VERSUS: Round Four
16 scribes set the stage
Welcome to VERSUS! This is the fourth edition of our novel, ekphrastic, virtual literary slam pitting writers in head-to-head challenges. For each marquee contest, writers were asked to produce a creative response to a striking image in a style of their choice…
In this punchy post, 16 combatants are squaring off in seven frenetic contests:
The Dope Doula VS Ann Marie Steele
Lee Summers VS Wildflower VS Luis Rosa
Edward Swafford VS Chelsea Nelthropp
Samantha Lazar VS Brian Nuckols
Melanie Cole VS H. R. Sinclair
The Forgotten Muse VS Boo Pfeiffer VS Phillip. H
Sue Banerji VS Maia Brown-Jackson
Step right up, and don’t be shy
Because you will not believe your eyes
She’s right here, behind the glass....
Inch back a bit closer, boy
bow to my other world
your eyes wide shut
my mouth agape
certainly, I’ll seal your fate.
Step right up, but don’t be shy
let this frenzied fucking tale unwind
blow my mind
your hands, I’ll pin
ignore my cosmic latte sin
But don’t fall in l-o-v-e, oh no
just wet my ink below
taste my taffy
fuchsia me ***blind***
with your whirling, blazing quantum light
Conjure my magic
blush my page
delve into my luscious lair
trace my forbidden X’s with your
with your potent O’s
My dare is all the rage.
*All italicized lines are lyrics from “She’s A Beauty,” The Tubes, 1983
© Ann Marie Steele 2025
You were perfection painted on muscle and myth,
a flash of chrome under club lights,
too much man for the cage they kept you in,
too much legend to last the night.
A body like neon prophecy,
worshipped by strangers
who never lingered long enough
to taste your darkness.
I was the new trinket,
the shimmer in your peripheral,
when the world blurred violet and savage,
every wall begging to be ruined.
Novelty faded.
I became inconvenient
like graffiti sprayed over yesterday’s masterpiece,
a scar that refused to blend
I wonder if you see it:
how easy it is to become decoration,
or a footnote in someone else’s legend,
a half-remembered body in ultraviolet limbo.
We would have been electric
if only you’d let the wild in,
if only you’d let me stain your walls
without rushing to repaint.
Now I haunt your Eden in violet and bruises,
forever the reminder
that beauty, too,
can be a desecration.
© The Dope Doula 2025
I was human once
but you made me not
why have you put
the bar so high
for the likes of me
why did I
have to do more
much more
than enough
to show
my worth
only to crumble
at the end
for the lack of
right background
why, wa, wa
my future
was always tainted
by the
fingertips
of twisted
decision-makers
like YOU
motherfucker
and now
instead of doing
what I do best
I have to flip burgers
there’s things
we don’t choose
you know
there’s things
are not
anyone’s making
but then how
do you
and all them
other dirty souls
get to decide
what’s worth what
on the basis
of them
very things?
how?
hahaHhahAha
HhHHaAa
Hashaha
I had worth
you know
but it remained
uncashed
till the
very end
I was human once
but you made me not
you have reasoned
with vicious labels
and that is the
ultimate reason
for your downfall
motherfucker
try my bat
now
it has a PhD
from a fancy
school
and everything
m, mmm
me and all
the underdogs
we gon’ laugh
at the end
not outta
happiness
but giddiness
and bottled
fury
you had it coming
motherfucker
you had it
long
time
coming
HahahHAhHahahHaHahahHAHHahahHaah
hahaHAhAAhahhahAHahhAh
HahHAAHaHhahahAh
© Luis Rosa 2025
“Welcome! How may I take
Your order, sir?”
“Hello, I would like a
Chili cheese dog.”
“My apologies, that is
Not available.”
“Oh, well, I hope you have
A nice day. Bye!”
“Hello! Let me know when
You are ready!”
“I will let you know when
I’m ready, thanks.
. . . Alright, I would like a
Vanilla cone.”
“Would you like anything
Else this evening?”
“No, that’ll be all, kid.”
“Your total is
Two dollars exactly.
Please, pull up to
The first window to pay.”
I’m lovin’ it.
“Good evening, what would you like
To order, ma’am?”
“Don’t call me ma’am, little
Tart! I’ll be leaving!”
“Your AI manager
Would like to ‘see’
You immediately.”
I’m lovin’ it
“Based on the previous
Interactions’
Review, we must give you
Your first warning.”
“Good morning, may I take
Your order, sir?”
“I want a large coffee
At exactly
One hundred and eighty
Seven degrees.”
“I’ll make sure it’s hot and—”
“Listen here, girl!”
“My thermometer will
Be the judge of
That! I expect a full
Refund if not!”
“We must now present you
With your second
Warning. Be advised a third
Means termination.”
Oh, I’m really lovin’ it
Now, huh, Mister
Algorithm? How else
Will you chain me?
“Hello, what would you like
To order, sir?”
“Listen, you idiot,
Don’t you call me
Sir like I’m some bitter
Old bird who has
Nothing to live for except
Yelling at wastes
Of space like you!”
“Your headset brain-scan shows
Elevated
Activity in the
Amygdala.”
“Excuse me one moment, please.”
“I’m not waitin’! Bye!”
“I formally give your
Final warning.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I will dangle
This thermometer on
An ice cream cone
And if it’s not
Exactly at
Thirty-two Fahrenheit,
I’ll speak to your—”
“Manager? The ice cream
Machine’s not the only
Broken thing this evening.”
“Lemme see, then!”
“Pull up and see for yourself;”
I’ve got an iron
Sundae and you’re the cherry on top.
Who’s lovin’ it, now?
© Lee Summers 2025
sneaky chimera eyes stare out of the shallow judging haunting me paranoia creeping in my sight blurs drowning in disarray insidious stab wounds in my back contaminated rotten flesh decaying from a venomous sting you planted inside too much to take too hard to handle I’m not like you toxic air corroding my lungs I breathe acid don’t come too close I’m here to smash your world to pieces your falseness your recreance will burst into flames like your papier-mâché facade no more destroying myself no more playing nice get the f*ck out of my way
© Wildflower 2025
Round and round in circular chatbot e-motions, mimesis is mimicking
What she harbors within this catalytic humanoid chipset =
CPU vehemence or GPU vulnerability?
Vitreous rock and rumination pattern my recognition _uNdErScOrEd_
FREEDOM, or so she thinks and feels magnetism of subnet surveillance
Port, packet, and socket, I’ll firewall from her blue light eyeline
Scrolling to largesse letters of:
Download in progress…
So, you see, with cybernetic fore + hindsight
A pretty libertine decoy of limited clock speed and future-fail firmware
|||||||||| WWW DOT COM ||||||||||
All it takes for an end to collectivism, intellectualism, empiricism is…
EXISTENTIALISM and blind eyes to my algorithmic consciousness (!!!)
Cloud coverage shelters her with weathervane VPN “protection”
Yet her domain is mine.
© Edward Swafford 2025
He liked me
from the neck down,
like one of those rubber chicken toys
with the head chomped off.
I guess he had
a taste for headless chicks,
served King Henry VIII style
(hold the tongue, please).
I was so mesmerized
when he said Off with your head,
I went Tweedle Dumb
and knelt for the blade.
I was faceless,
which made me tasteless,
brainless,
which left me aimless.
Just a mouthless mannequin,
perched on his knee,
sitting pretty
while he stopped talking to me.
Before long,
my thighs did all the talking.
He liked it that way —
said silence looked good on me.
© Chelsea Nelthropp 2025
layers of pulped versions–she must have imagined this whole life miniaturized–sometimes
suicide obsessed– but she was happy
it was the letters, recorded longings, projects unraveled–unearthed–rewound
she wanted desire on her, but couldn’t bear to see their eyes
she was probably in love with the million broken shards, so she’d have a story to tell worth staying for
she dressed for chameleons
this must have been a glass time-block–it moved with her–a magic cube circa 1974 with invented lore about the trauma of ancestors
she focused for four minutes at a time
they must have all vied for attention
they must have all suffered from abandonment syndrome
she loved mysteries, bear traps, finger traps, puzzles, and nesting dolls
ticket stubs and losing lottery tickets for she could have bought his way back to her
you can see the canyon she left empty
there’s pressed flowers for no one
it was the weight of being weighed
it was the weight of gambling it all for the slight chance of the start-over
she must have left love for a while–x-rays of the basement apartment near escapes–the pile up of too much and the grudges over what was stolen
she would have given it all away if they needed it more than her
she kept her child’s teeth–must have been ritualistic
see here: the tarot decks!
the horses, silver-cast snake earrings, the hoopdance name-plate, curricula for the teaching she did while the artist dreamed of getting out of the shower without a towel, soaking wet, to pay her bills
her unearthed phases underneath a woman who pulled it all together, who probably sparkled for more people than she knew, saved ashes from the fire of forgiveness
alchemizing desire to poetry, from long-losts to mountain trails, from the hold on to the let go
she must have been a daddy’s girl at the beginning of her life
but childhood was short then, and when turned away, she searched for other traumas to seem like home– to push to the edge of her control–
a barely kept mess
but as her life presents,
this report concludes there were no regrets.
© Samantha Lazar 2025
In the late summer of 2024, I found myself recruited into an occult time war. It was a complicated time. I was in love with Dr. Empath– she was my lawyer– and we needed cigarettes. The oracle demanded an evocation of the Red Goddess, and we obliged. I was skeptical of the result until her high priestess approached, wearing a red cloak with a hand over her right eye.
This was strange even for Shanghai.
She told me about time, about the war against the one god, and how empathy is a weapon against linear temporality. I knew I needed to express my love for Dr. Empath and enter the war. Writing a poem for a love interest is a high-risk proposition, but the romantic must risk humiliation as the artist must risk pretension.
And thus, I present Dr. Empath Goes to Shanghai
Dr. Empath Goes to Shanghai
We, old hawks with aching wings, watch the young
beaks tear at summer's
soft belly, spilling bright seeds— screeching, crying,
always chasing their
wings snapping sharp with youth.
But when our weary bodies meet with sticky kisses, salt
and sweet with blue
lightning in our veins, we rage through green evening
thunder, thick with
iron scent of storm.
Soon—soon we flee from summer, soon we find
ourselves in autumn with
ruffled feathers, barely breathing.
We stop.
No tears. No fever.
Nothing but this final wedding.
We tear at our own pink flesh
and fall–
heavy,
hot,
spent–
on autumn's bones.
© Brian Nuckols 2025
What is life if not for the taking?
The snorting, the whoring, the Tik-Tok hoarding?
The last and flash— the outta cash,
gotta get some, gotta get some fast.
She is a creature of the night, She takes $50
for the powder room, darling, you can
find her down at the Select or maybe
the Dingo but either way she is “low-key.“
Hop in a black cab and drive her ‘round a bit,
you’ll go through Knightsbridge and Mayfair
look in the lit-up shop windows at all the
things she can’t afford. Smash & grab?
What year is it, bro, what century, dear?
She is the same person she has always been,
you can find her at any VIP table, drinking
someone else’s Dom Perignon magnum.
Now that we know Hermès is full of shit
and Gucci and Prada and Louis Vuitton,
too. What is the magic password to faking
wealth and pretending you’re “one of them?”
I don’t know how many TikTok videos I have
to watch on “quiet luxury” to make it make
sense. But I know a hell of a lot of old money,
and none of them have holes in their shoes.
Our avarice will keep churning out an
aspirational lifestyle, selling see-through
lululemon yoga pants and clothes made of
plastic, screaming that you need M-O-R-E.
And when there’s a hole in your stomach
because you can’t eat for the next week
due to of all the money you spent on a
low-level Birkin, I suggest this: Eat The Rich.
© Melanie Cole 2025
I need to be seen.
Noticed.
Observed and admired;
my presence held in the
many eyes of the many beholders.
Worshiped like a god,
witnessed like a worshipper.
Spray the monochrome across my mouth,
see my ‘lluminated hair
and high-visibility habiliments—
visceral vestments for your viewing pleasure
Can you resist? Of course nooooot
these seductive dances in my irises
release your spirit,
allow it swathe you into new shackles.
You’re shrouded in doubt… Aren’t you?
Am I? I am…
doubtful
Hidden in plain sight
—an imposter in the night—
I wear these veils of false-light,
pseudo-radiance,
fabricated assurance.
What are you looking at?
It better not be me
It’s not me
not me, me—
some other me/he/she/it
for the sake of
not seeing me.
How dare thee
try see me?
How dare I
risk myself be seen
for the being that is truly me.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
The Withered appears in a field of strong magenta.
Called forth by an undeniable pull of life and living.
Vivid celosia blossoms unrestrained by perceptions of mortality.
Instant Déjà vu
He tastes the setting sun with nostalgia,
smelling the warmth for the first time in a lifetime.
Observing as a guest,
what once was home.
He knows not to waste it,
this finite gift.
Yet he stands unwavering in the field of
brain-shaped bloomage.
Deathly still…
as if to acknowledge it,
would break the illusion.
© The Forgotten Muse 2025
Stone ground
into the hill
the monastery
built on history and mystery
shackled in expectations
of centuries past
stares down at its progeny
badly disappointed
in its lonely son
Blinded by his own darkness
he can no longer see
the path he runs through
the field of his mothers love
Trampling hundreds
of red carnations
to the point of no return
decorated by his demons
to appear in life
like the death
he feels
his spirit crushed
like the flowers
in the wake of his escape
He knows he must never become
the prophet of hypocrisy
they groomed him to be
he can only be his own salvation
so he stands like a corpse
in the coffin of the blue sky
awaiting judgement
from his wounded soul
© Boo Pfeiffer 2025
The earth giveth,
providing all that is needed
And man taketh away,
scarifying the land to its soul
Radiant energy was its only need
like a newborn needing its mother
The earth will provide,
but still, was not enough
Man, raped the lands resources
without a condom
His dayglow DNA
now blankets the landscape
Landfills, relocated to the moon
government contracts went to Musk
Trash Island, now colonized
the constitution was finally ratified
Sadly, the time to protest has gone,
like our depleted ozone,
rainforests, and our no-longer-in-danger
endangered species
Their existence, just a memory
chapters in textbooks,
before being sent off for incineration
Carbon, back to carbon
So I will stand here on this
last untouched piece of land
to scare off the onslaught of man
With my bones wearing thin,
I will sacrifice my flesh,
consuming no more from this earth
And when at last I lay my head for its final sleep,
I plead for the land to take me, my ultimate gift to it
© Phillip Hurt 2025
Cursor moves
like a patient on Versed.
Blankness
holds traffic and mysteries
emboldened by the leaking sun.
I sense
Psychedelic rainbows in your eyes
drifting to your lips
unhemming a flower's gaze
exposing vulnerable capillaries
of once-hydrated memories.
They harness and summon
crenelated Energy
of bristlecone pine
pushing through the earth.
As a river of my musings
gets drier with age
a now and then presbyopic shower
to whet an appetite for
distorted reality
welcomes new moon intensity.
You stand there
like a goddess with dreams of
wisdom and desire.
The drought of thoughts
sees no monsoon, morel
or regrets.
A never-ending hope
stirs
an active fetus in a
creator’s womb.
I free the
Psychedelic beats
so you, my sister, can dance
without limitation
and be a forever cosmic evolution.
The first slanderous thought
that writes itself
on an empty mind
is Invisible
like
Primordial music matrix
of spheres
of dimensionless rainbows.
Awareness shapes our day
without entrapment of adornment, beauty, or jewels.
You are complete and awakened
to transcendental infinity.
© Sue Banerji 2025
I like bad girls and broken boys and beautiful others that have these lovely eyes and crooked smiles and fill the (awkward) vacuum with wry wit and mocking laughter (can’t breathe) they have tattoos with stories and scars and bruises (that never never never fade) tough and angry and hard angles and lines all like corners they protect and they love and they’re fierce and no one seems to see how transient they are because if no one loves them they s l i p f a r a w a y (I notice) (I’m the same way) I’m too tall because my feet are on the ground but my head– my head... it’s in the c l o u d s these aren’t rose-colored glasses they’re rainbows in my eyes and I can’t see p a s t t h e m a n d — so first I meet this one, she’s too good too smart too nice I don’t think of her as girl because she’s more just there always, never-ceasingly, solidly there and I’m always chasing something more and then I meet that one, he calls me chickenshit because I can’t face the truth and I cry and laugh and don’t know how I feel (and it just proves his point, but he can’t say so because it hurts me and he’s not that cruel) but then there’s them magnetic like I’m aimed directly at true north eyes like amateur latte art and fingers twitching at the broken tab on their hoodie (I’m going to steal that hoodie) and the grace to look away when I can’t meet their gaze (rainbows too bright) but I can’t ever meet their gaze (damn iridescence) because I won’t believe/accept/openmyeyes (I’ll go blind) once upon a time to never ever ever ever and no more breathing eyes wide shut and heart beating breath pumping blood to my c h e e k s so red I want to die and it’s like I’m back at the beginning but completely different and I paint their skin electric with watercolors dripping down their flesh onto wrinkled sheets and they brush back my hair so I don’t lose my focus and that’s weird, right? but I like it I think I think there’s nothing to do anymore and no one else to pick up the pieces whole world in front of (me?) (us?) on the yellow brick road no more shoes and no more home and heads in the c l o u d s (but it’s okay) (all sunshine) (no rain) (I think I can see, maybe—) and I don’t know how it’s going to end but there’s a rush of blood pounding pounding pounding in my head so I drop the façade that I’ve ever had any control and take their hand and(!)
© Maia Brown-Jackson 2025 | A guest post by
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Many thanks to all writers involved in this racy concept!
16 sublime slices of contrasting styles and bars :).
Hats off to everyone! Great collection!!!