, like the subject matter, has a timeless quality, and that his design deepens the poems’ resonance across the arc of the book. I hope you enjoy our most recent effort and thank you for supporting my haiku habit and Crisis Chronicles Press.

Elliot Nicely
(Friday, May 12, 2017)

Where Do You Want It?
United States $4.99 USDElsewhere $6.99 USD

Elliot Nicely’s work has received numerous accolades which include having been recently shortlisted for a Touchstone Award by the Haiku Foundation. The Black Between Stars by Elliot Nicely is the latest release in our NineSense series of 9-poem chapbooks by writers you need to read. It is 12 pages, perfect bound, 7″ x 4.25″ and available for only $4.99 from Crisis Chronicles Press, 3431 George Avenue, Parma, Ohio 44134 USA. 1st edition of 125 copies. ISBN: 978-1-940996-40-0.

Elliot Nicely is poet and teacher from Hunts Corners, Ohio. In recent years, he relocated to Lakewood, Ohio, and released his first chapbook, Tangled Shadows: Senryu and Haiku (Rosenberry Books, 2013). Over the last decade, his poetry also has appeared across four continents and in more than a dozen anthologies. Today, Elliot is still pursuing all of the answers to all of his questions with the hope that not all of them will be answered.

Source:: Crisis Chronicles Press

The Wayward Sword: #RESIST

By Writing Knights Press

The Wayward Sword:


words are your weapons

…make your art alive and dangerous
…it is our job to initiate the change
we want to see in the world
burn systems of oppression down!!!!

POETRY: Pieces between 4 and 100 lines (if you throw 100 lines down, it better be damned compelling)
Form Poetry, Free Verse, Free meter, Song Lyrics, whatever Inspires Resistance, we want it!

PROSE (fiction/nonfiction): Pieces between 100 and 500 words. RANT with a purpose, tell a story about Overcoming Adversity, beseech people to take up arms Against Injustice.
This is your forum to meet a global audience and generate global awareness!

IMAGES (300 dpi, jpg): protest signs, acts of artistic justice, nature boring her way through man’s attempted control of earth, whatever you can think of to exemplify resistance!

Consider combining images and words in a single submission.

Submission Accepted:
May 15, 2017-June 30, 2017

Email Address:

After publication all rights return to Creator.

Slated for July 2017.

Creator receives a printable PDF of the issue where the piece is included, with which the Creator may do as they please (including sell or distribute for free).

Optional Inclusion:
A 10-20 word bio, a 300 dpi black and white jpg 1.25″ x 1.25″

Subject line:
“The Wayward Sword: #RESIST – (Preferred Creator Name)”

Email Body:
Up to 5 pieces


no “Roses are Red / Violets are Blue” crap.
Send us your blood, sweat, tears, shit, mucus, broken bones, stitched hearts, brains ripped to shreds,
Swearing is fine if it works in context, but overuse isn’t edgy, it’s moronic.
Erotica/Nudity is fine, but gratuitous sex isn’t erotica it’s just pornography….
The only hard/fast rule is: NO condoning hate speech or nonconsensual abuse….

You can certainly represent these issues in your art, but condoning these only serve to trigger victims, not to break open peoples’ minds so they can grow and overcome.

Source:: Writing Knights Press

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