Monday, April 30, 2007


Poems are just empty attempts.
Too capture some sentiment
That we usually invent, and we haven’t
Felt anything since we were very
When things were new.
Beautiful and American little boys
Playing cops and robbers on block
Party streets.
Sentiments and memories of seemingly
Different lives.
Some of the kids on our American block
Grew up to be gang bangers.
Some grew up to be strippers.
Some died of over-doses.
Some became addicts and attempters
Of words.
Words will never hold me gently
At night, Worlds will never
Make it better.
Words are like Chinese stars
That rain from purple skies
As the dragon comes for you
And sentiment means nothing
Your tears dry up
You years dry up
You wither away
And the Dragon comes

by James Morrill

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Sunday, April 29, 2007


I was quiet as
a young man.
The silence seemed to
sanctify me.
I watched, listened,
took everything in.
But, the silence also
made me a
target for the bullies.
They called
everything under the
pussy, faggot, dickhead,
bitch, asshole,
you name it.
The assholes
were merciless.
They made fun of your
hair, your clothes.
It was usually the
jocks (who only knew
how to
throw a football) or
the preps (who
couldn't even count their
own money).
After graduation I
stayed in town
for a while,
worked, and
some of the bullies who
made fun of me
turn to shit.
I see them every
now and then
licking the wounds on
their asses
that the world inflicted.
I watch
in silence.

by Dylan Elliot

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Thursday, April 05, 2007


This is not
your drug culture
Sneaky Satoshie
rolling a blunt
on the south line
Doors closing
pick up your
discarded Philly guts
clumped in the back seat
While I’ve got
this bitch here
grease stuffing
a sick, loud slurp
off set the pig nose
with a thick curl
I’ll just turn down
my bloodsport
for a flash flood warning
and a sneak peak of you
What’s that you’re hidin’
under all that black?
I see your smile twitching
so formal even though
you like my T.M.I.
Under the table baby
I’ll show you my tech skills
and edit your video production

by Kate Green

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Wednesday, April 04, 2007

She had bright beautiful brown eyes. They seemed to be framed by the locks
of the streaked brown hair that hung around them. She wore only a satin
black robe. It was tied around her waist so that the top spread like a V,
open around her breast. Hiding her nipples by just barely resting on them. I
knew she was at least 30, but her face and hips looked like those of a
teenager. She moved like a cat, slow and sleek. Her eyes never moved. They
were fixed directly on me.
She seemed to walk in slow motion, on foot in front of the other. And only
in the shadows. Behind her the large windows that led out to the balcony
were open, causing the large red drapes to flap behind her. As she moved
closer, I couldn’t take my eyes away from hers. I was completely under her
spell. Hypnotized. My body felt weak and limp. My vision blurred.
I sat slumped over on a large red sofa, leaning slightly forward with a
strong drink wet in my hand. Sweat dripped from my forehead and onto the
couch and floor. She took the perspiring cocktail from me and drank it in
one quick movement, titling her head back like it had just flipped open. Her
hair reaching down to the small of her back. She lowered her head and faced
me, pausing before throwing the glass against the brick wall. It shattered
into little shards that danced on the black tile floor.
I stared at her as she leaned closer, I wanted to look down at her tits.
Our eyes fixed, she reached for my hands, grabbing each at the wrist.
Holding them together she raised them to her chest. I could feel a burning
between my legs as blood engorged my groin. Our eyes still fixed, my hands
slipped into her robe. Touching her nipples with my fingers. I spread my
palms to take her tits into my hands completely. As I began to squeeze they
felt slippery and sticky. Before I could look down our lips met, our tongues
exploring each others throats. She pushed me away slightly and a string of
saliva connected us for a brief moment, before breaking and falling against
her chin.
My hands still on her chest, she leaned back against the arm of the couch.
Eyes still fixed, I dropped the robe from around her shoulders and leaned
into her neck. Kissing it lightly. Closing my eyes, I moved quickly down to
her nipples and sucked them in. They were wet and tasted like copper pennies
and nine volt batteries.

I opened my eyes to see the slippery wet was bright red.

Jerking back, I looked down at her. Her breast were covered in blood. In a
panic I looked down at my hands. Deep wounds were cut across my palms, and
chunks of yellow fat lined the sides of each gash. In both palms, there was
a hole pierced completely through. Trying to stand, I fell to the floor.
Kicking myself back against the wall in horror. Looking down at my feet I
saw they were pierced as well. I could look directly through the holes and
see the shiny black floor.

The blood was everywhere. She stood from the couch and walked my way, the
soft skin of her stomach and breast covered with blood. She dropped to her
hands and knees, crawling towards me on all fours. Leaning into my ear, she
whispered something I couldn’t make out. Reaching for my belt, her teeth
pressed around my earlobe until it burned white hot. Moving around my face,
she kissed me deeply. Something passing between our lips as she pulled out
my dick.

Pulling away she smiled as I spit out my own earlobe. Blood dripped from
her mouth as she took the full length of my cock into it...

And my mind caved in within itself until nothing was left but blackness.

by Jason Vowell

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Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Dare I say Madness

I have always seen the
final pages of my story,
tho' it was the body
that had eluded me,
but tonight --

Oh! shall we say

With the certainty of a
soulful transcendence,
I needn't delay the spilling
o' mine own blood
and seek that which has
called to me every
waking moment.

The blade tears voraciously
through dermis and nerve
looking to serve a much maligned
for a sinful madness --

dare I say madness,

if my thoughts are derided with
such lucid contempt, as I
search for the core of my
manhood stopping nary
for a bone.

My voice
echoes through the

'tis laughter that greets the
guests tonight.

The women shall certainly
have me now,
as no alcohol can wash a
eunuch from the mind --

for his obvious shortcomings
come no more.

by Jonathon Shank

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Silky Sexy Mid-Night Air

Around my body,
The air flowed cool & smooth as silk.
Sexy it was and felt as I pulled the hit outta the square into
My grainy lungs released it slowly
Back into the gulf coast twilight waiting for nothing &
Everything to come.
I could only imagine where the rusty trotting boxcars in the distance were heading.
Away from here, that’s for sure.
Away from the ravaged southern coast line between Gulfport and Biloxie.
Away from the stresses of uprooted trees and families.
Away from the hurricane blown homes, hotels, and franchises
Lining the Ave.’s south of the train tracks carrying endless boxcars heading towards
Anywhere but here.
The rails sounds screetched on by but I stayed on base.
No amount of squares could make my mind travel
Further than the steps it took me to leave room 655
Out behind the Air Force Inn,
Looking for an escape.
“Drinking the night away”, she said from Chicago’s South Side but I had no escape.
Ni cerveza, ni yesca, ni mescalito, ni nada.
Only my thoughts to keep me occupied and the autobiography of Miles Davis.
I could picture 52nd Street lit up with
Living-room sized jazz clubs like
The Onyx and Three Deuces,
Hustlers hanging around entrances like second-hand decorances,
And New York City succumbing to the beats bouncing outta every crevice
Blaring from the deep freed souls of the baddest motherfuckers around…
But I wasn’t there and like he prophesized, it would never be like that again.
History is history and every seconds fattens up his belly.
I find myself on the wings of the midnight air,
Not quite in despair, but searching for life’s grandeur,
Something beside these two fucken cockroaches chasing each other across this once
Flooded sidewalk.
What a waste of time, at least for me it is. For the moment, at least it is.

by Isboset Gonzalez

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