Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Bada Bing

Jack K. told Allen G. that William B.
Liked to fuck boys, or was that
The other way around?
Yeah, it must have been the other way around
‘Cause Allen G. liked to fuck them real real young
And he knew by sight another perv who liked to fuck boys
Though, Allen G, by definition was a petifile
And William B. was only on the borderline
Now, Jack K. didn’t like to fuck boys but Allen G.
Kissed and told: that Jack K. liked to fuck a man now and then
Or maybe he just like to fuck Allen G. now and then ?
Nonetheless, welcome to the sex lives of your literary heroes, boys & girls.

by Doug Draime


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Sunday, August 26, 2007

Middle name Smith

I can’t get your taste
out of my mouth
forceful and deliberate
like I should have
known it from before
a time possibly forgotten
or a visit karmically delivered
your taste is not
the only linger
your texture, smell
an aroma that sickens
while reacting chemically
with my favored brain cells
to produce an effect
that tortures with its memory
why my fixation
with one who shaded
I’m even bothered
that we listened
to the songs of my longing
that play only for me
maybe it’s just too new
like a wound, fresh
spiked and still oozing
my grounded retro abuse
disguised as a perfected illusion
that only serves
and does not take
wasn’t I surprised
not just by the ground
you tried to cover
but also by that baby face
swimming in oversized grays
and aquatic yellow
a terrible fabric
that could not shield
your stiffness from
my cushioned limpness
sighing with instant regret
I gave it more chances
than really necessary
masochistically excessive
to the very end

by Kate Green


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Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Green Light Girl

Always go-go-go.
Shakes my sensibility
Got only one speed
On... fire
On... life
On... love
Heart so big
she fills any room
with her smile
her name draped
on her shoulders.
Midas daughter
she makes gold
from everything she touches
and she touches my heart
and it blazes to life
and she weaves
a magic carpet
from everyday life
and she lets me ride it
and for hours and hours
we soar
together.

by Henry Sosnowski


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Monday, August 20, 2007

Imagination stew

All can agree the world is not
Made for our liking
But in my mind.
My world is better than yours
It is made for my liking
In it I’m the King,
The Empire, The Bandit,
I’m GOD
I can leap from
A moving vehicle
Right before it blows up
BAM
The big blow up scene
Now that’s action that
Doesn’t need a stunt double
I could make a drama
That is so touching
The actual audience
Will start touching
Each other in ecstasy
I could make a sudden
Unbelievable plot twist

That makes Ebert and Robert
French kiss each other
And with a big
Two thumps up
Each other asses
I’d like to see the award
That one would win.

by Jordan Eckenrode


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Saturday, August 18, 2007

sunday election

I'm stuck in a Mao mind,
demands reverbing on us inmates
ornitology our only enlightment
and I was the purpose of a clothesline
dangling rags from my ears
brand-name shoes

praises in dandelion cracked skull streets
dust suit bikes engages in grave hunts
I leave the low-tempo tunes haunting from staircases
flat beer can never end gaslight dawns

obvious selections can only let one down
vomit abrupt failed yearnings
like a sunday election
possession of purity rage
diguised fever
envy proportion
dominating the income of oil power

on the balcony listening to euphoric kids
burned eyebrow screams
who stays anarchist by 24?
my head is way under my shoulder

by Jesper Sydhagen


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Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Beauty of Death

Cold winds of October chill to the bone. Creatures
of the grass scurry for shelter beneath the falling leaves,
safe from cold fingers, huddled within fall’s home.

The red and gold and brown sparkles in the sun, kissed
by moist lips of dew, caressed by each other, laying side
by side, over and under…beauty of death begun.

As the sun bows below the horizon, the red and orange
of a magnificent sky bids goodnight to the last to
cling to the trees, enduring only until sun rising.

Plastic bags and straw baskets and white smoke trailing
into the overcast sky attend to the dead. Beautiful and
quiet and reincarnated they swirl above our head….
only for a moment do they fly….the beauty of death
a last good-bye.

by John Pouch


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Friday, August 10, 2007

Please Don't Say Cunt

Please don't say cunt
Please don't say cunt
Can I say pussy?
Hey leave my pussy out of this
Please don't say pussy
How about fuck, can I say fuck?
No, no fucking around here while I'm present
Please don't say fuck or cunt or pussy
How about ethnic cleansing?
Oh, you can say that. Do I get a pedicure with it?
I just love pedicures
How about pegagogy?
Can I say pedagogy?
Oh sure, my feet hurt all the time
from my job
I walk around the store for 5 hours a day
How about bella fica stretta?
Can I say bella fica stretta?
Sure ! That sounds beautiful!
You know what it means?
Oh tell me, it sounds beautiful though
It's Italian. It means "pretty tight pussy"
Oh you pig! You even ruin the romance languages!

by Rob Plath


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Monday, August 06, 2007

sexuality’s miserable mantra

that callous sexuality’s mantra
enflames bodies with the knowledge of
finitude and death, the suffering
recorded within us in our stringy DNA
that has replaced fate today as depressively
positioned deity above this lovelessness, us.

the strings are white that tie us in
this incarnation, it is not sin but vicious
facticity, the viscous glue that binds me
to you, our embodiment we choose as my
tumescence in your wet, the liquidity
of protest, the sweated breast.

heterosexualism says that rape is best
but that is non-essential, fucked love our
prophecy of death, tied to the reasoned tree
of knowledge we pray to, is our potential
potency in act resting between my thighs here
slimy as life and dead as night

or life.

by David McLean


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Sunday, August 05, 2007

Suck Me To Jerusalem

Higher learning
Gets better
All the time.
I had only known
This woman
A few days
When she
Showed up at
My apartment
And surprisingly,
After a few drinks,
Gave me this
Fantastic blow job.
It was the best
I ever had.
She kept
Smacking her lips
And mumbling 'Jesus'.
'Said she was gonna
Suck me to Jerusalem.
Maybe, I shoulda been
A little concerned
Having seen
Mel's 'Passion'.
Did I mention that she's
A graduate student
From Israel?

by Daniel S. Irwin


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Saturday, August 04, 2007

The Perfect Haiku

To write a good poem
Seventeen syllables long
Is nearly impossib-

by Mike McHone


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Friday, August 03, 2007

Crib Notes for the Marquis de Sade

Establish a premise concerned
exclusively with cruelty,
then deconstruct the first article of faith
with philosophical questions and extreme
examples that become the norm.

A writer’s modus operandi:
orgasm and feast and sleep,
replenish the feral mass
a virile physiology
devoted to lust and vomitus.

(Ask the devil a question and prepare
for honest answers).

Plump hedonism weighs down
the verdant limbs—
a ripened berry, sickly sweet
reddened brightly with raw
clitoral excitement.

Born into the inheritance
of swollen ideals and engorged
fatherly paragons: death
undoubtedly is a flaccid affair.

by Phillip M. Roberts


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Wednesday, August 01, 2007

A RESOLUTION

Sugar plums and
dancing bums
littered on the street

Sexy chicks
with western hicks
nimble on their feet

Whiskey jars and
slutty bars
up and down the block

Fatted pimps with
walking limps
selling round the clock

Christmas time and
the church bells chime
presents to be had

Filthy hoes with
camel toes
trying to be bad

Sit around the
busy town, then
sleep until noon

It all will end
around the bend
a new year’s coming soon

by Christopher Fog


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