Untitled by A.g. Synclair

You find religion in a glass
in half empty bottles
in the twisted notes of that song
in the way she swallows you whole
in the secret hiding place
where you keep her words
a tangled language of crickets and clocks

I Look to You by Tyree Jackson

My journey isn’t smoothly paved.

I’ve been stopped by predators and poisoned along the way.

There were many times I believed I couldn’t stand.

And there were many times I felt my life would just end.

But then I looked to you—your smile allowed me to break the walls that

isolated me from society.

So when I looked into your eyes—my reflection reminded me of a boy striving.

When I cried, I knew that you would be there to wipe away my tears, and say

“My son be strong and keep your head up high.”

You give me strength, when mine has depleted.

And it’s your motherly touch that heals my cuts and bruises when needed.

I look to you when others turned away.

And I will always look to you—for your presence allows me to truly see brighter days.

16 Miles by g emill reutter

Cylinder crosses the landscape
into the city just across Darby Creek
slides into Southwest, passing graffiti
scared bridges, trash covered banks
hurdles toward the turn of the Schuylkill
past the ivory of Penn into the temple of
the old railway gods. Continues northeast
flanged wheels slap cold iron past boat
houses, art museum and zoo into what
was once mansions of strawberry through
badlands past hulking factories of Kensington
with empty eyes tattered remnants of
Frankford, the sweet aroma of Bridesburg
chemical plants. The cylinder flies along
the track crosses the Poquessing Creek
out of the city. They sit not noticing in
designer suits and shoes, tap on computers
ipods over wine beer or coffee. Like those
who came before them, they are not concerned
about what’s left behind.

15 Rounds by Billy Howell-Sinnard

Remember how we used to brawl our way
to a poem. A prize fighter pounding the keys
worthy of a Hemingway adventurer.

At the end of each line
the ding ended the round, then the sweep
of the cylinder like the cut-man
cleaning and sticking your wounds
so you could start another line.

The clack of the keys, hitting the speed bag,
enough in itself to add rhythm and sonics
the more inspired you became.

On your desk in the center of the ring,
a stout Remington or Smith Corona
taunted you to write that publishable poem.

You dreamed of the knockout that rarely came,
just grueling rounds of sparring,
split-decisions, and lonely girlfriends
jilted by your monk-like devotion--
battered and bruised, trying to be a contender.

Two Poems by Jack T. Marlowe


over a
month of
days, to
be precise

and then
the princess
calls, says
that she
misses me
in spite of
her social

a perpetual
busy signal

so, she
misses me
she says
though my
tells me

and after
more than
a month
on ice

i would
sooner be
hot bourbon
in hell
than be
just another

chilling in
her little
black book


the broken
man opened
up the
main vein
of his life
and let his
bleed out

then he
filled the


it didn't
do any-
thing for
his soul

but it did
seem to
improve his

when freedom of speech is treated like murder by James D Quinton

turning the corner
I hadn’t expected to see
an agitated young man holding
a frightened old woman to his body
“get back, get back,”
he told the crowd that had gathered
I could see a few ‘have-a-go-heroes’
sizing the situation up
to make their name in the local paper
“get back, get back”
I crept closer
I could see in his
bloodshot eyes that he meant it

he had a Noika pressed into
her skull
his finger on the send key
he’d obviously composed a
deadly message
a diatribe against the government
a rant about capitalism
a paean to socialism

“get back, get back.”

suddenly, a man, well-built, late forties
with a shaven head rushed forward
(he must have pictured himself in print)
he managed to wrestle
the old woman free
the assailant, backing away,
put his mobile phone
in his mouth
some of the crowd shouted “No”
but it was too late

he pressed send.


About Me

Black-Listed Magazine is an online literary magazine. We publish on a rolling basis: weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. Send submissions here: blacklistedmagazine@hotmail.com