a good dramatic goodbye by J.J. Campbell

she once told you that you were beautiful

a weird angel walking on earth meant
to be great

you remember the night she walked out
into the highway and got runover by
a semi

she always loved a good dramatic goodbye

all the weird friends got corporate jobs

and the nerds discovered drugs and ended
up learning just how uncomfortable park
benches are

the cats all speak spanish and are secretly
plotting your demise

it is the time of year for revenge

colder than cold with each passing day

her love is a mystery that you could
never unravel

that uneasiness you feel is the indigestion
of love

embrace it

break a few toilets

scream from the mountaintop and show
them what weird really fucking is

--

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor, The Beatnik Cowboy and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

A Moment, Frozen by Skaja Evens

I hate the person I become when I am with you.

Silly, naive girl believing that if I love you enough that you’ll be who I think I want.

We are dangerous, toxic in glaringly obvious ways that are best seen from a distance.

The self-awareness I cultivated for other reasons offers a lifeline out of the labyrinth.

I tell myself that I'm done sacrificing myself, pretending I'm not riddled with tiny paper cuts. The aftermath of your words.

I’m twisted in knots as I carefully consider my words and how to dance within the landmine-ridden framework that is you.

I patch myself up with tears and self-loathing, and some perverse belief that since I’ve been mistreated for so long, what’s a little bit more?

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, if you believe the cliché.

Do all of the good things make up for the weight of regret?

Like the cheating man promising his mistress that he’s gonna leave his wife, I swear someone crossed their fingers when looking for the faintest glimmer of hope that waiting it out will make things better. Make things worth the misery.

What’s more likely is years of a frozen moment in time. Years lost because of acceptance of what we wanted wasn’t good enough, but we thought we deserved.

--

Skaja Evens is a writer, publisher, and artist living in Southeast Virginia. Publication credits include Spillwords Press, Medusa’s Kitchen, Ink Pantry, Off the Coast, The Crossroads Lit Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, and Blue Pepper. Her first book, conscientia veritatis, from Whiskey City Press, was recently published and can be found here: Amazon.com

Clovers by Jerome Berglund

the children

race

in giggling circles

babbling brook

murmuration

piercing gaze

of clinging

monkey

staring

back at me

aren’t

many endeavors

low production value

can’t throw

a wrench in

raindrops

creep up windshield

spermatozoa

seeking

awol egg

all

the dad jokes

unspoken

wasted

produce

--

Jerome Berglund has published many haiku, haiga and haibun, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, and Modern Haiku. His first collections Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika. Twitter: https://twitter.com/BerglundJerome

Happy First Anniversary to DTU!

Hello! I am pleased to recognize that Disturb The Universe Magazine is one year old! The first piece was published on April 4, 2023.

In the past year, 96 pieces have been published, and the site has been viewed over 16000 times.

I look forward to doing even better over the next year.

A couple things to share:

    1. Submission guidelines have been updated, effective today.

    2. Starting Sunday, April 7, there will be publication three times per week.

 Thank you so much for your support with submitting work, reading and sharing on social media. I am forever grateful.

Best always,

Skaja Evens

Editor-in-Chief

Note He Left Suzie the Bartender, Who Never Answered by Michael Dwayne Smith

I am inconspicuous, doing this or that, a la nineteenth century
footman, a first-rate improv cook, plus can rescue you, not me,

from life-threatening mistakes: cases are documented, debts
are owed, strings tighten. Used to be best I could do was crack

a joke: lost job after job, one boss punched me out—his wife 
had run off, so I absolved him—but then it was me, married, 

humor drained like brake fluid, grim at the prospect of sobriety,
every grimy fuck high-speed collision screams for jaws of life.

Had to grit teeth when she’d speak, grinding gears of her sub-
compact mind, me poisoned by red weed and whiskey fevers,

demonic addict to secretary, receptionist, waitress, brass zipper
a down elevator, nonstop, choke-slammed into cold concrete

basement bottom, my wire-slim mouth tonguing handcuffs
in weekend jail cells. But now! Look at how perfectly my lips

clean up your mess while making my own, how these hands
pick up your trash, feed it to my heart, how my fingers hold

a knife that slices the drowsy apple I’ll feed to you, Princess.

—

Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Chiron Review, Monkeybicycle, and Heavy Feather Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Prize for poetry, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and a multiple-time Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominee, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.

Dearest Lepidopterist by Kelly Moyer

I am a butterfly,
free as a chihuahua
in a low-budget kennel,
light as your lead foot
in an I-40 passing lane,
fertile as a mule, napping
in the ol’ banana tree
and every bit as mortal
as my childhood kitten’s
restless, dare I say,
vindictive spirit.
So, you just might want
to put up that net,
my friend, because I
think you’ve mistaken
who’s holding the pins.

--

Kelly Moyer is an award-winning poet and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter. When not writing or weaving, she is likely to be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her partner and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul. Hushpuppy, her collection of short-form poetry, was recently released by Nun Prophet Press.

Identity In Viral Times by Marc Darnell

Is that my brother behind that mask
whom I grew up with fifty years ago?
I'm too far away to ask

his name, can't take the risk
of getting closer to touch, to know
if that’s my brother behind that mask

whom in the summer I would bask
with in the white sun. We would go
to the lawn's edge, too far away to ask

our dad if when the day turned to dusk
he would take us to the car show.
Is that my brother behind that mask

who in his sad days tapped the cask,
then took his bloated body in tow
and now's too far away to ask

why he left me with the task
of burying our father, his grave I sow.
Is that my brother behind that mask?
I'm too far away to ask.

--

Marc Darnell is an online tutor and lead custodian in Omaha NE. He received his MFA from the University of Iowa, and has published poems in The Lyric, Blue Unicorn, Ragazine, The Literary Nest, The Pangolin Review, and elsewhere. His newest book is The Sower from Cyberwit Press. He has forthcoming books from Impspired Books and White Violet Press.