Featured Poet: H.E. Mantel

H.E. Mantel is an Aquarius male, Poet/Writer/Editor, published in Print and Online, including Ascent Aspirations, Shampoo, The Apocalypse, A Hero's Journey Anthology, Poetry By Moonlight Anthology, World Artist Network Magazine, Poetic Spit, Poetry Soup (Awarded), Retort Magazine, Lit-Up Magazine, Poetry Of Food Anthology, Wordgathering, Poetry Flyer, Doors Anthology (I & II), The Plebian Rag, Bare Back Magazine, Apocalypse, Gloom Cupboard; awaiting the publication of his Poetry collections, "Bananas' On The Moon...A Collection Of Revisionist Haiku" & "Sophistigates: A New Book Of New Poetry"; musician-vocalist, an avid reader, athlete, and devotee of Holistic Health through Vegan lifestyle, Ecology and his Writing to Help Our Earth to Heal. He resides in Florida.

- THE SEASON! - Ahh, the mid-Summer of kiln'd heat, elongest days & starred-nights firm for the race to the Pen- nant... behind the dogdays in right-field to - Aha! Mr. October up to bat... Oh, The Season Upon, upon - oossshoouussssh!... Majorhockeyhoops? Nah! but the ONE turns Jung males to pizza-breathing smoke-alarms, husbands to hops-swillin' house-plants, & females to Mascots! - "TUMI OR NOT TUMI?" - ...No, It was not my time to jaunt & jump about the Morld with You, to glowering-green-glows of Ischia, the privileges of Mackinac, "...our Paris, Ilsa!"... Ornamented ataud & calefacted incinerators merely better-funded!, to a last- notice of proteaned hoar, the dearth of silk... So, it was to be Goa, or Delhi "curry-in-a-hurry" not, and the touts & shouts as We passed... You in those shoes, toeing-up with heel asway like a silent, ticking-pendulum, Me, watching... Allowing sole specialnesses, but a few to my inti-mated Life, why there was You insinuate... E'er Yours-sporadic, tho' an extravagance of Soul!, like incipient Sinatra, or the piano of Jarrett! But, No, it was not your time to jump & jaunt-about with Me, but for You, like a junkie afeared of needles, to be going, & mine to Write... of It, plecking-off the pilpuls from My blanket, & You to replacing contoured batteries and for Now... perhaps as recent as tomorrows' accident. - AQUARIUM AGE - Grottoed to the wall, fluorescence afloat 4 wide 2 high 1 deep, an ichthyologysm pouted angel smiles in & out of model caves, wile winding, threading faux drifting forward & back fins, treading like diaphanous lingerie with nowhere to go the smalls hide in tropical incarpceration from striped black mollies' embattled spece & speckled zebras in checkered futures where none is welcomed save C.F. Muddypuppy, Jr. swabbing below O O O... too bubbling unnaturally! eyes silverblue dart, in confine grouper aggress downturn at the mouth of hovel graveled & pretty pebbled this school for alienation childfish innocence gone of sweet, ingenue faces gone to 2 by 4 by 1 pool tropicalla not deep enough! Vestibule "Jake" chirrups to his mirror & circus clips in grey-white plumearray & orange jole festooned canarycrown unfurled-furled talons & beak that just won't speak but a plaintive, training whistle in the day, night uncuttle hungry for more than scup seedlings! All whilst gaelic, loden lizards thankfully...scamper. H.e.m. 5.13.MMix. (For J.I.K.)

Featured Poet: Peter Magliocco

"Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, and has poetry at THE SMOKING POET, THE BEAT, A HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST, HEELTAP, OPIUM POETRY and elsewhere ... His new novel is The Burgher of Virtual Eden from Publish America (www.publishamerica.com). He was Pushcart nominated for poetry in 2008."

Crucifix In A Lucky's Shopping Cart

Somehow Ruddy the transient devised

an eclectic priesthood for himself

from his collection of discarded reliquaries.

Old bibles, incense pots, rosaries,

necklace crosses, Madonna & Child prints,

& of course several broken crucifixes,

all stashed in the shopping cart pushed

daily through North Las Vegas streets.

"I shall attack the homeless sinners!"

Ruddy declared to himself, usually

his only listener of many street sermons.

Occasionally a lost tourist (trapped

at some noisy traffic corner) had to endure

Ruddy's flapping, righteous tongue.

For these inflictions of spiritual advice

the transient demanded fast cash donations,

& encouraged the giver to select something

from the busted cart of holy paraphernalia,

blessed by Ruddy "& not by any Kraut Pope

far from the golden calf casinos of Sin City!"

Ruddy's reverberant laugh usually followed

with mouth agape featuring his missing teeth.

A horrible sight, designed to fuel repentance,

or to release halitosis as cruel benediction

for any reluctant disciple about to run off

before seeing Ruddy wave a crimson cross,

like vampire killers do with pointed stakes

about to pierce hearts of undead losers.

Lost Cherries Riff

"You don't need a bartender --

all you need's a liquor store,"

the Lost Cherries Inn whore Mimi

told her transient friend late

one nite. They sat drinking

outside her room by the pool.

"All you need's more income,"

Ruddy the transient mused drinking

while Mimi, primed but not plastered,

routinely finished off another Pabst,

nonchalantly hurling the empty streetwards.

Both burped & chuckled simultaneously.

Scalding summer nights were made for fat-chewing

& bitching about the woes of hustling in Vegas.

Cursing his friend, Ruddy retrieved the beer can

& added it to his shopping cart's aluminum stash,

chiding Mimi for being pregnant, yet still working

while her common law husband was out partying.

"Don't get on my Lem's case," Mimi wheezed

through her acrid cigarette's smoke cloud

the red-faced transient nearly choked on.

"You ol' sod, Rud, my man's a boss poppa --

a bastard, yes, but he takes care of my kids,

even when like now I can only give blow jobs, OK?"

Ruddy snarled back a gap-toothed rejoinder

indicating profound disapproval, then

he began hopping about on gimpy legs,

doing his little trademark chicken dance.

In her perennial hustler's mini-skirt outfit

(sex-stained & funky from ill-assorted smells)

Mimi would soon "take her albino ass," as she put it,

over to the neighboring Strip & wait for

some luxury auto she'd perform in, e-z cash

falling like celestial leaves into her lap

& making the blood strum on her ol' man's guitar,

till the low background music for their lives

softly counter-

pointed whatever

hard john's sex

burst into

the cool heavens

of her

mouth.

The Cold, The Hard, & The Beautiful Ugly

"the cold cunt taking in

the dick of death." So

what else is new? You've heard this

type of prosy chatter before, beyond subliminal

messages that have become blunt force

trauma of the mercantile brain. Something

superceding & kicking the ass of background

whisperings in our muzak lives

Rock & Roll desensitized into cool regions

where it's hip to be distanced from outmoded

humanity-in-a-handbasket, to be tossed

over the proverbial cliff in the name of

no-beauty, no-truth.

the downtown homeless boys

never heard of Keats, but they know

porn of ages when it's singing to their deaf ear

& other dysfunctional organs

their

sad lives

left them.

Featured Poet: Alfonso Colasuonno

Alfonso is a friend who has read at OSFR I and has some new poems he'd like to share. Please enjoy!

QUICK PLUG: While I am on the subject of enjoyment, I recommend suckas who gots to know check out Juliet Cook's 13 Myna Birds. Really interesting design and format of rotating poems; many imagistic, expository, and confessional...all really damn good.

Alfonso Colasuonno is a 25 year old writer based out of Brooklyn, New York. He is a former New York City secondary school teacher. He graduated Beloit College with a BA in Creative Writing. This is his second submission to O Sweet Flowery Roses and has also been a performer at an O Sweet Flowery Roses-sponsored event.

MANIFESTO

Regarding your “poetry” -

It is not complex enough

Nor is it obscure enough

To catch even a faint glimpse of my eye.

The beauty of poetry

Is that it leaves the proletariat

Completely baffled as to what you mean.

Your writing is as obvious

As the cumshot

At the end of a porno.

You hit people over the head

With your arcing stream of ideas.

That is not poetry.

Maybe it is spoken word.

It doesn't have the staccato

The rhythm

The je ne sais quoi

Of poetry.

I have never heard

Something as complementary of my work.

No, this is not poetry

That you learn in classrooms

Or from going to readings

And it never aimed to be.

A visceral reaction

A laugh

A cringe

A masturbation break

This is what I aim for

Not bored applause

Like you aim for.

BAD EDUCATION

I live a life of multiplicities

Responsible for the future of this country

A New York City schoolteacher.

Gutterpunk? (On weekends?)

My preferred mode of dress is a ratty t-shirt

With a picture of Exene Cervenka

And a pair of jeans with holes at the kneecaps

And Eurotrash written in black marker on the pant leg

Like a wrestler's iconography on his tights

Signaling to all parties

A false delusion.

Yet, still, I wear the suit and tie

Monday through Friday

8 to 4

I suck Joel Klein’s cock.

I do it by the book.

How do I react inside those four walls? Student comes in blazed

Out of his mind.

Reminds me of someone quite familiar

And how false it is to say - “get yourself together” When having a few drinks later in the day

Crack up at the thought.

I think back to same student and wonder:

Am I really getting that old and yawn-mouthed

That a student needs to show up high to enjoy my class? And then I realize he is not enjoying my class at all

But the company of his comrade in the next seat.

Question: Did I ever do that? No. I stifled my laughter.

I respected my teachers.

I tell myself these lies

Until they become truths.

Am I doing a good job?

Can I say what I want to say? No!

The trick to education is knowing one golden rule

Your teachers are full of shit.

A trip to the principal’s office

And a great big unsatisfactory on my teaching record.

I’ve lost control:

Classroom

Self

Severance pay

Big fat j

On the dole

Back to bumming

Reading Bukowski

Drinking heavily

In short, a rubber room existence. There is no such thing as fate.

American Spirit

You have a high pitched voice

An anxious tremor

Resonating to the stratosphere

As if your lungs were never consumed with internal clouds of mist

Sucked in like steamboats in vile vortices

Smoke from a thousand fags

Ashes staining your fingernails yellow

Disguised under press-on nails

And teeth off white

Remedied by Crest white strips

And brushing at least three times a day

In painstaking circular motion

And time permitting, vertically and horizontally, as well.

But you still have a smoker's cough

And your perfume doesn't hide

The smell of countless nicotine cravings.

Featured Poet: Dr. Kane X. Faucher

After coming across his work on Felino Soriano's Counterexample Poetics (which is really fantastic, by the way), I had to ask Dr. Kane X. Faucher to submit some poems to OSFR. In a gushy lil' letter, I told him how I thought his stuff was really exemplory of current directions in poetry, media, and collage art(s). Please enjoy! Dr. Kane X. Faucher FIMS/MIT Instructor, The University of Western Ontario. Freelance Writer, Scene Magazine. Co-editor: The Raging Face, The Drill Press, Sorrowland Press Interview Editor: Ditch Poetry Proctor: IELTS (British Council) - Author of Urdoxa (2004) Codex Obscura (2005) Fort & Da (2006), Calqueform, Astrozoica, De Incunabliad (2007). Jonkil Dies, Tales Pinned on a Complete Ass: Travel to Romania (2009) The Vicious Circulation of Dr Catastrope (2009) -

Gueule

(a slav-ish raillery in no parts)

--…trouvez…

--…amusant mais…

--…voyons…

--…tellement / camoufle…

--…fond…

--…vendre!...

--…mort…(.)

Scandallion standala y catapostrophe.

Bas alt relief belie goncourtier

\?--:…rue the infinite gimmegimmick a la

Moi-toi

NRF(I)NRF(II) dire la roches-elle dans un

Et Gaston IIieme dans deux 1953.

Ecrirez-pas babelogue

Insta instro insitu insu introck.

Ref fer ere frere ren enc yclo clochard hark arkhe.

Logoglissade/Wordgliding

(a fenceless optical zone)

Depistillated sermonizing wavebreak,

Immense pillar of talking flesh

<combat dining>

& the great sewer of existence underlorded

Papal cyborgs &

How God subcontracted Adam to name things.

I walk / unkempt millennium garden / public works project

Failure / empty beer bottle by bathtub / she and bubble /

Abducted from Oshawa / portable office relocate @ bar /

New fonts derivative / syncategoreme / portfolio construction

Professionalization anti-seminar / non-marketability aspects of

Doctorate.\ move to Vancouver \ organizations strategies \

Collaborate with and learn from here \ midstroke.--

Mauditerre

The future threatens

to make us seem quaint and ridiculous.

while the applause

has died away well before we arrived.

Mode juste today,

critical gaffe tomorrow.

We who write now will be subject

to cruel normalization

and barbaric standardization,

lost somewhere in a canon

the young are forced begrudgingly to honour

The political choices we make today may feel right.

Tomorrow will judge us harshly

and we will be condemned.

The future is like that: and it has the luxury

of history and consequence -

we should have known better becomes our epitaph.

The future will consign us to haunt the earth

spurned devils and the mark of Cain.

Our actions, once laudable, become burdens

as death renders us mute and indefensible.