Suicider

Thinking about committing suicide
The pain hurts so much, I can’t stand it
Depression makes me want to just go for it
Not a care in the world
Getting home one day, I’m home alone
The kitchen I see, open the drawer
Suddenly in my hand is a knife
Taking it and almost slicing my wrist
WOW, it’s a rush of blood to the head
Feels great, Sense of calm appears, it feels right
Doing that for days afterwards
I’ve found my release….Finally

by Mihad Ali

King

Single digits pronounce
the set-up for
my drastic body drop
She refuses to take
the blame for an act
she only half-heartedly
orchestrated, but she
sure did play us
When there was no one left
to take the fall
I slipped on kid gloves
to make them tight, tight
so I could bind
the blind to my will
She was a confidential
street walking art student
with a mind enviable
and a body desirable
She could twist the knot,
we’d only beg for more
Master minded the metallic taste
and slipped to force the blow
Hiding in my prop department
cross-leg style
with a bitter smoke
that climbed to feed the trees
Upside my princess
screaming, “I am one”
over and over in my head
As she glides across
the backseat unbuckled
she lost restraint
but at night she comes
to lay me down
Ritualistic domination
“Now we’ll sleep”
Now we’ll sleep

by Kate Green

To All of Mine

You are the subject of my addiction
the victim of my perversion
my darkest desires
borne in that quivering flesh

You are mine
my servant of pain
my slave of love
my object of desire

Shiver and quake before me
for I am your god

And while I hold the whip
and as I stand before you
you will know what it means to suffer
and you will suffer for me

and serve me selflessly
eternally
and you'll suffer for me
endlessly

Feel the pain and know
that you are mine
And relish the thought
that I may grant you the pleasure

To love me in return

by Alexander Rageblade

ART: euphoria

by Ty Snitko

*Inside corrosion*
*A cavern that drips*
*Outside erosion*
*And blood on my lips.*
* *
*Sensation so hollow*
*that with numbness brims life.*
*In salty droplets I wallow.*
*Where is that knife?*
* *
*I crave destruction*
*only to heal.*
*A blood reduction*
*to remember I'm real.*
* *

by Lisa Kasum

POSSESSED POET

Most of these following crude sentences,
Preverse cursed rehearsed rude verses for instance,
Consists a tid bit, I admit, of tiny tainted fibs,
With some or largely none dismissed,
That emerged submerged under a beautiful demon's kiss,
To unfold to those fancy follies constantly watching the bold,
And follow tall tales told of a goldrush for fool's gold,
Is only a whisper that escapes the same angel's lips,
Then gently pressed down in print,
Articulated manifestations to deceive and trick,
Volumns of symbolic solemn columns to outhink and outwit,
Devious mischievous mischief(with or without expletives),
Decorative colorful words which sound creative,
Confounded manipulation with personifications,
A realization of truth speckled with emotional speculations,
Fused with induced wisdom by life's recollections,
The communication with education of a soul's destination,
This is the elixir of witch's brew that stews a poet's imagination.

by R. Alton

corn

in the end
corn turns to husks
filled with shit
much like this poem
filled with words
pretending to be
poetry.

by Aaron J. Marko

TO OLGA

This is a Waltham gold fob watch,
heirloom from your paternal grandmother, pawned
innumerable times by her contemptible husband
to compensate for income lost
to three day drunks. It bears, inside,
this inscription:
To Olga, Oct 12, 1916,
as well as several rows of rudely etched numbers,
one scrawl for each time it was pawned.
Incompetents from subsequent generations
pawned it, then reclaimed it--
a talisman for inherited failings.

by Nathaniel S. Rounds

Sunday Train

On Sundays the trains are mostly sad
People close their eyes and sleep
Or pretend to sleep
There’s real poverty on the train
And disappointment and loss
And the silence says a lot
About families and jobs
And a certain way of life,
Even the conductors sound very tired
When their voices are supposed
To be happy and cheerful,
And the security guards get on
Board checking for tickets—
It’s a dull job, like many other jobs
And they are looking proud and strong,
Like they are taught
And when the train comes to my stop,
There is a relief to get away from
The train and the night,
Which was not quite what I wanted
It to be

by Damion Hamilton

PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN MAN O'WAR

My friend
Ken -
Purple hearted
Vietnam War Vet
Never talks
About war;
Hates men
Who claim
They are vets
But who never
Have served. He
Coughs up
Phlegm, calls
These
Braggards,
Dreamers,
Schemers.
"Four star
Frauds," he
Says, every
Now and then
"They don't know,
They just don't. . . ".

Once,
Ken said he
Was so scared
Over there
He just prayed
And prayed
That it would end --
Somehow,
Even if it meant
He just remained
A corpse
In a swamp;

Bouquets of rice
Floating around --
Green, hidden
Among stems
And stems,
And stems.....

Now, Meantime,
at Ken's Ol'
Mississippi home,
Family and friends
Are proud of him.
Those two medals
That came with blood,
Ripped flesh and crippling
Surgeries off and on
For decades. Yep they are.
Now if only Ken could
Stay sober and nice.
War bonds going once,
Twice, thrice -
Between Agent Orange
And problems with his
Head, he's earned
A monthly U.S. check;
I mean, he's really
Earned it, man;

I mean even
if Ken could work,
How could he?
Screaming in front
Of elementary schools
Closed and barren,
Playing dice with nice
Demons in his head
And other fellows
He knew back when

You could say it
Gives Thorozine the
Chills and the creeps.

by Sam Vargo

Baby Steps...

I had my first pop.

It started with slick wet fingers
Slipping out of my comfort zone
And into my personal space.

With a long, blazing, enlightening
Conversation
With my old friend, Mary.

Oops...
I started in the middle
And slid slowly up to the start.
Skipping the best part.
On Demand!

In my heightened state
Of mind I
Selected something to soothe
My trembling center
Porn.

Halfway through,
Just when I was breaching the gap,
My cat ran across the sofa.
But before reality set in...

Two perfect pussies,
Filled my screen.
Parted thighs and silken skin
With puckering nipples on top.
Filled my mind.

Wrapped in these satin memories
I went to take a
refreshing shower
With my
detachable
massaging
shower head.

And there,
Beneath the steamy caress
Of lightly pulsing jets of water
I had my first
Little
Explosive
O
R
G
A
S
M

I had my first pop.


Like I said...
Baby Steps.

by Annette Edward

If Only She Had Listened to Me

As I close my eyes,
My mind's eye discerns her precious silhouette
Omitting each flaw,
All to be replaced with yet more eminent beauty

I can still feel the warmth of her touch
With the comfort endowed.
I breathe the aromatic scent of her cheek
Like calming incense.

I can hear her soft, affectionate whispers
Echoing through an
Empty chasm of all I once was,
But this purely accounts for
My ingenuity of lustful memories
Anymore.

Yet I am to go on with life,
And overlook the pain
That enters my body through every pore.

I will join her,
Walk with her,
Laugh with her.
I will even guide her,
Though she refuses to allow me,
Regardless that my desire to own her,
My interminable love,
Has grown into a need.

So I consider this my call for silence.
I now have spoken the last of my words,
Laughed my last laugh,
Cried my last tear,
Breathed my last breath.

In a suffocated imagination
One can simply not exist
Without the other.

by B. David Ferrel

Ode to Rape

I am pink flesh
raw from your
penetration
my orifices bleed
you violate
my private places
with your
egotistical
erections
boning my tenderness
with
violent thrusts
six years old

by Michelle Winters

Dependent

The girl worked through it,
stole nothing,
signs covered with
sleeves and lies.
A house of cards
where they played
happy families,
poker faces bluffing neighbours,
a shitty hand
covered by bridge
and dinner parties.
She worked all through it,
never a clue,
the first people knew
was an ambulance
dazzling at the kerb,
strobe light that
sliced the night
and blunted on
their darkness.
Medics working to
stop the expected
order being broken,
as the stretcher got pushed
and the family shuffled
behind........

by Chris Major

ART: Isolation

by Danielle Turner

NEED SLEEP

I can’t help but staying up later and later,
Because I take home exactly what I reap,
Repeating mistakes for unknown reasons,
One of the main problems why I can’t sleep,

My shorter distorted dreams seem to be sorted,
Intermixed with my indecent recent memories,
Up wondering, if disturbed blurred stories happened,
Or just torn bits forged from my actual history,

With subtle slipping self-respect I inspect,
Each decision by dissecting in pieces the wrong,
Time holds for no man while constantly crawling,
Blending the full moon into the rising dawn,

I am a fool pondering if I could honestly possibly live,
My last years without goals or without any hunger,
So, I sit and reminisce on times I’ve slipped, dwelling,
Not on the sun I see, but the on rock I’m under,

Procrastination clouds a once vivid imagination,
Which somehow guides my current direction?
So, I don’t make any ground just walking around,
In circles, not forward, towards the next intersection,

So here, I lie with my dog and cat on my side,
Desperately trying to catch the sandman’s attention,
But like my wish dodges does he my earnest plea,
To send sweet release within his dreamy submission.

by R. Alton

Bourgeois Pigs

Why eat the rich?
Scrawny hors d'oeuvre bitch
Pussy flesh meal
Aspertame hair crisped steel

Painted skin pulled taught
Makeup smeared thick froth
Silicone lips sucked flesh
Spirits tender garnish

Phony ink-stained pin
Liver and lungs pickled sin
Aluminum laced aftertaste
Gold crown flouride paste

by Erik Metzger

Totem dieting

idiotic listener
I can deduct kilos
save you from a dose
of solid odds
and faked-up jams

chewy tuna
or bedside basmati

singed muffins
and slimy wines

weirdo, loser!
plaque creeps like ivy
domelike jowls
nachos like giant asteroids
soda on the intercom
sushi anguish, sir

if you don’t want to be
a dayboy in limbo
a limping sensei
an urban ocelot
or a crow in a vault

then dine fine
and show yourself
some sanctions
dodo

by Stephen Moles

But First, A Toast.....

And so they danced

Gazing mournfully into the abyss
Of each other's eyes

Tragically keeping time with their steps,

They float near the center of the room
Her dress swirling around her feet

"Ah, to waltz again", the onlooker sighs.
As the beauty of the tableau again
Unfolds before his bleary eyes

She is screaming
Lost emotion, broken memories
The acrid taste of unspent time
Questions rise above

He holds her tighter, closer
Tears sluice through her unforgiving heart
And wash his sentenced soul

Alas, the music ends......
The dancers tremble
As the crowd raises their glasses
"To Death!", they cry

by M. Marie

Cows and Ducks

The Martians came,
then
the cows
then
the ringing.

The phone would ring
every time I thought about sex

The Ringing,
the constant ringing!
I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work,
just listened to the ringing.

The Martians would sing
Christmas songs
to the ringing,

then the cows mooed
and I
killed a duck.

Lots of people came from Texas
to stop the ringing,
(Guess a lot of other people
heard the ringing, too)

when they found out
why the ringing was occurring
they gave me
my own cow.

Finally,
the ringing faded
in a loud
Moo.

The duck was suddenly
resurrected.
Then I killed him --
Again.
I don’t like ducks.

The shepherds were earning about
100 dollars an hour.
The hookers were out of work
(Since there were so many cows around and all);

One benefits
while the other perishes,
one team wins,
while the other --
Doesn’t.

Final score

Martians 10
Cows/ducks/people 2

No one ever said who was on what team;
it probably would have made a difference.
I wouldn’t have killed the duck --
Twice.

by Jonathon Shank

Strain

Seems like I'm leaving everywhere
Two in the morning, half-tank of gas,
Ten dollars, Radiohead smiling,
I know what you're thinkin'
Contemplating all the shit
I'm never gonna do again

by John L. Cagle

NIGHT NIGHT

The night slowly whithers like a candle
until your wading through darkness thick as oceans (frail as cobwebs)
the shadow lust can't last as light sprinkles from above
in a heavenly rain that lets the desperate thinkers solve the nights puzzle;
beauty; it's really just beauty.
the darkness can be so gorgeous that you swim through it's rich nothingness,
an enternity wide ebony grand piano that plays and plays and plays
and while they're dancing with the stars which just twinkle and the moon which sings;
if you realize listen you can hear; it echos the past and croons the future,
it knows you better than you may know yourself because it just sits and watches.
and floating in its lunar halos is a present wrapped for those who find the time for it,
you can last any day, no matter how rough,
because when the candle whithers once again,
the dark glorious smoke of the night rises
and all can be forgotten.

by Ryan Uellendahl

NEWS: Fox News on bad teachers (students fault?)

Fox News is horrible. They come running to the defense of these horrible teachers.

Let me tell you where I go for my news on politics and world events.

NPR and PBS followed by Reuters and the Associated Press (and sometimes the Smoking Gun) for the straight news.
CNN and BBC so I can get a view of what most other people are seeing.
The Daily Show with John Stewart, The Colbert Report, Countdown with Keith Olbermann, and The Onion for humor in the news.
And then I read The People Daily from China and watch Fox News so I can see propaganda and exercise my brain with finding fallacies in arguments.

There are plenty of other great news outlets, but those are the primary ones I regularly view, and I don't exclusively view them.

ART: Our Lady Of Shotgun Wounds

by DeviN

Peach

She opened up a whole new world to me,
She covered her Peach with cream & hand fed it to me,
Soo sweet juicy & deliciously ripe
As soon as the juicy drops from her peach exploded through my lips & over my tongue begging me to swallow her,
After my first taste I pleaded with her to let me swallow her peach whole,
She instructed me to go slow while running her hands through my braids in an attempt to over throw my passionate impact and secretly regain control of her climax,
I'm under the influence of her soft peach as I suck on her seed,
winding my tongue circularly searching & slurrping up the rest of her cream,
She insisted I nibble subtly on her peach with my teeth,
She opened up a whole new world to me.

by MoSkIe

THE GUILTIEST OF PLEASURES

We're always searching for a guilty pleasure,
that's one thing I don't think we'll ever change?
We press on so in turning trash to treasure ...
to other life forms, that would just seem strange.
It's much like eating shit, it might be sweet!
it's so amazing how the mind pretends ...
until we swallow it, we're not complete ...
but it's not cool discussing it with friends.
We're always on the hunt for something raw,
a witch hunt is reliable at times.
Some nearly cream when they can challenge law ...
there's nothing like those random rightful crimes!
I won't forget the day Saddam was hung.
"Thank God that fucker's dead! Oh, God ... I've cum!"

by Bryon D. Howell

Dashboard Widget for Mac

For those of you lucky enough to own a Mac, there is now a widget that will show the poetry posts of the day.

Now, with a quick click or press of a button, you can view the latest posts. If you have any ideas for improving the widget or for any completely new ones, give me an E-mail and let me know.

So what are you waiting for? Go ahead and download the widget!

Don't own a Mac? Now's a good time to get one.

(Clicking the image will download the widget.)

SALAMANDER BATTLEFIELD

When I woke up this morning, there were about eleven salamanders in my
moustache. They all were pulling at the hairs, pulling and squeezing and
hurting my upperlip.

Their leader spoke to me and told me things about the reality of champagne.

"You know, of course, of course, that sparkling wine and champagne are
different yes?"

I tried to respond, but the other salamandri restrained my tongue.

"Perrier is to tap water as is Freixenet to Champagne, yes? It exists, yes?
But only to worsen your pallette. To milk your extremeties."

I managed to mumble...
"It feels like your little friends are milking my extremities as we speak."

"But to milk, says I, is to remove from, and your whiskers are attached in
full, now speaknot, jew." he shouted unexpectedly. "My need for your dairy
is merely informational, as I am not more than a courier and I cannot
deliver that which is not in my possession. Can we agree?"

Salamanders 2-10 nodded my head.

"What i care for is the true meaning of your written word, your
extrapolations upon banalities, the irreverences and enigmatic
nothingeries."

HAD NOT MY WHISKERS BEEN HELD FIRM, FIRM, I'D HAVE MOUTHFUCKED HIM
THEN/THERE.

"Your rhyme, your rhythym. Your overuse of "y's." he incomprehensed.
"Cavemen drew on walls the things that chased and hunted, and that were by
them the aforementioned, and yet, you speak of God and chalice and creatures
of lore, and metaphor and simile and on and on you preamble to a point
hardly worth making"

"" I said.

He continueth..."And yet, I wonder if this gives you your sauce, your fiery
temperature and adaptability, your inextinguishable descriptors of
happenstance."

And I shut my mouth. And I filled my head with thoughts of nothingness. Of
pretty descriptions of things of neither horror nor beauty, of neither, of
neither, and I bathed in my head in the sauce of my strength. I cleansed my
body with my own light. My ever-present sun, my star of futility. And I
thought "fuck him."

And the salamander 2-10 sensed my being.
And they let go of my whiskers.

Commander said "What be this, infants? INFANTILE INFANTRY! What means this?"

And I stared into his eyes and proclaimed/exclaimed/unrestrained/said...

"You desire my sauce, my virus?"
He shook his squirrelface.

"Well, you're just going to have to go the fuck in and get it."

That's it. I'm done.

by P.H. murphy

The Blackened Memory

The city was burning
and so was his skull.
I watched his memories melt

like tears dyed black
from the back of his head.
His body and soul, a puddle.

I clawed through the pile
of memories, disguised
as charred brain matter.

I tossed aside one memory
of his first son's first word
(eat) and it splattered against the wall.

Another memory ran red
and wet between my fingers:
His father's funeral. It was sunny.

Finally I found it, a sharp memory
cloaked in pink gelatin
beginning to boil in the flames:

He saw a woman, reached for her,
his hand disappeared inside her,
she smiled and bit her lip,

she took him in her mouth,
he laughed a little, threw an empty bottle
of whiskey onto the bed in the dark,

then he heard a sound and turned,
he saw me holding a pistol,
he asked me what the fuck I was doing,

I looked at my wife on the bed,
she said she was sorry, so sorry,
I nodded and shot him before she could apologize again.

His memory didn't show what happened after.
I looked over at her corpse on the bed.
The flames licked the windows and ceiling.

Sweat dripped from my nose
and vanished into the smoke.
Beyond the blackened curtains the city was burning.

by Barnabas DuCoudray

ART: Alien Nation

by Danielle Turner

Watch the Death Go By

Most of my life
lays ahead
I am still a child
yet it is death I dread
I find small comfort
In those that walk by
For I am young
in little time they shall die
a man crosses my way
he smiles at me
I smile back
he looks around forty three
less time for him
and much more for me
Then a mother
a stroller leads her path
Inside a damned baby
it's me it will outlast
Now fate I must accept
Mortality fees are due
This sick world
lets only time come true
I sigh and wither
As the metal starts to rust
There is no beating fate
We are all dust

by Christophe Mannino

revelations of an old man

- close friend, valuable
- fleetng romance, steady as the rain
- obtain sex fulfillng, neverending
- constraint by obscure conversely free to be, like chicklets at the border
- changing oneself, ... a bit of courage
- truth manifested, priceless

by Curtis Bonner

Late

I feel like
smoking
a fire-stick
in a knight case.

You are
sledding down
a slide feet first.
My objective

is to catch
you but I show
up late
without a watch.

by Jared Wahlgren

ART: by Danielle Turner

by Danielle Turner

Passionate breathing floats, 1844

Amanda's words leave her mouth on fire, "Why do you ignore me?-"

Behind the dressing screen, Joseph’s shirt, unbuttoned.

The minor’s dress peeled to her knees, entwine.

Joseph, just as hot, bites.

“See to it that it stops-", pinching her own nipple-hard.

Joseph, to his knees, hands grasping haunches; relieved, his face, once again buried in his lover's pungent blossom - His finger, deep.

When are you going - to ask Uncle for my hand?-"

“Soon," Joseph murmurs, savoring the redolence.

SUDDENLY,
the door slides.

The couple freeze:

One of Amanda's hands presses Joseph's face into her hot sex - the other, pushes his finger deeper.

by Thomas Carlsen

Variety Store.

The variety,
like a store.
To me
it’s a bore
they don’t even sell
paper airplanes
to assemble.

The pulling
of teeth
We’re almost
through
Come upon juju fruits and
other candies. So
"Just don’t chew"

The blood
gushing from my mouth
"To go to the dentist again"
At least
I can sing, and the blood
makes a pattern
upon the boxes of
candies, red.

by J. Michael Wahlgren

The Radio

Let me go to that place that noone knows
I don't belong in this world
I hate this life, my only friend is the radio
All my tragedies are caught up in a whirl
And all I want is to go away
To live a life without being afraid
So let me go to that place where noone goes
That place I dream of on the radio

And I'm the one who suffered through
All those years locked in my room
So 'fraid to leave, to step outside
I block the sun so I can hide
I turn the radio up loud to block out all surrounding sound
To drown the noise, and drench the pain
My memories they shall remain

Let me out! I'm imprisoned in this cage
My body's weak, and it's rotten and decayed
I'm dieing here on my ugly lazy bed
Why can't this noise just leave my head?
And all I want is to go away
To live a life without being afraid
So let me out, I close my eye's so I can go
That far away place on the radio

And I'm the one who suffered through
All those years locked in my room
So 'fraid to leave, to step outside
I block the sun so I can hide
I turn the radio up loud
To block out all surrounding sound
To drown the noise, and drench the pain
My memories they shall remain

This is my heartache, noone cares for me
They all wish that I would die
This is my tragedy, noone loves me
I just wish that I could die

by Danielle Turner

BLACK COFFEE AT DAYBREAK

Black
coffee
swims
melancholy
as
morning
meets
noon.

Sad,
slow
minutes
sear
sullen
hours.

Stray
thoughts
swim
away
from
bitter
strokes.

Rays
from
deep
sea
fishes
and
the
sun
meet.

Black
coffee
slowly
turns
stale.

by Sam Vargo

30TH AND 14TH

I live on the S/W corner of my block
Where the wailing sirens never stop
The hospital welcoming broken souls
As the hours of day take their toll
See the eerie house across the street
Never a face there will you meet
The brick wall newly painted white
A local buster worked it all night

Car Crashes
Small Stashes
Near Misses
Soft Kisses
And I don’t even know what day it is -

Up the road is the "Quicky Stop"
They’ll gouge you with a smile ‘cause
The prices never drop
See the long cars with their bass a’ bumpin
Left the store broke and still forgot something

Ghetto Birds
Brief Words
Strange Glances
Foolish Chances
And I don=t even know what time it is -

Outside my apartment the world keeps moving
The shrieking signal lights are never soothing
The traffic it keeps a’ whizzing on by
And even if I tried I couldn’t tell a lie

No matter the time
No matter the day
I wouldn’t have it any other way.

by J. B. Rush

All Abandon

As the midnights' clouds of sarrow
Glooms it's body towards tomarrow
Come what may to every toil
From this willows shade I barrow

On this hilltop I lay here
In my molding clothes I fear
That I'll catch my death from cold
As my chilling end moves near

With the rainclouds gloating o'er
The stench of rigor mortis borne
From my bones and rotting flesh
The fabric of my senses torn

As the sky begins to cry
All that I can do is sigh
Seeping through my stale dry lips
Rain doth drown me as I lie

All the sudden I hear a noise
But I dare not disturb my poise
Strange whisperings haunt close by
Now I scream without a voice

As I lie here entombed in hating
I soon succumb to the waiting
The strange whisperings sound lonlier now
As I drift off into fading

by Danielle Turner

Pot Demons

My psych wants me to cut down
Evidently,
Mary is marring my treatment.
No big deal,
I can stop anytime,
Only...
There are these demons.
They pick at the back of my brain,
Rationalizing Mary in all of her glory.
They clench my stomach
When I think of going on without her.
They emphasize the emptiness
That Mary fills in my life.
Blazing at the end of a hollow day
Blowing smoke up the ass of anxiety
Calming fears
Clearing my head
Making me laugh in the face of adversity,
Sweet Mary...
Fucking demons!
Now fear clutches my heart
Can I stop?
Are the demons right?
Can I face the world alone?
Is Mary my companion
Or my crutch?
Do I control Mary
Or does she control me?
Suddenly I'm anxious and twitching
I need to stop immediately
Cut Mary back to weekends
And social gatherings.
Put her back in her place.
She has apparantly
Gotten a little out of hand.
And as for those fucking demons...
Mary and I will have to confer,
We'll smoke up -
Come up - with a way
To rid ourselves of them.
Pesky little shits.

by Annette Edward

Thanks for all the bread

Mid-town continental
emaciated portions
overpriced selections
I want to swing
a bamboo seat too.
But instead we’re crushed
one seat away from
the worst pinky dick lover
that any man-whore ever saw.
Late skip home
lost a peacock feather
must have been worth something
more precious than
a flourless chocolate torte
or a tina-tina epiphany.
The kind that comes
during a too unlimited
dance party in the south
where the going rate
to ass punch a hooker
is a decided fifty dollars
to cover for the bruise insurance.
We practice moves for
our off Broadway show
highlighting the bests of 2306.
“And hey, thanks for all the bread!”
says a furry visitor.
Up and down masturbator
screaming on the third floor
“Has anyone here seen Coquo?”

by Kate Green

ART: Naked Moon Dance

by Amy Rowland

Hi

Hi, nice to meet you-

Do you have any demented baggage,
that you would like to share with me?
What? You say no.
Are there any mirrors in your house?

Yes…

Than I suggest that you look,
in one of them with eyes closed.
Go deep!

Do you mind if I share,
my baggage with you?

No…

After I lie to you, and tell you,
all the things that your,
rotten slut ego wants to hear…
I’ll use you, like the materialistic,
pig that you are, and relegate you,
to the wet spot where you belong.

How do ya like them apples?
I like them apples…

I hate being right.

by Ron Cervero

Dirty old man

He was a man in his early fiftieth, small and sad looking
With runny eyes and face that seemed to be
Pushed to one side, the skin the color of a peeled potato
Brown hands, pants
Always sliding down his ass and dangling just above
His knees like a soiled diaper.
He lived with his teenage daughter
And a smelly lap dog that reminded me
Of a dirty white towel. They occupied
An old dingy house.
He was an artist.
His wife died
Long time ago: he claimed that she was
A lesbian
One evening we drank at his place
Sitting in the kitchen, talking
About art and the Velvet revolution
Life, bringing up children, politics
Then he said
‘I’m so old and ugly. Nobody likes me anymore.’
‘ You’re all right’, - I said
‘No. I’m not. Look! Look at my hands’
‘What’s wrong with your hands?’
‘ Just look at my hands.
All covered with these
Weird brown patches. Look at them. Look at these patches.
IT’S NOT NORMAL.’
‘ Listen, let’s have another drink,’ – I said
We drank some more then
He went on whining
About his hands and old age
I continued to sit there, nodding
To his litany
While pushing away his dog
The smelly monster seemed to be determined
To masturbate on my leg the whole evening
‘Hey, I wanna show you my drawings. ‘
‘ Yeah. Show me your drawings.’
We got up. Suddenly
He tried to grab
My ass but missed and fell
Across the table.
‘Aaaaahhh. See? I’m finished, ‘– He croaked
Then limped to his bedroom and fell asleep.
I listened to his snores reverberating through the house
Shaking window glass and his paintings
Then took my socks and shoes off
And dozed off on his couch in the living room
When I awoke I found that
The damn dog stole one of my socks
I headed to the kitchen
Squatted in front of the dog’s basket and cooed
‘ Hey, you little hairy devil. Gimme it back. Gimme
It back to me!’ but the bastard just growled
And snapped his teeth. Finally it bit my finger.
I gave up, shoved the remaining sock in my pocket,
Got out of the house,
Walked over to a tram stop, lit a cigarette
And threw remining sock in a garbage bin
It was the most boring evening
I’d ever remembered.

by Alexander Mikhaylov

THE ONE DEGREE OF SEPARATION

I'm like the others, in my online life.
I call them brothers, we share in our strife.
We can't find a date, no one worth a damn.
We soon learn to hate, how lonely we am.
We multiply fuck, and add to the list.
We just run amuck, it's how we exist.
We take our skin pics, to buckets we post ...
we simply love dicks, and no one can host.
Through sex we are free, and there's nothing more ...
We work, honestly ... we're Camera Whores.
No one else hires, but we've got our guns ...
our assholes on fire, we're paid to have fun.
Thank God for Mother, for twice we were born ...
I'm fucking my Brothers ... click on Incest Porn!

by Bryon D. Howell