Aubade (The Technique of Tenderness) by David Cranmer and B F Jones

Tender whispers
on warm creased pillows
as dawn breaks,
finally
we fall asleep
Legs entangled
Fingers entwined,
Eyelids heavy
with the promise
of love

Soft
bristle strokes
near the foot of the bed
immortalise
the passion
of our union,
and a secret joy
we’ve long held

David Cranmer’s poems, short stories, articles, and essays have appeared in publications such as Live Nude Poems, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, The Five-Two: Crime Poetry Weekly, LitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. His debut chapbook, Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen, is now available. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.

B F Jones is Punk Noir’s co-editor and writes Flash Fiction and Poetry. Her collection of interlinked stories, Something Happened at 2a.m. was published by Anxiety Press. She also has one flash fiction collection, Artifice, and two poetry chapbooks, The Only Sound Left and Five Years, all published by The Alien Buddha.

That Lonely Last call by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

The dose of poison
to stifle
the living dread
is up
three fold
what it took
when I first slid
down the longneck chute.

The warm embrace
gone too quick
no longer enough
until
the next brief moment
of abandon
at the arms of an ephemeral ghost.

What had died
and spiraled
too far,
can be glimpsed in
that lonely last call.

B F Jones is Punk Noir’s co-editor and write Flash Fiction and Poetry. Her collection of interlinked stories, Something Happened at 2a.m. was published by Anxiety Press. She also has one flash fiction collection, Artifice, and two poetry chapbooks, The Only Sound Left and Five Years, all published by The Alien Buddha

Ashes to Ashes by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

We’re gone all too soon,
suddenly,
just particles drifting apart
bit by bit.
Immaterial clouds dancing
to the sound of a broken orchestra.

What I so valued,
our love,
won’t beat for another
twenty-three millennia or more
or maybe never again.

And I miss you so
as distance stretches
I fade away
while you float,
bright still,
and I cling to a memory
I wish to revive,
re-live maybe once again

——I choose
to believe in continuity,
gods just need time to reunify
under a faraway neon star.

Before Gravity’s Pull by B F Jones and David Cranmer

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

I pull back from enforced darkness as
yellow rays from the lantern skip on
cobblestones, the street is too quiet
now as I paint a reflective past of a
time and place where you walked as a
god across my terrace, into my cafe

Materialising before
Me
Claiming the twilight and brightening the night
Sitting, sipping the drink I took to
You
Lips on the edge of a perspiring glass
Eyes on the horizon, on everything and
nothing,
On mine.

And the night slipped away
Giving way to numbered days

When the sun shone on a smiling you
When your laughter shattered the odds
Before gravity’s pull became apparent
Before our plans were ripped away.

I was thinking of you today, times past.

Summer evening, 1947 by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

A quiet evening with you, on the veranda,
Light illuminating your golden hair.
You in that tube top and gazing down
Smoldering flame. Smoldering out,
Til all that remained were dark skies
To keep company with memories of you.

A quiet evening with you, hot air waltzing,
stale look in your dirt brown eyes.
And in your mouth, words you no longer mean.
The burning light of longing having slowly
tarnished, a flicker growing ever faint,
Since that first morning, after.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

B F Jones, Paul D. Brazill, Punk Noir Magazine, Stephen J. Golds

PUNK NOIR MAGAZINE will be opening up for submissions again from May 1st with not one but TWO new editors!

As Paul D. Brazill shuffles off into the shadows, B F Jones and Stephen J. Golds will be the new editors of Punk Noir Magazine. Both writers are regular contributors to Punk Noir Magazine and are more than familiar with its ethos, so good times are just around the corner!

B F Jones is French and has been living in the UK since 2002. Her flash fiction and poems have been published in various online venues including The Cabinet of Heed, STORGY, Back Patio, Idle Ink, Misery Tourism, Spelk, Ellipsis Zine, Funny Pearls. Bristol Noir, The Daily Drunk, Dead Fern Press. Her first collection, The Fabric of Tombstones, was released in April 2020. Her next one will be published by Close To The Bone in December 2021 and her two poetry chapbooks in September 2021 and April 2022.

Stephen J. Golds was born in North London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his adult life. He writes primarily in the noir and dirty realism genres and is the poetry editor of Close to the Bone Press. Some of his writing influences are Charles Bukowski, John Fante, James M. Cain, Tobias Wolff and Jim Thompson. He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling the world, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. His novels are Say Goodbye When I’m Gone, I’ll Pray When I’m Dying (Red Dog Press) Always the Dead, Poems for Ghosts in Empty Tenement Windows and the story and poetry collection Love Like Bleeding Out With an Empty Gun in Your Hand. He can be reached on Twitter @SteveGone58

Repetitive by B F Jones & Stephen J Golds

B F Jones, Poetry, Stephen J. Golds

Repetitive

It comes when the dreams don’t,

the midnight walls constricting –

within the gut of Jonah’s whale.

A mind like mosquito bites

thoughts twisting

like stagnant laundry or

a child’s wonky windup toy.

Staring into a colorlessness with dry eyes.

Gnarling the night away with

each wring of a bloodied lip

body twitching to the rhythm of

an invisible metronome.

It’s here, always

casting its searing iron

time after time branding your soul

with the rusty-red glow of inferno

That fight by B F Jones

B F Jones, Poetry

That Fight

We need to address

The elephant in the room

That fat bastard

Has been sucking out

All the oxygen

Leaving us gasping for breath

As we shatter those egg shells

Fragments of anger

Scattering around the place.

Your mother and mine

That flirt from 2003

My demanding boss

Your unsurprising

Chicken surprise

All burn on the altar

Of our frustrations

That smells of charred flesh

And too much cumin.

Later,

Tired,

As the flames slowly die

We make up

Wash the taste of

Our bitter words

With wet kisses

Shed tears and clothing

Lick those fresh wounds

Finally reunified

Under the watchful eye

Of a fucking

Pachyderm.

Unanswered by B F Jones

B F Jones, Poetry

They dig right under where it is

Where it should be

Where you point

A molten finger,

Underneath

That stone angel.

This is where she is,

Was. Her eternal residence

Below moody skies

Avalanches

Of unanswered questions

Rage

Tears.

They dig, but she’s not there

Revolving blue lights

Revealing confusion,

Panic

Consternation.

She’s gone they say,

She’s gone you can see

A box empty

Of all that was left

Proof

Reality

Tragedy.

She’s gone and with it

The murmured claims

Of your insanity.

And

You will never know.

B F Jones is French and lives in the UK. She has flash fiction and poetry in various UK and US online magazines. Her poetry chapbook, Last Orders, and collection, Panic Attack, will both be published by Close To The Bone late 2021