Monday, November 29, 2010

Snakeskin Mountain

We buried the truth
in hopes and good times
The scars and the shame
we save for the end
Conversations with good ol'
Mr. Daniel's are always the best

Glory is a drunken night
that lasts way too long
Human nature is a night
when drugs they fight back
But sex is a nice distraction
sex is a nice distraction

Let's Get Together
and celebrate the summer
Whiskey and drugs
make the dancing much better
Midnight high's
and quick goodbyes
One night stands are always better
when no one can really remember

He can't believe that this is a sin
To love her to leave her to do it again
But booze is good
and he trusts god knows
What's up
most of the time

But sex is a nice distraction
sex is a nice distraction

by Shane McCaffery


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Friday, November 12, 2010

Until Tomorrow

Pictures of her torn from women's magazines
grace my bedroom door like a candlelit shrine
inside the dungeon of a serial killer, and she
smiles at me, or pouts, or just looks sexy as
I wait for the mail truck to arrive so I can
stand visible in front of the open door naked,
"accidentally," with a towel like I was about
to wrap it around myself after a shower or swim,
but when I see what comes out of the truck, it’s
a man, so I get dressed and close the front door.

by Michael Frissore


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Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Zoe’s side dish for living

Zoe in the kitchen
Jeb pulling ragweed in the garden
Baby Rose sleeping next to the mutt
Storm outside, pouring down
At work + home
Dreaming beyond boundaries
Zoe cooks feeds her addiction
Makin Yaya’s chocolate sheet cake
Zoe keeps tubs of pimento cheese and Mediterranean tuna in the frig
Catering dinner for four; Zoe will deliver
Dreaming beyond boundaries and waiting for the side dish
For living

by Barbara Panos


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Tuesday, November 09, 2010

Fed Up Fed Down

Someone blew-up the Kelly
Writers House. Words everywhere.
Those pretentious world weary
kids are really weary now.
Now they have something to
write about. Grab the helve
and cock the hammer.

Here comes the press-gang.
They spread out like radiolarians.
Poorish man-jacks.
What do they want with me?
Can't they see I'm behind my
cortex? Glottis spasm - no words?
I found a thousand-legger

in my new used book. You know the
one with the bloody ox-blood cover.
My shirt is on inside-out, Moppet,
my only child. Fuzzy.
The heat came through the
floor boards and into my nostrils
like worms.

Will the sun ever show it's face
again? Come out from behind
that fucking ceiling. That ceiling
of the damned.
The bloated damned with their
opinions. I wait like they do
for approval.

by Garrin Riggin


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Monday, November 08, 2010

after the fact

after a couple good ones
we lied there in bed
lazing around
and not saying a word.

how nice it was
to just be there
admiring her face
and her body
with its generous curves.

one of those nice moments
after you have sex
with a beautiful woman

when you can do nothing
but look over at her
and think to yourself

yeah, that's right
I just owned that piece of ass

by Jackson Warfield


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Friday, November 05, 2010

Sin against my soul

I want so much to have reality.
I don’t know what is real and what is not anymore.
I don’t know if what I am feeling now is real or just warmth.
I come to you.
I need refuge.
I let go of who I was and what I wanted because fear clutched my soul.
I was alone, cursed to be so.
Truth betrayed me.
Yet… I needed truth again in some sick sadistic way.
Hurt.
Masochism.
I stay in the warmth I’ve offered myself.
But I stray, seeking to know, wanting to.
I hate knowing I’ve succumb to my devil.
I’ve become utterly pungent.
I smell of this.
I go into relapse.
You.
Wanting, needing, your guidance, you.
Don’t pity me, I was begging for it.
I want your forgiveness. My forgiveness.
I need to know.
I need to cling to the past, crying for its truth.
To have faith again.
Maybe if I feel this way again I can breed it’s wealth.
I pollute me with you.
Is this truth?
I’m insane.
But again, I cling to safety.
Threatening to run.
I vomit profusely at my own sins.
My weakness.
I hate myself.
Fuck.
Fuck me.
Please understand me, the reality is; I can’t forget this.
I don’t know whats going on.
Am I crazy?
Do you understand me?
Why I did this?
Why I had to?
I thought this is what I needed; pollution.
You healed me.
Made me see.
And then…I lacerated the scars.
To recreate the wound.
Wound of my soul.
Boils of shit.
Trash.
I cry to no one.
Only my eyes know my pain.
The next day I lie again.
Dishonest.
Not truth.
I’ve broken the mirror.
Me. I’m broken.
Broken, cracked.
Shattered cracked shit.
So I rush to the warmth to avoid my fears.
Avoid you.
My dishonesty.
Ignore my reflection.
To avoid sickness.
And my own wrath.
My own eternal hell.

by Jolene R. Nashlund


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