Monday, July 26, 2010

farewell the flesh

if fucking is life
i must be dead
if fucking is so political
i am apolitical
and under the bed
jerking off and fitting
must've had more jerks
than hot meals
and more hangovers too
if fucking is communion
i am incommunicado
totally disconnected
not even a thread
hanging like the burr of nail
she loved across her breast

(a pastoral scene)

strange wooden trees
three crosses
that's kenneth patchen
he was a christian pacifist
and loved his wife so sweetly
fucked her all the time
even through the pain
everyone's fucking everyone
or getting fucked it seems,

(who cares ? not me ?)

if fucking is animal
i must be a higher being
licking the trough
and gutters at dawn
if getting fucked is karmic
i'm in nirvana
and hate the view
if fucking were everything
i'd be nothing
not even born
or the ache i bear for you
from down here
i can see and hear and smell
everyone fucking
in two decades
i have seen a million
cocks and cunts and assholes gaping
a flickering, disconnected scream

(i think they stole my love)

if you don't want to fuck
i'd understand but please
don't fuck me over
i'm already deeply scarred
and scared
don't get me wrong
i have fucked before,
more than my quota
the lost names and faces
even fucking now
and you know if fucking came easy
i'd be a natural
lions fucking foxes birthing lambs-
(a nature scene)
they even fucked in the camps and seminaries
i hear
some even die fucking but not me
i am a unicorn
and if you see me in the glade walk by
the birds and bees splendidly alive
come to carnivale

by Paul Harrison

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Friday, July 23, 2010

I’m not funny enough to be tragic
I arrive already drunk on boredom
you weigh down my buoyancy
I brush by gauging love

I open with your closing remarks
the electricity comes on
and we’re reconnected
semen flows slowly down your thigh
the grip of the earth grows tighter
the ocean spills over the hills
the air is fresh with stale ideas
the walls hung with frowns

a woman with an ear for good-looking language
a morning full of comfortable voices
the tattoo you’re working into a poem

the short cuts of love are too quick for romance
cruising through red lights
with the dazzle of your looks
I hope the character assassination goes smoothly
with the taste of the sea on your eyelash

the dark lingers longer than a glass or two
I’m looking for fun –not a goddess
your figure steadies me in an uncertain way

the embrace I never make
because I might never let you go

by Jude Dillon

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Thursday, July 22, 2010


I don’t know why you’re making fun of me
for the fact that I don’t know how to whistle.
You seem to think that everybody is born with the ability.
And I’m here to tell you that it’s not true.
That some of us are happy just being able to hum.
And imagine that the humming noise we’re making
is the same commotion the kite makes
every time it stops to think that it’s unraveling the string.
And a lot of people, by the way, don’t think that whistling is such a big deal.
I don’t want to upset the apple cart. But that’s just the way it is.
I’ve heard them say more than once
that if God wanted us to whistle, She would have learned how to do it Herself.
She wouldn’t have stuck around this long
unknitting the tissues we offered that sanctioned the word She became.

by Lee Stern

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Monday, July 19, 2010


I carried you through like a trophy
Amongst southeast strips of scenic eyes,
Smelling flowers before standing delivered,
Possibly their smell could be of thought
Gone rotten, breasts all to me like
Goddesses of night, the hidden voice
Of pleasure speaking in the night,
In sheets soiled with tears, pillows
Penetrated for lusting ghosts, drinking
The water boiled to sanitize, sore pelvises
Thrusting to cum pain struck and more, to wit
On subject matter blurred by beginners luck,
Transforming my limbs into arms stroking the
Curves of a serpent, alluring hair I stroke, barbed wire
Fences surrounding her wall. Sidewalks talk of
Degrees increased with yards burning away, out
To the river flushing excrement exceeding decay, like
Memory clutches that weaken the present mind,
A different position for every episode
My future promises, an activity risen on ashtray
Dwellings, beaches of no sand or ocean, needles with
No prick, love without the L, the trots of no-legged
Fragile men. What varies is that scent descent
Into aroma therapy, nostalgic oils of
Innocent eyes, narcissistic neck stained
By an angels perfume.

by Brian Anthony Hardie

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Friday, July 16, 2010

My last shot of Hennessy

"My Heart goes out 2 the hunger
My Heart goes out 2 the Lost Souls
My Heart goes out 2 those who are blinded by the dark
My Heart goes out 2 those who are captured by stress, misery, and pain that just want seem 2 heel
When yall stress, I do 2
I am able 2 feel yall pain, and it does make me flimsy in times
This calls 4 Hennessy
She brings Hatred, but I love the way she makes me feel
All my problems are relieved 4 the moment
What I'm witnessing, I see that others need her attention even more
My last shot of Hennessy goes out 2 the struggles we all go through
4 everybody that have been through thick, and thin are approved 4 my last shot of Hennessy
4 the 1's that's no longer breathing because the struggle was 2 much 2 take, this last shot of Hennessy is my condolescense
I want the world 2 acknowlegde that even as a Thug, I got a Heart 4 people
I even got much Love 4 my foes that may roam the world
They may be my foes, but they are still my brothers" -1 Love

by Andrew L. Monroe III
-Dedicated 2 our struggles

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Friday, July 09, 2010

Tales of the Mental Unit

Sitting in an uncomfortable chair
I look out at the falling snow.
I’ve found this is my reprieve from
those kept with me. Kept like prisoners.
The others, those like me, they talk in group
therapy, some crying, some making accusations.
I say nothing. What is there to say?
“Hello, I’m mad - nice to meet you.”
I think not. One day we all decided
we wanted to go outside. There were
outdoor areas for us to explore (be
them small). We asked the head nurse.
“No,” she replied, “There is ice out
there, you could get hurt.”
A girl who had schizophrenia spoke angrily.
“How fucking disabled do you think we are!
We’d have to try to get hurt.” The nurse merely
shook her head. “It’s too dangerous,”
she repeated. So much for fresh air.
One day we were introduced to a new girl
who had come in the middle of the night.
She had tried to commit suicide. That next day
the schizophrenic, the new girl
and I sat down to talk. We inquired
about her suicide attempt and she proudly
revealed a wound across her wrist. It had been
stitched up. She seemed to wear it as a badge
of honor; to prove that she was truly mad now.
As if she hadn’t known before.
Another boy in the group was a musician.
He would play his guitar, sitting on the window
seat next to my room. It calmed me.
One group he stopped and accused,
“You’re all fucking mad!” The nurse tried to calm him
and he sat down on the ground near the door.
“How are you feeling?” the instructor asked.
“Fucking annoyed!” The instructor rephrased her
question. “On a scale of ‘frustrated, angry and furious
what are you?” “Fucking angry!” he answered.
he sat in silence for the rest of the group.
Out of all of us he was the sanest, though that
didn’t make him wholly sane. None of us were.
We would never be. Lucid, yes. Alive, yes.
From time to time. But eventually it would happen.
We would snap. I had always waited for this
to happen; and it did. My life spun out of control.
Since then I’ve grasped it once more. And I’ll
hold onto it waiting – just waiting – until I fall again.

by Mary Ramsey

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Sunday, July 04, 2010

The Free Safety

I know you're going to attack my house
You hardly hold me with your misdirection
Only for half a second do I pretend to dote on your ground rush
You've played it safe for long enough
And now you're going for broke
You have guns and I have only my hands
You have skilled special ops to run trails into my land
But I've seen it all before, and this time I won't falter
I even lull you in, bait you, you feel secure in your sense of power
But I am the Small Man, the little fish who bites your dick off
You launch your attack, sailing through the air, piercing my ancient winds
I'm already there my dear enemy, treading ground full speed
I've always been there only you were too stupid to see
This is my house, motherfucker
And I picked your bullshit pass
Now I have your grenade and it's ticking away
I thank Ala, the most merciful, for working through me
And I blow yall niggas away

by Giovanni Mendoza

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Friday, July 02, 2010

Sexual Intellectual

Erectional, intestinal incisions
Flexible, symmetrical positions
Injectable precision
Electrical omissions
Spectacle, envision:
A technical professional of sexual submissions

by Cyle

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