Toy Rocket

Colored lights dance around,

Like a parade of anxieties.

Making fun out of fears.

Each shaking inhibition,

Fueling the miniature craft.

Broad strokes of crimson,

Encased in a womb of sorrow.

Before falling out,

Into your hands.

Away from the souls,

Caught in a pandering grip.

You aim the rocket toward the sky.

All the worries head toward the clouds,

Leaving you behind.

No Need

A radius,

Small in the physical realm,

But deep as an ocean within.

Bordering worlds, collectively orbit.

Dancing on the edge of a black hole.

A lingering hope, they will go somewhere.

Inviting the solitary space,

To join their orbit.

Stars aligning to form a clear path.

Though it craves the void,

And jumps in.

Passing those eagerly following.

Unknown cosmos,

Far beyond the reach of the contained.

A sphere forms…

A chrysalis floating freely.

Inner workings alive.

A false stasis, fooling those keeping a close eye.

Creation evolving toward channeled bitterness.

Controlling loose rage,

A calm sets over realms of chaos.

Focusing abilities,

And breaking through obstacles.

Here the mind speaks only to itself.

Making sense out of desperate scribbles.

A peace not found in reflections of desire.

A destiny realized…

Several Voices

A boardwalk of broken glass,

Over splintering wooden stones.

No water to catch our fall.

Only touched by consuming fog.

We dissolve into a meta stream.

Flowing through branching currents.

Washing away irrelevant memories.

Life feeling new again,

As names change like the colors of solar flares.

Breathing air with slight variables,

Almost unnoticeable.

Speaking of scenes unlocked by greater awareness.

Footprints lay side by side,

When sands collide with the sea.

Swirls of flashing elements,

Bleeding out toward several notions.

Jilted seams burst out,

Evening odds.

The whole, shattered…

Unaffected by the other pieces.

Like screaming through opaque barriers,

Into your own deaf ears.

Until space becomes a void.

Each shard pulled in toward itself.

Detaching from every path,

Allowing the full tale to be revealed.


The air turns everything to ice.

Cracking with every slight adjustment.

Bleeding into the cold.

Tiny pains are peppered over palms.

Roughly shedding dust,

Burning under water.

Scratching off the skin,

To find new senses.

But only unearthing infections,

Stinging before and after.

The rain lasts for only moments,

Then barren lands dry out again.

Temperatures rise,

And winces overlap.

Until the feeling fades completely.

Hands hide within bales of moisture,

Unable to breathe in.

Stiff as the unmovable sky.

Red clouds control the speed of progress.

Halting all together.  

Published by Mike Zone

Mike Zone is the former Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press and managing editor of Concrete Mist Press. The author of Screaming in the End: Poems and Stories, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture magazine.

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