Wednesday, January 31, 2007

A Hot Day On the Steps Of A Brownstone

Nicki slaps a bare foot against hot
Macadam and
Says, cool, girl,
Her caramel-colored fingers
Pulling out the c-o-o-l;
Check it out:
Rich mama's in the balcony
Of The Bijou and
Ma' baby cakes don't have to
Sit Here flappin' her
Knees to play it c-o-o-l;
So I follow her to where shadows
Play on the wall
And kids laugh
And soon icy pops of
And Cherry trickle down
Naked breasts and bellies;
Rich mama and
At the kiddie matinee';
All this and ten big
Ones ahead;
Not bad when there is
Nothing else to do
On a hot day
On The Steps
Of a brownstone

by Gabe Renzo

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his long white beard falls rudely
to greying chest hair, a worn

mountain of brave obtrusiveness
forming a furry second jaw of sorts

that opens when he speaks with a
wholesome drawl, the kind borne

from countless nights of buzzing
blacktop, snapping American flags,

and Jack Daniels always near at
large, meaty hand. he tells me

stories stained with tiremarks, about
the scream of an Old Sioux after peyote

fast and wise like the swift itch
of wind and leaves. or a mute Vietnam

veteran with a hook for a hand who could
still tie his shoes perfectly, and whom he

hitchhiked with in the pounding snow
for three days, till the man got angry

flagging down a car by busting a window
open, holding it with his powerful arm

and the rusty metal of his hook. or with
salt water tears spicy enough to scorch

the pavement beneath, he speaks of his
dog Jefferson, a brown rotweiler who

became an alcoholic after so many funnel
parties and wild nights, finally having

to be put down. all i can hear is his
voice, of course, standing near his truck

decorated with magnets that look like
bulletholes. i want desperately to say,

"those days are all over. you are only
a memory given recognition when someone

speeds at streetlight, or buys an old
Harley. you are only a phantom bathed

in the dim light of your open driver's
door." i do not, needless to say, and

i see ghosts in his fierce eyes as we
stand, and the rain gently on his memories.

by John Thomas Allen

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Tuesday, January 30, 2007

One Glorious Night

You can wait your whole life,
your whole god damn life,
shitting yourself in anticipation
for a glorious night like this:

I'm five-foot nothing,
skinny-assed and fat-stomached,
my nose too long, my dick too short,
my eyes grey and twitching.

She's the best a used revolver
and a sandwich bag of opium can buy.
Duke said, "I usually ain't much for tradin',
but she's yours for the night, pardner."

So I took her to a movie
and we laughed and laughed
as spinal columns snapped
and skulls collapsed on the screen.

And we went out for steaks
and she smirked as the blood wormed
down my bearded chin.
The meat tore easily in my teeth.

And then after too much cheap wine
she unzipped my torn jeans
and I fucked her armpit until I screamed
and painted her shoulder.

Then we talked about love.
She said, "What about it?"
I said, "It's funny, ain't it?"
She said, "Fuck my armpit again."

So I did.
And I came blood and my eyes went white
and I thought Satan had crawled up my dickhole
and was killing angels in my sack.

I woke up and she was dead,
split from mouth to belly-button
like vicious hell-bound lightning
had torn her lovely body in half.

I returned her to Duke in a red suitcase.
He said, "You party hard, my friend."
I drummed my fingers on the suitcase
and wept silently on Duke's shoulder.

"There, there," he said.
The clouds blackened overhead,
a dead bird fell from the sky.
"There, there," he said.

by Barnabas DuCoudray

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Monday, January 29, 2007

If Memory

If memory serves me correctly, you were the one who let me down,
If feelings permit me, you were the one who let me drown,
If the body moves me, you were the one who imprisoned me innocense, and choked my sanity,
You are the one, whose love betrayed me, and left me with my virginity.

by Jake C. Elliot

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Sunday, January 28, 2007

Adam's modern err

Nailed him on a wall of rubber
Left him as I glued my soul
As I passed through a hole
Of penis…of penis and all
Walked, minced, toddled…
Silhouettes of that man
Who reminds me of Eve…
The apple of discord
The bite he took and
I grinned, I grinned and all.

Call me evil
Call me Venus of no beauty
Call me whore

But I caught him
With his mistress
Moaning it all.

by Krisitne Buenavista

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BOOK: Cranial Speedway

Congratulations to Ron Cervero on the publication of his new book!

In a long tradition of "outside" poets, from Whitman´s "barbaric yawp" through Bukowski, comes Ron Cervero, who has crafted a volume of short rough poems which primarily are written as responses to daily occurrences, or, more often, outrages. The outrage is keenly felt, and Mr. Cervero´s responses are often bitter and sardonic. Cervero claims not to have read Bukowski before writing this volume and while comparisons, especially eternally being at odds with the Establishment, are evident, these poems are as fragmentary and episodic as, say, videotaping a hanging surreptitiously with a cell phone. Still, they add to define the personality of the poet, whose tattooed legs and torso are displayed on the cover and whose unique view becomes more clear with each poem. David Mix Northeast Review

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Saturday, January 27, 2007

The Mayfly

Consider the mayfly,
The essence of life,
The way that we’re living,
But minus the strife;

No time is wasted,
It’s a quest to mate,
To carry life’s torch,
An ability innate;

The job is done,
And the fly can die,
No one will see him,
No one will cry;

This sorry state,
This is us too,
No one’s remembered,
Only the few;

You may scoff,
And think I’m wrong,
‘I’m not a mayfly,
And my life is long’;

But time is the traitor,
Don’t surrender your trust,
Don’t be a mayfly,
Do what you must!

by Richard Scales

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Friday, January 26, 2007

Good Fences

Some scream late at night, play music
Loud and fight. Others you never see,
Never greet, like the allusive Kingfisher,
They don't exist. Maybe you see them once.
Once, just once, if at all. . . .

Eons ago I watched Belushi and Aykroyd
In that surreal, strange flop, "Neighbors",
When John says, bewildered,
"Welcome to the end of the road,
I guess." And sadly, that's how it is
Here -- with the neighbors and I.
Apartment dwellers: creeping cockroaches,
Terrified transients drowning inside
Publishers Clearing House dreams.
Two working mates yelling hate,
Deciding if it will be the rent
Or the second car payment
That'll be trashed after this argument.

"What in the hell you lookin' at,
Asshole?!" A nice greeting, yes.
Ozzie and Harriett, move next door,
Would you please?! But then again,
Fred Sanford or Archie Bunker will do.

- Oh, I wish they'd just get it
Over with -- fight or fuck
Or whatever they're into
Tonight. She screams instead.
Tomorrow, no, wait, today,
I'll report them, call the office
And complain, but cheap
Entertainment goes far
Behind suburban bars

Maybe at dawn
I'll call in sick, then sleep.

Maybe I'll move downtown,

Maybe I'll buy a dog.

by Sam Vargo

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Thursday, January 25, 2007


If asked to make a wish, what would it be?
No matter what the wish its reason is always the same.
We wish for whatever we think will make us happy.

We reminisce about “happier times.”
But yesterday is a memory, not an emotion.
It’s what was, not what is.

We wish for a brighter future.
But, does happiness live there?
One cannot hope happiness in to being.

Do you know what makes you happy?
If not, you’re destined to be without it.
You can’t experience what you don’t know.

You can’t discover happiness.
You can only live it and feel it.
You just have to know what “it” is.

Laugher is a consequence of happiness.
It is not happiness itself.
Happiness is a state of mind.

Happiness is not a commodity.
You can’t buy or sell it.
You can only experience it.

Happy people experience joy even if ill or poor.
They give pleasure by making others happy.
Happiness is spiritual - it engulfs you.

Happiness is a journey;
It is not a destination.
The best time to be happy is now.

Don’t look for happiness in the past.
Today was yesterday’s future.
Be happy now. Tomorrow may not arrive.

by Ewald Coet

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Jewish Mormon

Cunt, always looking for a
Kings knight to marry

You shallow little

Canadian from
Loves the Devil

Just Joking. Or am I

Just telling the truth? She
My dead corpse

I've never before met a more Jewish Mormon...

by King's Assassin

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Wednesday, January 24, 2007

The Asshole of America

I ate the asshole
of America
until my tongue was raw
and dryer than a riverbed
in the stomach of summer.

I was soaked in the blood
of orphaned infants,
my skin slick
with crimson
and steaming innards.

I ate the asshole
of America
under a black sun
while armies ripped me
limb from twitching limb.

My pale legs were mailed
to my mother in Cleveland,
my thin arms
to my son in New York,
my cock to my wife, Natalya.

I ordered Natalya
from an albino in Moscow
nine years ago
for $449.99 in American dollars
and one hell of a backrub.

Natalya and I
used to fuck bleak nights away
like possessed barracuda
ramming each other
until the water bubbled red.

But now I am here,
limbless and sexless,
eating the asshole
of America
in the war-bent blackness.

by Barnabas DuCoudray

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ART: Alien DNA 3045

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Tuesday, January 23, 2007

& you giggled nervously in the closet

she said carefully
"I heard you write poetry" I said
"oh yeah?" & she nodded like rag dolls do
"who told you?" I asked & she pointed
over my eyebrow to a passed out, sticky woman spread eagle
on my couch
with the understanding of understating
courtship banality & television deterrents--
I ignored the passed out harlot who was dry heaving my social complexities
chose, rather, to
focus on
the idea that poetry wuz a gift(goat) to the soul
so, said I "poetry is a gift(goat) to the soul"
so, said she "I dunno what that means"
so, said I "it means you should rip yer shirt & tear my skin, like hard, bothersome adjectives"
she smiled with decoration glasses & removed her shirt
to expose red lace Victoria secret hand-me-down from her sister’s tit reduction
I grinned with the corner of my mouth that
chews up skin like you chew me up & spit me out
like she blew me down & spit me out on
her-- who’s dead-- but said
she mirrored your blue/jean affairs
& then
I lifted my soul extensions & removed clothes in a family friendly way
stopping only to question the situation
when I bent over gingerly
to retrieve her fallen diaphragm
red wine glistened in the afterglow floor lamp carpet
renaissance symphony circumcised robot eyes with springtime mystery
& apartment flat posters hanging chronologically over the stash of intellectual
dirty books
when we finished, she licked me off her lips & popped a New York Mint
in her mouth & asked if I’d like to go again?
I told her "yer no merry-go-round but I should tell you that
yes, I do, in fact, write poetry"

by Chris Haas

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In 25 minutes, I'll be better.
Instant gratification.
I saw her looking at me with disgust.
I couldn't help it.
In my mind I had already came in her face.
I could imagine the sting in her eye must be unbearable.
It makes me laugh a little.
It's soon after that I rape her.

by Carlos Giron

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Poem for Robert Frost

Mister Frost, I walked past your house today & spit
Mister Frost, tourists were tickled PINK to peek in your window
Mister Frost, your foyer is filled with buttons
Mister Frost, your architecture angers me
Mister Frost, I don’t stop in snowy woods, I smoke cigarettes & squeal, yellow holy urine to coat drifting ice
Mister Frost, I don’t give a fuck bout my neighbor, he don’t know my middle name & I covet his porn
Mister Frost, I don’t write traditional stanzas, my brain's (a) jigsaw puzzle on speed
Mister Frost, I take drugs & drink booze, that’s how I brainstorm.
Mister Frost, I ALWAYS take the path less written & the girl most traveled.
Mister Frost, I feel fine in misery. quicksand keeps me warm.
Mister Frost, Have you ever read Gregory Corso/d.a levy/Sapphire/Alan Kaufman/Lowell/Lerner and (or) Yusef Komunyakaa?
Mister Frost, Poetry ain’t stardom
Mister Frost, Poetry ain’t sweet
Mister Frost, Poetry ain’t taught cos I say NO in cornered caves & cuz you wax HALLMARK bout nature neurosis

Mister Frost, (we) don’t write the (sam)e poetry
Mister Frost, I don’t get invited to presidential inaugurations, I’m too busy playing harmonica & protesting faulty, filthy governments on bongo paper progressions.

Mister Frost, most people don’t dig my shit. They say it’s weird & "too" lengthy & scat t e r e d
Mister Frost, I’m not mellow
Mister Frost, I’m James Taylor before rehab
Mister Frost, I lost my virginity in the WOODS-- bruce springsteen howled on a transistor boombox, she wuz on top, hard nipples hypnotized my pupils-- she wuz so wet, I wuz so quick, the LEAVES climaxed in an UH AH UH AH, mantra movements of slapping skin--
See? I write nature poems too.
Mister Frost, you should read Herbert Hunke, he has HIS tongue on the pulse of an alligator
Mister Frost, rip the covers off yer books & make tea. English majors murmur in coffeehouse critic america, sipping CORPORATE caffeine while yer queezy meandering enlightens their Writer’s Weekly libido.
Mister Frost, I don’t look down on poetry, but I DO look up women’s skirts
Mister Frost, I’m vulgar in all my couplets
Mister Frost, I fucking hate Thoreau as well. the two of you should shack up in the woods together & play paddy cake with pickles
Mister Frost, I don’t need nature metaphors. I personify a gunshot
Mister Frost, I write sonnets to girls who don’t want me, wuz YOU ever a sad puppy?
Mister Frost- I don’t go to church, I litter on Earth Day
Mister Frost, I’m e.e. cummings with an (F).
Miser Frost, I’m the eyelash of Rimbaud
Mister Frost, I’m my best nightmare but yer WORST reality
Mister Frost, I fuck with the lights on

by Chris Haas

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Monday, January 22, 2007

Scribbled on the Back of a Lithium Prescription

These broken, dirty windows can't keep out the
noise, neither can the valium

Gunfire and screams follow the fake orgasms
from a hooker, the bitch's head banging against the wall

Her orgasm's are for show just like the gunfire,
just like the gun, just like the cock

The screams are very real, invoked by the pure horror
of death, the horror of what I have become

Broken glass from the vodka bottle is as good as the bowie
knife, missing it more than Mom

I left it sticking out of a pig in Barstow, cop with an attitude,
dead cop

Dig a little deeper into the flesh of my hand trying to hit bone,
like fucking corpses

Now her orgasm's turned into a scream, a gurgling belch,
a pussy farting blood, vomit

Something put on for show now turned into something very
real, there are no happy endings

The gunfire's stopped, replaced by sirens, shouting,
disbelief, thank God it wasn't me

Screaming's stopped too, the hooker probably dead by now,
almost there, cumming

I scream, to fill the void, the wound in my hand erupting,
I can't help but lick it, blood tastes so sweet

The vodka wasn't enough to dull that kind of agony, smash my
head against the wall again

A pounding in my head they always explain away as a migraine,
headache, biological

I need to eradicate the life that flows in me, anything but
this sickness, pills can't cure that

The scream I emit is very real as well, but it doesn't mean the
same, mine are sane

Two men lying in pools of blood bowels spilling out, the pain
I gave them was excruciating, glass rod in a cock

A dead prostitute lies broken on dirty sheets, bent terribly,
bloody, sickening grin

Covered in feces and semen, one and the same, I was born in shit
from my Father's ass

Her screams expressing pure pain and frustration mixed together,
mine just lust and hate

The inevitable catching up to yet another doomed victim,
but not me, God not me

It hurts, oh God please stop it hurts, SHUT UP BITCH,
it's supposed to hurt

My screams aren't the same as theirs, alcohol-stained emanations,
vodka snot dribbles

They screamed at the horror of death catching them by surprise,
I at the adrenaline

I scream at the lack of guts in me to embrace death fully,
the strength to flay, rend

On the floor of the bathroom, the tub sloshing and crimson,
pieces of me, sticky, pink

Tiles slick with the fluid my life squirts from my hand,
I grovel, eating myself, my cum

Crying, but not the kind of tears a compassionate person
wants to heal, no priests here

When the pigs come, they think I was injured in a crossfire,
by the nameless shooter

I don't bother explaining to them, the nurse knows when she sees it,
recognizes suicide

Sneaking out of the hospital at 2 in the fucking morning,
dirty, greasy, smelling of sex

Grabbing a bottle of vodka on the way back to the hotel,
no, 2 or 3, fuck I can't recall

Grabbing my shit in the duffel back and heading out the door,
needing to kill, release

Still bleeding, still hating, still seething, still wishing,
oh God, wishing for death

Screaming inside, every day just another pile of proof that
life's not worth living at all

Every day a disappointment that I can't find the courage to die,
hurting myself, never dead

Not even from a bottle is there courage, I know,
there are 78 lying behind me, vodka, sin

The hooker's stockings I wrap up with the gun in my
duffel bag, next to the liver, the cunt

Just because I don't have the guts to kill myself,
doesn't stop me from killing everyone else

Stop me from killing again; help me to kill the only
person I truly want dead, this fake

Another town grows larger in my headlights, my guts
growling, boiling with humanity

Shouldn't have started eating them, that only made the
hatred worse, makes it grow stronger

Oxnard truck stops bringing back memories, dirt, oil, gas,
old dirty men fucking whores

Getting ass raped by a 50 year old trucker, 17-year-olds
are strong too, never underestimate

A claw hammer makes a wicked weapon, the heft is nice
in my hands, always has been

I'm killing him over and over again; he's the human archetype,
God the rapist, faggot God

No different than any of us, just taking what we desire,
spreading my cheeks, I am weak

He wanted me, to dominate the roundness of my ass, lay his
250 upon me, worship my youth

What he got was a broken skull, brain matter decoration for
the cab of his semi truck, death

I didn't rape that boy, maybe I did, wasn't it a girl, I'm
not like that, not gay, sick

Can't remember anymore, think I'm just one of them now,
the killing keeps me alive, coward

That's why I need to die; the symptoms are growing worse,
seeing humans as cows, cattle

Cannibalizing them, Jesus fucking Christ I've lost myself,
the meat getting bigger in my bag

Thought it was all going to accomplish something, a cause,
something to make life better for me

So drunk that night, asleep in the alley, the warm
body that snuggled against me in the rain

My brain no better than static, just feeling the aching in
my cock, surging of semen, acidic

Grabbing at the warmth of the body next to me, burying
myself into it, my eyes wide with lust

The barking, whining and biting only making me more
angry, ripping the fur from it, beating it

Eating the damn thing when it finally died, no animal on
this earth tastes like a young boy

I'm not dying, that's the problem, only you are dying,
constantly dropping dead, murdered

Tons of memories here, especially behind the showers, those
sweaty holes of Hell opened up

That hooker with the saggy tits who got shot by the diner
owner, after he raped her, never before

A black man hanging from the back of the truck with the
Confederate flag, skinheads spitting

Not my doing, why would I need to, I'm greater than you all,
the God of fucking war and death

Enough killers in this world take their turns before me, for
different reasons, not my reasons

I'm killing all of them, the killers of men and women,
those who stalk the living, serial

Prostitutes spreading disease, giving it to me, my cock
yellowing, crusting, falling off

Making my baby die in the womb, those drug pushers
selling their fucking poison to my woman

She died too soon; too soon, I wasn't done yet, my mate,
my soul was in her, my life, sanity

The wound I rent in her belly was nothing, she was dead,
staring at me, pleading with rape eyes

Sculpting a huge vaginal cavity from her stomach, arranging
the guts like a baby, entombed

Strangling on its umbilical cord, a festering womb,
poisoned by heroin, alcohol, a rapist's semen

In blood across the room I wrote "This is what you took from me"
999 times, I can't stop writing it

I'm killing the killers, succeeding at my task, already more than
300 dead, tobacco competition

It's working perfectly; they attribute them all to random violence,
minorities killing each other

White collar murderers, serial killers, drug deaths, rapists,
hit and runs, assassinations, murder

The most successful serial killer in the world is a vigilante,
constantly seeking new justice, the judge

Pray you aren't the one of these, these killers, these vermin,
but if you are, if you are…

Kill me first so this pain can finally end, when you see me,
my cock drawn, gun loaded, don't fear me

I'll give you just enough time to make it a fatal blow,
I swear to that, not a second longer

(They always hesitate...)

by Christian Avery Bryant

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Sunday, January 21, 2007

Crazy Town

Nightmare “X” --
A man called Vivid came to visit,
through the dark eyes of a killer.
Stuck in rehab.
People from here to there.
My teeth were falling out,
and I was spitting blood like a fire hose.
I had to smile to prove my dementia.
While crawling on the ground I picked,
up my teeth from the tile floor, and put
them in my front pocket.
Vivid took me to the carnival.
On the way he started bitching at me for,
not watching the “Christmas Story” marathon.
I see the roller coaster…
Let me out before my mind explodes.
It was a bad trip, but a trip none the less.
Vivid began hitting me in the mouth with a steel pipe.
I lost the battle to become whole…
I lost everything…
Just another day in crazy town --

by Ron Cervero

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ART: Left Hand, 2006

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Saturday, January 20, 2007

Big bag of tricks

Your bag of tricks is all we see
in the papers and on TV

from the moment we lie
till the moment we wake
your bag of tricks helps start our day

It helps create what we perceive
Although it may not be true
Yet we still do believe

Yet your bag of tricks has many tricks indeed
Even I don't know if I've been tricked this day
Although I know your bag of tricks is here today

We've been mesmerized since the day we're born
Because most of our parents don't know of this war

The war in our minds that this bag of tricks define
And most people will not admit to living this lie

yet just another trick in the bag of tricks
because they know we'd rather live a lie
than to admit to ourselves and our families
that we've been wrong all this time

So let's just forget about the tricks
in the big bag of tricks

Yet that's just another trick
In the big bag of tricks

by Renzo Jimenez

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Friday, January 19, 2007


I pulled a strand of snot
Out of my cat¹s nose
Over seven inches long
Thick as a shoe lace
Sticky as Rubber Cement
I pulled a strand of snot
Out of my cat¹s nose
And watched her cry
Watched a fat tear bubble in her eye
I pulled a strand of snot
Out of my cat¹s nose last night
Over seven inches long
And felt a sick joy
A thrilling satisfaction
Because she could breathe again
And so could I.

by Eric Blare

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ART: by Renzo Jimenez

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Thursday, January 18, 2007

Clara Bow’s Panties

He kept them for
40 years in
an antique
oak chest,
that his dead mother
had used for fine lace
handkerchiefs and
embroidered napkins. Clara
Bow’s yellow silk panties
graced the bottom.
Once or twice a month
he would take them out,
holding them
over his face,
inhaling and smelling deeply..
And memories of being
a movie extra, as
a kid, would come back
like a flood: :
when he was nine and looking up her dress
between her tanned and plump thighs,
the inspiration of his
first erection.

by Doug Draime

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Face Hugger

Come down to the cove
let me wash over you
Tidal my full moon
and I’ll rain down
Golden lavender
from the heavens
To shower my curtain tail
with sprinkles
of yellow amber
The santorum noise
that vibrates with bass
Bold sound so sexual
it drips with eager
anticipating lust
Captured by lips so red
they bleed the bite to wound
Separate like lovers
I’ll take one wing for me
to add to my collection
Giving me four in all
to spread across my back
reaching for my ankles
while they poke
at mountain tops
Back to sandy footsteps
racing along the line of cusps
that forms a salty grin
oozing with liquid courage
One last ditch effort
to try to solidify
your week of solid control
binding your Brazilian sleek
to my cotton candy traps

by Kate Green

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Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Ass of Burden

You see them sometimes –
Usually late at night
Off the side of the road.
In the shadows.
Just out of sight.
Shadowed figures.
Nerves and curves.
They come from the depths of night
Unexpected, like bright surprises.
- You see them and they're gone.
That horrid ghost that jumps
Out right when you think you've
Gone by, wearing tight leather,
Denim, bandanas, and always,
Always: skin – yes, lots of skin.

Where do you sleep?
I guess your "off" time is daytime.
Is this a hobby? Is it for keeps?
Unholy target of preachers,
Comedians and bartenders –
Love object of pure, paranoid
Writers and painters; who
Are you? I don't know
And tomorrow, I will not care.

But now as I pass,
Sad woman, can't you find something
To sell other than your ass?

by Sam Vargo

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I tend to lean towards the color black.
Black panties.
Black garters.
Black stockings.
Black heels.
Black leather.
Black rubber.
Red lipstick.
How I adore red lipstick!
My red fiery lips are the stop sign that forces you to halt.

Tonight is a bit of a exception.
I have been invited to a PINK PARTY!
Pink is a stretch for a dame like myself.
But, I am always up for a challenge.

Considering the week I had and my keen ability to service.
I was left with only one clever idea.
"A Maid Costume!"
I would wear a PVC Pink Maid costume.
The material was like fresh enamel.
Pink , glossy, slick and terribly short.
The waist was fitted and the bodice was trimmed in white lace.
To my amazement the apron was so sweet, practically angelic.
The under skirt was so fluffy and white it looked like a tasty pastry.
My luscious lips made for a nice cherry.

Tits up.
Corset synched.
Garters tight.
Fishnets fully seamed.
Heels gleaming.
Last but not least, my precious pussy hand painted to perfection!

To the awe of my friends, I had arrived in PINK.
Pretty pastel and hot pink graced the walls like a canvas.
With my pounding stomp of a stride, I had truly arrived.

The room was filled with luscious bodies.
The music was pounding.
Eyes flickered and teeth glistened.

The air was thick with sex.
I could smell and taste it.
My pussy moistened with thoughts of all the possibility.

"Sweet dark chocolates?"

I had wanted decadence and here I was.
Looking all the part of a dessert, fit for a king.

Everywhere I looked there were bits of pleasure.
People fucking in the halls and on balconies.
Men shoving their hard warm cocks deep inside eager willing women's wet slots.
Women with tits exposed to my temptation.
All the pleasure was overwhelming.
Hands and mouths tangled in bliss.
Beauties and ghouls.
The young and old alike.
Deeper, I was driven to wanting.
My pussy was soaked with need.

As the music progressed to a deafening pulse, I began to quiver.
The anticipation was eating me alive.
Harder, faster, the music entranced me more by the moment.

To my surprise, the music began to fade in and out.
The grand show had begun.
A catwalk of lovely ladies and firm men seduced the crowd with suggestion.
With champagne in hand and a twisted agenda, I approached the edge of the stage.
Lovely young hands assisting me in unzipping that perfect pink dress.
My angelic dress feel to the stage floor in a heap.
I was left standing in only my black and white corset, fishnet stockings, heels and a meticulously hand painted pink French cupcake on my freshly shaven pussy.

"LET THEM EAT CAKE!" I exclaimed with a devilish grin.
Reaching deep into my pussy and licking my fingers.
I gave a final look of accomplishment.

It seems everyone loves cake.

The crowd embraced the moment and exploded into gasp, laughs and cheers.
My friend's show was quite a hit.
What followed was well beyond the high I felt on the stage.
Walking into the crowd, I felt hands grazing my ass.

"Mistress Helena."
"I loved your show"

"I am pleased you enjoyed it." I replied.

To my surprise I felt a soft set of fingertips run down my shoulder.
As I stood there, a warm whisper filled my ear.

"I love cake, may I have a bite?"

A chill covered me and my nipples hardened.
That voice was so luscious.
The touch so enticing.
As I turned I was face to face to with the loveliest girl.
She smiled sweetly and asked me upstairs.
I took her hand and walked her up the stairs.
Turning the knob to the first door, I peeped in.
It was an empty library.
We walked in together.

I sat in the wingback chair.
Opening my legs and exposing my pussy, I smiled.

"GET ON YOUR KNEES!" I commanded.

Kneeling down she started at my feet, kissing my ankles and running her hands along my stockings.
Unfastening my garter, she rolled down my stockings one at a time.
Removing my beautiful stiletto from my foot, she licked it.
Kissing each toe with care and precession.
Dragging her sharp tongue along the bottom of my foot, I wiggled.
My pussy was swelling with anticipation.
Her mouth felt so good on my lovely feet and legs.

"May I Mistress?"

"EAT CAKE!" I said with fury.

She dove her face directly into my wet pussy.
Licking and lapping like a hungry little beast.
Her fingers opening the folds of my cunt for a deeper taste.

Grabbing her hair, I forced her face in deeper.


I could barely hear her muffled reply.
"Yes Mistress"

She worked even harder to please me.
Licking my clit again and again.
Darting her warm tongue deep into cunt.
She wrapped her thin arms around my thighs pulling me more into her mouth.


Pulling her pretty face into my cunt with suffocating force.
I came so hard in her mouth that I actually pissed on her.

With a tender smile she looked up to me.
"Thank you Mistress"

"Go back to the party!" I told her.

Now alone with my piece of mind.
My only thought, what a lovely PINK PARTY!

by Helena De La Severin

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Tuesday, January 16, 2007

The Note

Not wanting to spoil the perfect texture of the archival quality paper with its graceful lines and elegant balanced form I hesitate.
Clasping my pen tightly I generate an inspired idea worthy of its eternal companion and presenter the paper.
Easing my grasp on the pen I let it glide freely over the paper caressing it like the bosom of a slender and grateful lover
Undeterred by the black ball point pens unwillingness to illicit ink from its arid nib I persevere until the page is marked.
Taking great care with spelling grammar and presentation I let the words flow directly from my soul
Extremely happy with my accomplished piece I proudly display it for all to see on the mantle piece by the portrait
Exhausted from my exertion I retire to the peace and tranquillity of the outside.
Upon leaving the room I turn slowly towards my art for one final proof read.
Smiling profoundly I amplify the passage confidently as I exit.
Gone to buy groceries, back soon

by Steven Hargreaves

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Kiss me for I've been waiting for you so long
in the darkest room we can go
or above the soft meadows
or under the white waves of sun
or hidden from everyone's eyes.
So don't wait please - kiss me,
touch your pink lips on my cheek.
Oh! in the twilight I see the pleasure.
Let me touch your yellow skin
and taste the orange in it.
If I'm crazy, forgive me.
my passions are insatiable lust
Please don't deny me for I can't bear that.
We are too far apart, but I can't forget you
for you are my fire of sun.

by Umesh Ghoshdastider

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Shucking Clams

Chilling on the frost bitten balcony
gazing at the sherbet sky
he flicked ashes from his cigarette
watched them fall like dirty
into the pile of city below

He was craving her
could feel the warm sensation
rush through his Levis

and he liked it

The night before
they feasted on crab legs
and grilled salmon
at the seafood shack
by the dock
as seagulls hovered above
tempted by scraps
of brittle bread and raw fish

She spilled wine on her black dress
with the plunging neck line
he got hard just watching her
gently patting her breasts
like newborn twins

Later that night
after the wine was tucked in
he ate again
savoring the sweet flavor
of her fresh clams
shells parted just enough
to taste the pink inside

He wanted more
but she had passed out
the shells shut tight
an imaginary sign read
"Do not enter"

Tomorrow he would wander
the local fish market
search for another batch of clams
to shuck

by Sandy Hiss

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Monday, January 15, 2007

ART: Toes

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Always Autumn

Into disguised madness behind calm eyes,
She spirals.
Spirals within cobwebs of chaos, she tangles--
Amongst the sticky strands,
Astringed around each sapless hand,
Insidious wires meticulously trail
And grapple every limb beneath her arboreal veil.
Beneath the petals’ mask,
Her buried limbs continue to lack
Any sustenance while sinewy fibers retract
And strain unhealed scabs along her branches bark.
Her sap bleeds and seeps through
Her wooded form until her boughs
begin to snap from their dehydrated joints,
And leave a barren frame disguised above the point,
Where she masquerades.
But beneath her foliage she willows.

by Stacey Lee

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Sunday, January 14, 2007

My Love was Anesthesia

a sensation that spread
through the channels of blood,
making me slow, making me thick.
My rough fingertips drank you in—
my tranquilizer, my narcotic.
I could not experience the sensory input
of stinging pain that alerts one to present danger.
My anesthesia for you was strong.
I hardly felt the dissection. Leisurely,
you pressed in your blade, removed little bits of me,
which you placed in neatly labeled colored jars
and displayed on pedestals before your contemporaries.
My tongue,
the first to go, slipped
efficiently from that wet dark place behind my lips.
In the sticky dance of us, entangled,
I could only smile and welcome you
to the harvest. Until,
at last, you pulled back my breast bone
(gently, so gently),
and disengaged from my circulatory system
the object you craved most. Still beat-beating
against your fingers, you kissed it
and locked it away. Only in your absence
did the anesthesia wane. Pain
flooded me, and there I was, my love:
immobile, silent, a hollow shell of skin wearing bone.

by Andrea Blythe

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Saturday, January 13, 2007


he says and
shaky hairy
hands across
her ever
reddening throat.
Her gaggle-cough
cough scream
is more a
sound of
ecstasy, and
one eye rolls
back, slick
and red and
the other eye
knows it’s the
end as it
rolls and rolls
like an egg in
a boiling pot
of tears. Then
her arm shoots
up, scratching
clawing nothing
and I think
of Sam, the
retarded boy
that lives next
door and his
ever waving
arms. Sam’s
sister Sarah
says Sam’s
fam named Sam
Sam because
Sam’s response
to consonants
is so astute.
I wonder if
Sam always
thinks he’s
dying like this
beautiful blue
woman underneath
me. I start
to cry when
I think of
Sam being
choked to death
for the rest of
his life and
my lady’s arm
falls limp, like
my erection.

by Nicholas Day

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Sorry, I've been sick

I have been so very sick. I apologize for not posting any poems.

Hopefully, all my loyal fans have stayed loyal. Should expect some regular posts now.

Also, I have some good news. I'll be putting up some Miva ads, since Google sucks so much. Maybe I can start making a few pennies here and there again. I think poets and artists are just too smart to click advertisements. Perhaps if advertisers were more creative...

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Sunday, January 07, 2007


Well the nerves are usually bad after work,
And looking into someone’s face is often difficult,
As the another day has been manicured,
Is not so good, as you drink the malt liquor out
The deadness of your eyes,
The world is a frightening place, as you think
Of the good drinks and the whores,
I watch men were ties like a crucifix around the neck
Faces dulled to convention, country and duty
I dream the good, always dream the good dream
Beaches, the eternal, and thoughts like calm waves

by Damion Hamilton

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Saturday, January 06, 2007


The guy at the Turkey Hill
candy bar
"You look happier then you did on Valentines Day,"

I smiled


other eye
my breasts,

I smiled.

My math tutor
lit his cigarette
and said
"I have an extra ticket
you see and
my sister
I have an extra ticket
if you
like to come
I have an extra ticket,"

I smiled.

My lover
slit his wrists
and said
"I am wrong
I fucked up
told you
couldn't talk
wasn't ready
to talk
about relationships
friendships and
called me


I smiled.

the blind boy's eye
my blouse

my math tutor
masturbated to my smell

my new found friend
fucked me,

And I smiled.

by Antoinette

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Friday, January 05, 2007


Buttplugs in asses and ballgags in moorings
Bright metal collars and black binding mittens
Young little girlies tied up with tight strings
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cream filled pussies and crisp spanking paddles
Whipped balls and Red balls and stretchers with nooses
Wild whips that fly through the air and does sting
These are a few of my favorite things.

Girls in black leather and hands tied with leashes
Red welts that stay on their ass from lashes
Silver steel cuffs that will cling to the rings
These are a few of my favorite things.

When my dad bites
When my mom screams
When I’m feeling bad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so sad.

Repeat as many times as needed.

by Shakey Psyche

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Thursday, January 04, 2007

ART: Big Red

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Wednesday, January 03, 2007


When I was younger, I used fantasize that you would confuse my mouth for a toilet and piss in it,
When I was bolder, I used to dream of fucking you in the ass in front of everybody,
When I was a virgin, I used to believe that you would eventually take advantage of my young body,
When I knew you, I was a different person.

Now, I still want these things; only now, it's always.

by Jake C. Elliott

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Funny from 20 ft away

Why the hell is she sniffing that free sample of cologne?

Sniffing so hard she looks like she's doing a line of crack.

Not that I'd know.

Such a rush from this little vile.

Is she thinking of an old lover?

Her eyes closed so tightly,

bet she’s reliving some old embrace.

Getting wet right there in the fragrance department.

by Lynn Woodfield

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Tuesday, January 02, 2007

one is born every minute

he said it was now
time to take
revenge on everyone
who had fucked him
over and he was going
to do
this by writing
because he said the
world needs
to hear
what he has
to say

by R.K. Wallace

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Monday, January 01, 2007


I don't need you
so you can get over that right now
I only want you because
we're taken
and only for an hour at that--
can you last that long?
I guess I shouldn't make assumptions.
I don't have to "love" you,
and you don't have to "respect" me.
Let's not lie to each other
make false promises
tell our stories to one another
in the mutual expectation
and dread
of a potential merger.
It's pure acquisition.
If I'm treating you like an object
then let's be objective.
Erica looked for her zipless fuck
but didn't find it
because she didn't want it.
I have no middle ground pedantic
mindgame to peddle.
It zipless, baby, because I'll tear the clothes
right from you; no messy tedious undressing.
You'll call me a cunt
because I'll suck your cock
but won't ask for your phone number.
I'm not offended--that is reality
I am a cunt to you;
a cunt, a mouth, firm flesh and immediate intensity
I'm a person too, a woman with whole worlds
and formulated words of acquiescence and denial--
but that's not for you
it's for another place,
another person, other space.
And the only mark I want to leave
is in your mind,
the memory of an hour
that can still make you hard.

by Renee St. Louis

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