VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Milenko Županović
Visions of Immortality
In the dark valley, the tears of the faithful, on the bloody rock on the night of the resurrection, the Son of God, prayers on the eternal fire.
The blue dome, the Sistine in the Bay of Saints in the moonlight in the fog of remembrance, the bells of Christians on the Day of Judgment.
Memories of the apostles in the night of weeping, River of verses in the holy books on the altar of the Homeland.
Bloody tears, prayers of saints in the dark chambers of death, shadows of ancestors on the shores of the hope of salvation.
In the immortal fire, burned memories of fear, eerie cries in the night, the cry of despair in the light of salvation.
Visions of light in immortal prayers, the bells of the church of the sea in the bay on the cliff of the Our Lady.
On the hill of the crucifixion, in the shadow of the cross, on Golgotha, the bloody tears of the soldiers in silent penance.
The suffering of Christians, the history of remembrance in the mist.
The consolation of prayer, the tears in Our Lady’s eyes, doomsday, in prayer at the bottom of the ocean.
The light of chandeliers, the storm of unbelief, the horrors of dead souls in the shadows of transience.
The burnt hope of salvation in the truth of the fire, the immortal spark in the eyes of the Madonna.
The shadow of the fire, on the wall of the church the sea in the bay of remembrance, at the end of the shore, the prayers of penance.
A lone star, at the bottom of the ocean, a weeping rock, icons of salvation, bays of the immortals.
Churches in the mirror of the sea, a mirror of light in the sea of ​​memories, churches of the past, chandeliers of light.
The rosary of salvation, in the hands of the faithful on the day of penance on the other side of the shore.
VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Leah Mueller
The Great Reset
Fuck trigger warnings
and the new normal.
Give me danger.
Late-night
standing ride
between train cars:
our sweaty hands
clutched side chains
to avoid falling
onto the tracks.
Pre-dawn drunk beside
the lake: insistent
police spotlights
swept the sand
after the beach closed
for the evening.
We hid bottles
under shirts, as
reckless waves
drowned our laughter.
Now, we block
apertures, stand
upwind from crowds,
pray that nothing hits us.
When you’re
scared to breathe,
every part
of you belongs to
someone else.
Your body,
a willing sacrifice.
Your mind, a stain
beside the tracks.
Throw a few
more limbs
into the flames,
smile as you
watch them burn.
After every
molecule vaporizes,
you will finally
own nothing, and
you will be happy.
Sodom and Lot
Fistfuls of cinders
on the Washington coast,
scattered like weeds
to indifferent waves.
Ocean’s jaws open wide,
swallow your body’s remnants.
I remember how
your arms encircled
my drowning shoulders,
pulled me to solid ground.
Your mouth uttered
my name like chocolate,
its cadence warm
as a radio deejay’s.
Then your frozen eyes,
long, hairless legs,
and genitals, grown
shrunken and useless.
Don’t turn around: run faster,
until you reach a more genial place.
No one will ever find us again.
No one will even remember to look.
Deities
Eros keeps
me returning
for juice,
holding out
my tarnished cup
for more.
My cranium
overflows
from the thrust
of his words,
and I spill
the fluids
all over myself.
He dribbles
down my chin,
makes dark stains
between my breasts.
Eros brings
entire scrolls
of new verses,
recites them
one after another:
until the next
thing I know,
I’ve melted like wax
into his mattress.
Though my cup
is half-spent, and
my thirst unquelled,
I am clutching
the handle, and I
am singing.
Winning the Internet
Laundry in moldering piles:
brain slack, disheveled. Your eyes fixed
on the same spot for hours. Everyone
knows the answer, repeats endless lines
as if repetition can forge truth from opinion.
Chatter of magpies on shaky branches,
mad rush to dominance. Typed words
on an illuminated screen, thumbnail face
inside a circle. Speck-sized, easily eradicated,
like a persistent fly. Rush forward,
grab the spotlight. Your keystroke joust
goes straight to the solar plexus. Watch
without expression as bodies fall.
You lose track of how many.
Soon you will forget their names,
and they yours. But for now,
nothing is more important than victory.
VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Tiberius Galloway
VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Michael Lacy
This is standing up
Like a big glare
Outside looking at the moon
Through the trees drowned out by the sky
Clouds shy from my six
This is fired from my hip
Call this cloud 9mm
Taking it past a show up
Out and off of my cliff
Swan cry as a dove dies
This is blood on hands
Like a rifle scoping to nowhere
Cuz we all die
From afar cry
Soldier on with a wasted lifetime
This is loving hatred
Turning me into a monster
A professional stalker
So keep this open
Like a heart that needs to beat
At your throat
We need to bleed
So reach in
But what are you pulling out of this?
Anything?
Love me or hate and re-rate it
Cuz I’m just illuminated
Shining lights down on what all of us our feeling!
So you better learn to fly
Cuz everything is burning hot
From underneath…
And i taste your watermelon
Cuz my tooth is sweet
You guard the point
And rise like the Phoenix
Nash of Steve
Let’s watch our Sun’s rise
Before it retires
Shot clock that drops
Buzzzz–aaards circling
Air raid – are
So fly low
Cuz when you get high
You’re dulling the spear
Pickles are only good when dill
But you’re sweet
Fake and taste like shiiii
Cuz my motor… Mouth
Off from the opium
From opinionated goat ropers
But it was such a wonderful feeling
I’m the ability to come to grasping
From your own vulnerability
Something you want to do
But scared to
So you cut yourself from my same cloth
But we’re not even close to the same
It’s fake
I’m hamburger
And you’re helper
And everything I say
Is straight through
One take
Minutes…
You take days to actually grasp
I spend 10 minutes writing this up
Cuz you feel me piece by piece
We’re both trash
Cuz we threaten violence with empty emotions
We hit each other with spoken threats
And I’m building up
Such a cruel fountain
But I’m trying to build a mountain
This digging in like a mole hill
Cuz I’m a fish out of water
And tonight…I flound-her
And I see her face of destruction
She said don’t touch me
But hit me!
I said stand over there
And I know nobody puts baby into a corner
But I was a bitter spitter
Listen to me lie
Like a toxic wind blowing so intense
It knocks your bag off the boxing gym
Rat thrown to the sheep
Turning into a wolf
With the bloodiest outcome
Stomping your throat at the kum n go
Yanking your chain at the pick n pull
Animating your tronics at the chukee cheese
Pizza places
Writing this instinctive nature
On some hempless paper
With my hoodie cracker switch
Snap back destruction to loose
Poingent and double jointed
With a few voices
Haunting around
Annoying noises
Has been the case I rest
From a has been perspective
View from the end of the night
Begining tonight
Fuzzy wuzzy was a freaking
Bear
He zero cares
This is all up in the air
Somebody rescue me here
Drop a ladder from ya chopper
Im hanging out of church
Onto a Tabernacle
I’m reaching out by accident
You’re lifting me up like I was a purpose
And I’m way ahead
So while I am ..
I should end this, but how?
I can’t
Somebody write my alien feels up
For once
Cuz I’m relating
But nobody is relaying
But what do I expect
You couldn’t even help me sew this up
Even my autocorrect is destructive.
Zig zagging in a wagon
Godzilla with a pencil
Even my good sounds evil
Spell it backwards
I LIVE
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
Jubilant All Hallow’s Eve…
DFP is taking this day to reflect on the darkness and insidiousness we’ve spread in the last year and will be bringing back VOICES FROM THE FIRE appropiately enough for DAY OF THE DEAD…because we’re all dead inside anyway and with the planet on fire, it’s just a matter of time.
Stay surreal…
VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Dillinger
Also true believers VOICES FROM THE FIVE vol. 5 is available, the final volume to be released this year!
VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Rob Azevedo
Sticks Scratching In The Sand
The lessons are there
boxed in letters and wind
symbols of flight
and might
and wandering lust
this weightless destiny
this excusable existence
each undistinguishable
from the next
we pride ourselves in time
on life
on the waves in which we crest
as we float on white caps
bellowing and bustling
and bursting at the seams
trying to define our energy
our needy cries
our searching pride
and we thud against the shores
ragged from long lost winds
purple in their demeaner
contagious in their assault
as we balance our importance
our presence vs yours
against a throbbing windstorm
rising up from riverbeds
and glistening streams
and darkened clouds
that splatter and froth
only to find you,
and the others,
hunched in exhaustion,
staggering in confusion,
naked to the touch,
wondering why each
body laid out on the shore
faceless and limp
resemble not him
or her
or even you or me
but all of us,
a battalion of sparring souls,
just sticks scratching in the sand.
VOICES FROM THE FIRE: John Chinaka Onyeche
MY FATHER WORE GRIEF AS A GARMENT.
Today my father cuts his hair low,
he looks older & tired.
i can see it from his eyes,
myriad of life’s untold tales.
i am looking through his private diaries locked up & hidden,
maybe i will be lucky to see some of good recorded memories
of himself on what life was like to him while growing up.
there is this big box full of Bibles,
from where he wrote our names, –
with each passage our names are engraved –
and a special prayer points attached to it.
he had brought this box to my mother as a gift,
when they both settled their last quarrel, –
which i believe he holds it dear to this Bible and box,
as they lived the rest of their lives separated.
when i reckon of how much i have been through,
i think of how much my father has lived to endure
as the result of the ill felted marriage with my mother,
as all i could see written on his face are scars of griefs.
I doubt it, if god knows how much
my father has been able to endure within himself,
everyday remembrance of us, – hands him over to grief;
& he evaporates like mist each without our knowledge.
today, my father cuts his hair low to mourns
his ill felted marriage with my mother
& his grief, he wore as a garment.
There Is A Good Day To Write About Our Memories
Yesterday, I took out the bottle of dye I found
under the bed in my grandmother’s hut,
and I drew with it – a triangle on my heart.
In that triangle, I engraved the memories –
of my life as a pilgrim – who is a survival of
myriad of life’s experiences as a child.
Outside this triangle, I wrote myriad of names,
some were those who – in my life on earth
have played one role or the other hand – alive or dead.
As I tried to limit the names for the next day to come,
for what I have written here is the beginning-in my heart,
it is what I can hold out today, as the triangle expands.
& as I held out my hands to draw on my heart,
it all became visible, the words of my grandmother,
she had once told me, there is a dye to write memories.
Out of my curiosity as a growing grandchild,
I visited her hut every cool evening with oozing winds,
and she would say, there is a good day to write memories
of those life has blessed us with – though they are not here,
this dye is specially meant to be used in writing in our hearts,
except for such moments, the dye stays hidden from the eyes.
I reached out my hands yesterday under her bed,
in that her small hut after many years of her death,
I am blessed to have found the dye for which I am using now –
To write about my memories with her,
our times together is what I am about to write here,
as it started from the gathering of clouds that rained.
For you
I am becoming a watchman
To watch over your inks that flow into tiny air
For you,
I am becoming an African
From the Southern tip of Africa
For you,
I am becoming the first inhabitant of the Cape
For you,
I am becoming the first owner of the land
For you,
I am becoming the first race known as the San
For you,
I will go with my bands into the forest and pick wide berries
For you,
I have become the hunter and gatherers
For you,
We will go into the mountains and pick pebbles
Each man on his bands, we will gather up stones
For you,
We will return to use the stones to make you a grave
For you died a hero in the land of your so journal
For you,
We will use our stones to build you a grave.