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The Underground Garden: The Glamourous (Circa Series)



It’s so glamourous
the night life
Don’t you think?

Power plays made during days so the spotlight can be owned
Is there love in this home?


Walk in through doors put the game mask on
Who’s real when they’re out for meals on the tailcoats of folk
Out for a glass of wine
A little fun
Careful with your one on ones

It’s so glamourous
Playing dress up and sniffing for love
Vixens and Mistros making dates for lunch at bistros
Because you’ve made the introduction and it’s

Feeling admired because you perspire in your zone
Come on

Be the man with the proud stand
The prettiest girl in the room
The best dancer the world has ever seen
The loner everyone wants to meet
The superstar in the fancy car
You’ve borrowed
The first timer falling in love with this

Come on

What are you really here for?
The soap’s next episode?
In this fake life

Who’s in your corner?
Who’s going to make your life tight?
Are my friends my foes by the time I get home?

What’s that whispered conversation about and why is it distracting my attention grabbing clout

Come on

Who wants to be like whom?
Raise your hand, you’re in this room

Stand tall
They know this ain’t glamour at all
But a part of a life they live
“I hope it’s a good night,” they wish

Swim in this wave’s vibefriendship-betrayal
Avoiding all of the sharks in sight
Feasting on piranhas

Come on

It’s so glamorous
Being popular
Don’t you think?
Someone does.

Here comes the kiss on the cheek!

Who’s here to make things happen
Meet me in privacy
I got deals to breathe onto you
Spells to weave
Follow me
Or sing the tune

Come on

It’s so glamourous
Knowing the top of the totem pole
Because it’s important who you know

Know Thyself

It’s so glamorous
Being seen with someone pretty
Your beauty

That’s a lie
We’re all gorgeous from inside

All glamorous
When truth is the hand that puts away the mask
Dig me cuz I dig you
I don’t dig you cuz of this truth
You don’t dig me cuz I’m not your type?
You know what?

That’s all right

Don’t use another’s light
Seek inside
Light shine
Your gifts create the lift others want to bring down
Are you a phoenix or a vulture?
About the glamour or a culture?
Are you deceit and envy?
While I applaud you?


It’s so glamorous

The smoke machines
Bright lights
Pounding beats
Sexy dances

Corner romances
The scandal
Love in blossom
Betrayal in action

The glamorous life

If you want to succeed take this knife and plunge it for me
As a show of loyalty

But you don’t know what you’re involved in while you seek the perfect spot to land your air spin

Ahhhhh the glamorous life
The life of getting up and going keeping things flowing
Making sure your glory isn’t being stolen

Making sure your theft of the top isn’t showing
Checking on your pawns, kings and queens

I choose to play hopscotch jumping over blocks
Than be a piece

Mmmmmm the glamorous life
Who’s looking at me this week?

Love Thyself
Without importance of whose love brings wealth

Know your worth
It breaks the curse of demons scheming

In this glamourous life.


Liza Zayas is a lover of writing and dancing and celebrates both as a singer and songwriter performing as Luna del Flor. You can hear her collaborative sounds and experience life through her storytelling. She invites you to dance. Her poetry seeks to initiate dialogue by intentionally expressing consequences of love, lust, ego and self-respect.


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It’s All One Thing #125: The Peace Movement


For many years now (on both the right and then the left) they’ve been asking
“where is the Peace Movement”, the holy Swiss cheese to go with the ham of the meat grinder
of endless invasions, occupations, “interventions” of what used to be called the “war on terror”
but now has no name since the new administration, the Obama-ites as I’ve come to call them,
attempted to rename the “mess” (as I think we all think of it now) but the new name just would
not stick so now they all (the pundits and PR persons) don’t call it anything except to comment
(briefly) that it has no name making it I guess the no name war which goes on in nobody knows
how many countries fought by again no one seems to know who for strategic reasons discussed
by no one and with many weapons no one even admits exist and heavens forbid that anyone
would should require an accounting of cost (or benefits) because no records are being kept
while meanwhile a handful of dedicated activists confronts the publicly proven war criminals
wherever they stand up (or sit down) to spread the endless lies which are dished out to maintain
the endless wars and everywhere I go I see the old Hippie Peace symbol of which I still possess
an old 1960’s poster with lovely girl with flowing hair wrapped around it which is actually the
old no nukes symbol left over from 1950’s made by combining ye olde, civil war flag semaphore
positions for two letters inside the ancient timeless circle of life that has now become ubiquitous
everywhere on kids t-shirts and hats, school bags and lunch boxes, even on party favors and
napkins as our children both in the inner cities and circling outer suburbs all somehow choose it
until it has somehow become, all the longer the endless wars go on and on, a fad that just grows
and grows among our kids, our children who never knew that the Moral Majority has waged a
40 year campaign to label this Peace Sign satanic and that the counter-culture with which it is
identified is anything but the only possible alternative to this relentless mercenary torture and
                        murder which torments their present and kills their future.


James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.


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Seven Times #81: Heavy Weight Champion of the World


Unchancy flocks fly through the propellers above

We unlade the cargo once we landed
As the sun uprose from the horizon
My bones are satiated by its warmth
I unship the booze and lade it in my body

I eat but am unfillable
I suck at every last piece of meat and juice from the lobster’s cracked uropod

The uprisal began in Odessa off the Potemkin
The sailors upheaved the captains body sending it overboard
Upstart Bolshevik October


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.


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Flash Fiction by Susan Tepper


Fresh Meat

Don’t even attempt to figure me out. You will be thwarted at ever turn. My act is perfected. Houdini wouldn’t be able to find his way out.

I hear your sniggling, just around the bend in the counter. Where the blood spills into a drain hidden by all the sawdust. Are you aware these cutting slabs are deliberately angled to slant. Not so much that you’d notice by the naked eye. Of course you don’t know this which is why I haven’t made it a question. On heaven and earth there are no real questions. The butcher makes the fresh cut.

Blood pools a moment before sliding its red river down the slant and onto the floor. The sawdust works like a sponge. First off, I’ve had way too many women to name.

One rainy night, in a fit of pique due to raging insomnia, wind-driven rain, shaking the roof gutters, I started a mental list from A to Zed. An acknowledgment, of sorts, to the many bloody females I’ve managed to bed down. This little mind-game so totally absorbing, that I finally switched on the bedside lamp (imitation Tiffany). Presented to me on my fortieth birthday by a woman of that very same name. I assume she expected her gift would be accepted with a certain implied longevity, perhaps unto death. I almost said: It’s just a lamp, you idiot.

But this Tiffany was so lovely. All blonde effervescence, and how can you dim a thing like that?

While the rain battered the windows, I climbed from the bed and started to make a written list along the blank edge of a newspaper: Alice, Alexa, Adrienne, Arline, Arlene. The Arline/Arlene stumped my A memory. On the the B’s: Belinda, Barb, Bette, Bathsheba, Blair and the two Bambis. Oddly the Bambis were twins differentiated by a different middle name: Bambi Juanita and Bambi Yvonne.
No, I never had them both at the same time. Don’t even go there.

An interval. A move, perhaps, a job change, or just a dry spell (I don’t like admitting to those).

When Candace entered my world. The C column turns out considerably shorter than I anticipated. Possibly due to the lengthy amount of Candy in my life. After, were Calista, Carol and Carly.

At this point let me make things clear: none came via alphabetical order or any logical reasoning. Each represented herself, and herself, exclusively. Each was a fresh burst of blood coursing through my veins. Elation. I searched for that but could only come up with elusive.

Alone in your bed, with the rains howling, the night can be long. Here, where a reservoir hides behind a looming mountain, weather becomes an adversary. Which carries me back to my A list. Surely there were other A’s that have slipped my mind.

Without warning, my mind list-jumps to Zelda. She was my incomparable pet. A true French poodle of a woman. When she admitted to being a Kansas transplant, the world fell flat. Flat as Kansas. I didn’t even look for a pooper-scooper, just tossed her out of my life. Don’t judge me.

I need fresh meat. My chops (the C list), my steaks (the S list), my chicken (that C again), my veal (I just can’t give it up), my lamb (the L list), and who can forget my pork? A succulent pork roast stuffed and baked. That’s a man meal.

Don’t make me over. My beans and my franks. Always keep the pot at a low boil.


Photography © Su Red
Photography © Su Red


Susan Tepper is the author of four published books of fiction and a chapbook of poetry. Her column Let’s Talk is a monthly feature at Black Heart Magazine, and she’s founder/host of FIZZ a reading series at KGB Bar, NYC. Her sixth book dear Petrov</em (Pure Slush Books) was published in February 2016.

Su Red is an artist of various mediums, currently residing in the NYC area. You can see more of her work here.


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Poem by Shawn Hatfield


Not Easily Arranged

It was windy
but I was perspiring
“Dammit,” I said aloud
but to no one but me
I needed to walk across
town in the heat
without looking like
a sweaty, hairy pig
when I got there

I was wearing my nicest
shirt to impress a lady
She worked as a librarian,
a music librarian to be exact
She was brunette, busty
as hell, and she made me

She was a flutist or
flautist, however the
fuck you’re supposed to
say it these days
I don’t think she was
required to wear a
nametag because she
didn’t have one around
her neck

Her work ethic and
knowledge of music turned
me on
I could ask her if she
enjoyed the work of
Romantic composers such
as Robert Schumann but
I wouldn’t

I knew that Debussy was
more her style
Late Romantics and
Impressionists excited
her, she was swayed

I approached the lovely
woman and asked her to
help me find some
Tchaikovsky music for
She suddenly lit up and
had a thrilled look
on her face

We began conversing
for a few minutes, and
I finally asked her what
her name was
She told me, “I’ll keep
that a secret until
you take me out tonight
and buy me a drink”

So I did
and we talked, laughed,
drank and drank
some more
Towards the end of the
night she looks over
at me with that
gorgeous smile and said,
“My name is Molly”

The mystery was
gone but the ride had
just begun


Photography © Allison Goldin
Photography © Allison Goldin


Shawn Hatfield is a Virginia born writer, poet, composer, producer, multi-instrumentalist, and music teacher. Hatfield’s poetry and short stories have been published in several including; Culture Cult Magazine, Indolent Books, Blognostics, and The Purcellville Gazette. He is currently working on a novel and looks forward to releasing it in 2016.

Allison Goldin is an artist living in California. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles.


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Jagged Thought #118: And That Be The Way of The World


Boom yah, Ridicula!
Walk through the pharmacy
with pterodactyl claw.
Wincing at the dog pound
paws, pause, pause,
working the angles
on the seeter saw.

See, saw, left.

Went to the market
grab a chicken’s breast
and grill it up on Shark Week,
cooked it up good
with little teriyaki
Rude boy food.

Rhythm snakes, Rhythm snakes.
Snake the rhythm
Cheshire steaks.
Earth quakes for Pancakes
Put a little syrup
on the record

See how it tastes.

Magazine of magazines
machine gun,
Talking fast for paychecks


WuTang forever I decree.
C.ash R.ules E.verything A.round M.e.

lumps and bruises, orange juices
busted bitches
drug abusers,
Battered up a cake boss

No more
Gummy needles toxic
No more people
dying on my block.

Sync the solar system
And magnify,
play it on the playground
Play it in the background
Play it on the foreground
Listen to the world
as it dries

We are all sunburned
Gonna die,
But not tonight.

we write,

Cause who has the mission
To write with persistence
We don’t miss this
We Never did,
Reading Ulysses, I never did this.

Im talking about myself
Never black belt
No trophy on the shelf

And ahhhhhhhhh

Losing worth, putting in work
Bo Diddley sing a top a Christmas Tree.
Step into my office.
Wheres my briefs?

Yeezy got his mouth wired,
Singing clamped teeth
Rolling in the deep, subterranean creep
Lotus Flower Wicked Garden, mother, mother
Dear Departed.

Lions wincing at dentist shooting
The dentist grinning
In state prison

And that be the way of the world.
And that be the way of the world.
And that be the way of the world.
And that be the way of the world.


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.