“In Pursuit of Dreams” Poetry by Yash Seyedbagheri

I dreamed about a thousand zombies

orange sauce slithering across once-youthful skin

their tongues tingled and licked

while I cried out for my mother

but she didn’t come


and I dreamed about a man who deemed me

obnoxious and egotistical over a Chick-Fil-A counter

and I can’t even remember why

I was driving a car too fast through traffic

the horns shrinking, the steering wheel slipping


but when I woke

I tried to shake it

crumbs on a consciousness

I wandered a winding road, listened to Tchaikovsky, and smiled while the moon rose

but then the bills bombarded


the world demanded I pay up, interest rates contracted, fine-print fungus

among us the mustache man marked me

weak, artistic, sensitive, honest, a waste

and the world deemed me

too swarthy, my mustache bolstering a thousand bombs


along with that name they always butchered

I tried to have a dream about something, stars, Coen Brothers movies

carriage wheels and balls where I

could waltz across safe spaces, covered by bowler hats and John Goodman’s gun

with all the moonlight and freshly-dried sheets

to sink into

along with a smile


but a wolf

wandered out of the woods

speaking in nasal New York accent

 he tried to grab me with his small paws while I ran

and I woke up


and washed my wails with Merlot

some Malbec, some Pinot, a bottle of Diet-Pepsi

in a full glass

and tried to waterboard it all

but the glass wasn’t full enough

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program. His stories, “Soon,”  “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” and “Tales From A Communion Line,” were nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work  has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.

“Bad Blood” Poetry by Akubudike Deborah

a bride walks down the aisle, 

staggers on one foot, 

& you can hear a poet 

stutter like her footsteps at every step.

she hides her form underneath her veil, 

wears her father's corpse on her face 

like the holy candle praying for a future.

when the piano starts to play, we can 

hear frogs croaking to an unfamiliar rhythm, from 

deep down throaty laughs of a certain someone 

or people

alongside ruptured chords.

we all stand,

 not sure what the bridegroom's lips call 

to the altar.


Akubudike Deborah is a black poet and lyricist who draws her inspiration from various things including the Bible, philosophy, Greek mythology, art, etc. Her work has been featured in The Cypress Journal, The Unpublishable Zine, amongst others. She can be reached on Twitter: @akubudikedebbie; Instagram: @ad_poet and blog: https://adpoet.home.blog.

“The Demented” Poetry by Fadrian Bartley

Cold feet walk the corridor in silence
coming from the awakening,
To stray away from a lonely room 
with forgotten memories in wet footprints.
Rebellion without sound
went rogue inside the soul.
As the windy candles reflected old habits of the elder’s shadow,
and deep whispers only the wind could hear,
Released old dark memories that escaped her wrinkled lips
and her night gown stained with piss.
Voices wield their intentions, 
could be seen from within her eyes of twisted stir,
Characteristics of the dead.
Night spirits seem to visit the home of one without brains.
Carrying her through hallways and precipice,
Revealing the identification of darkness.
Through physical activities of madness.

Bio: Fadrian Bartley lives in Kingston, Jamaica and is a customer service representative. Fadrian is also a fictional writer in poetry. His favorite genre is dark horror story poems. His major influence is Edgar Allan Poe, who has inspired the work of his hands. His work has appeared in few online web magazines including: http://www.aphelion-webzine.com/poetry/2020/05/Annabelle.html, https://drunkenpenwriting.com/2020/09/03/let-the-night-decide, and https://ramingoblog.wordpress.com/2020/09/24/the-ramingos-porch-legacy-a-poem-by-fadrian-bartley. He can be reached at: https://www.instagram.com/artexerexes https://m.facebook.com/profile.php

“The Returning Visits” Poetry by Janice Gomez

In a cold

dark room

she sat silent

on concrete

looking down

at the space

between her toes

rocking back and forth,

to many triggers shots

stealing time preoccupying

her mind 

she reached maximum capacity.

"Talk to me," I whispered.

She looked at me once

and turned her face.

Golden droplets

leaked down her

shaking pants leg

to the ground.

She parted her dry lips

to bite her fingernails,

shaking her head

side to side,

her swollen eyes

looked into mine

she said,

"I want to be erased, kill me now, or I will myself, no matter what it takes."

Slowly walking towards

her we embraced.

Four knocks...

guards open large

metal door.

Stepping out of the threshold

she yelled, "I love you girl, don't come back to My Hell. "

the door slammed closed

for seventy-two hours

and three minutes later,

she was pronounced dead...,

never forgetting

a moment


she visits in my head.

JGomez is known for her words deep and heavy in her dark poetry. She grew up in Boynton Beach, Florida, where she has seen and been through a lot to convey the realness of “real life” in her writing. 

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“Touchy Hands” Poetry by Janice Gomez

Boiling water

flaming from a


killing more

than any microorganisms

from inside

young thighs at age six.

The Hallelujahs

were to fool y'all 

and my parents

as their Pastor,

this preacher,

a reacher,

stretching his truths

could've done no wrongs

as they praise his messages all week long,

                      their daughter

reaching for their 

loving hands

but they accepted 

the hands that

holds the man-made bible

speaking from a podium

as if he's entitled 

to congressional crowds

screaming for 


                        God forbid if 

I wore the X on my forehead for

the children's voices

that tried to talk,

hustled to eat,

handcuffed and beat,

Whose hands would believe me?

JGomez is known for her words deep and heavy in her dark poetry. She grew up in Boynton Beach, Florida, where she has seen and been through a lot to convey the realness of “real life” in her writing. 

A public service message from The Chamber Magazine