Tuesday, August 31, 2010

thank god I’m a poet

by Tommy Hobbe

I scraped this dog shit poetry off of the sole of my soul

with a termite infested wooden prosthetic hand

and splattered it onto the back of an unpaid parking ticket


it’s as lovely as chainsaw sodomy preformed post mortem

feels like I’m holding up my warm slimy intestines

for the leisurely perusal and cockeyed judgment of zombies


it all began when some modern lit teacher said

that my bloody vomit looked like abstract art

since that moment I’ve crucified my pride daily


so that chronic spiritual masturbators

could watch this trailer park freakshow with outraged eyes

and be reassured that they're not as fucked up as some people


Monday, August 30, 2010

SUCH KNOWLEDGE

by Richard Godwin

What do I know
About the perfume of midnight cemeteries
Or the blood rose
With no thorns at all

What do I know
About the hand that touches me in the dark
And stops my blood beating in my veins
Or the ice in my ear

When I hear an avenue of hummingbirds
The sounds they make full of the colour of their wings
What do I know
About the hidden desires of my

Loved ones whose faces change in twilight
What do I know
About the veins that trace a journey on a leaf
Or the hidden energy of air

Sunday, August 29, 2010

SORT OF A NEW BEGINNING

by Steven Gulvezan

Alabaster in the shining moon

His buttocks and belly were bare

He sank into the pond

A chain of stones around his neck

A garland of honeysuckle in his hair

His skin so pale shone luminous when wet

He wished a wish to sink and drown

And forget—

But he could not…

And as he struggled to die

All his hatred

And jealousy and fear

Bobbed up within his brain

Causing him much grief…

Much more so, indeed, than the water

That was trickling into his lungs and

Not really suffocating him…

He bobbed to the surface

Sucked in the air

Ripped off the stones

And clambered – cursing

Both life and death –

Back onto the beach

And returned to this world again


Artist's Son

by Mathias Nelson

The artists are dandelions:
There are so many of them
unwanted.

God called my mother
a dandelion
and told her she was
better than all the other
flowers.

Wasn't too long
till they chopped off her head,
poured weed killer
across her stem
and she drank it up,
became a member of society:

bane.

But not before she born me.
And I'm still a seed
flipping in the breeze
past the wanted flowers,
one of the few artists
who's still got a head.

But the mower is always
in the distance.
And who knows where
this wind will carry me?—when
we are all destined to be
shitty poems.

Friday, August 27, 2010

HAREM

by Hugh Fox

Her ummmmmm, my third wife, sixty-four,
talking full time about "Everyone in my
family died in their sixties," although
(a face-lift 5 years ago) she looks fortyish,
e-mails every day from wife-possibles from
way back, sending me pictures of grandkids
("For me that's what counts, genetic continuation)
photos of themselves, poems, publishing questions,
when can I come out to Carpinteria to visit, five
months since Joey died (shark), "Let's meet in
Chicago," or this skin-cancer beauty in New
Hampshire, "The surgery went great, come for
a visit before the first snow...," my ex-student
in L.A., pals for 50 years, "This widow stuff is
crap...I need you...," a bunch of fucking saint-
whores, amazed at how the legs still hold up,
the surgically-chemically helped faces, and
always this sense of almost supernatural
get-together-foreverness, what I needed was
five lives and a theology that said "Who you
love you marry, forget numbers...."

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Conspiracy

by Lisa Zaran

I won't be long
but I might be late.
Don't wait up.
The red moon is up.
Stars blink like
frightened eyes.
Guilt shackles my
naked form to life
and from the corner
of my mind I laugh
because I know not
how to react to anything
right.
My children glint
like little lakes,
swallowing moonlight,
hiding their secrets
in centers so deep
no mother could reach
and so I choose to drown.
Fathers pass away
behind plastic curtains
in critical care units-
no more minty breath
or spinning thoughts,
my father dies delicately
quiet and all I can think
as I slip away, down the corridor
of hush and antiseptic
is why and what will I do
now that there will be no more
warm hands and glue and carpentry.
Who will fix my broken dolls?
Lovers kneel
and send flowers
while a thousand others
tear my pictures in half
before throwing them into the fire.
My heart is stale.
My love is nothing but an astonishing remark.
I'd call my latest lover perfect
but he has a scar above his lip
and his knees are weak from kneeling.
He's far from it.
Okay, I won't be late
but I might be long.
If you write, don't expect a reply.
I did not pack a pencil.


*http://www.lisazaran.com/
http://www.contemporaryamericanvoices.com/
http://www.dearbobdylan.com/

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

For Paradox 5

by Matt O'Toole

Like an emptied box of cutlery, Eugene's body falls twisted, limbs woven around themselves.
Their dry mouths had one other held hostage.
His milk white neck embracing her fingers gently like blue tack.
They step back from each other, his smile pricking pale balloon pink cheeks,
He dives in her deep inkwell pupils, swimming in thick road tar black ink.
A heavy tear grows in the corner of her eye and rests on her cheek.
Water streams down the steps thowing cutlery either side,
Buckets of ink dry to chalk and dust.

She steps over his fallen twisted wire body,
staring at his white flour caked face,
and smudged crimson lips,
staring into his marble green eyes,
She thinks of when they met at Oul' Butters,
A singed smile in her siren face,
At old butters, where he held her, glowing and tall.
After everything since then, he's just put a barrel to his head,
and painted all 4 walls.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

I AM

For I am the life and death.
For I am the sun and the darkness.
I am the power of love and I am the darkness among others.

I am the time and stars.
I am the song which is sung very far.

I am not an energy nor entity.

I am neither of any religion or soul.

I am the message of the beloved.

I am the brother and the father.

I am the love and the hate.

Sometimes, I am nothing but emptiness.

I am the sex to multiply time and again.

I am the number added over zero.

I am the quality of mankind.

I am

I am the friend and foe.

I am the sin and sinner.

I am the silence and crowd.

I am the sadness and pain.

I am neither any of human words nor human deeds.

I am

Just I am

Maybe I am

Let us say, I am, I will be, I was.

So, here I am, here I belong, in this moment of complete solitude

Because I was, I am, and I will be.

by Santosh Kalwar


Monday, August 23, 2010

Open

by Lara Konesky

proximity can't fuck with muse
it only hurts the physical
only hurts a little
don't even tell me where your home is
unless I open my legs
and it's there

Life is a sad-slow movie with subtitled romance*

by Kristina Marie Darling

And here, Kodak picturesque, my love,
the streets do not end with a damsel taken
her legs splayed and small bills scattered like leaves.
In this strange place, darling,
we dream drugged yellow haze and burlesque shows.
It is so beautiful here I don’t ever want to land.
Someone brings flowers to me in cameo
and the credits fade, with you the dead agnostic
myself left to catch crystals
of methamphetamine cold in your breath.


*from Kristina's chapbook "The Traffic in Women" from Dancing Girl Press

Saturday, August 21, 2010

CATAWAMPUS

by Kallima Hamilton

Exuberant beatniks in angst-black turtlenecks,
secretly dreaming of sunlight and waffles,
scrounge their pockets for rhythmic shards
of keen poetry and wailing laments.

Blow those blues, Daddy-O, blow those blues.
Fresh young trees spitting gold cold leaves
on urban decay, the way you do a John Wayne
with a cigarette into this cement gutter
covered with wet newsprint and remnant fries.

It's all neon and Pepto-Bismol from here.
Some fungi swiped your tree frogs.
Sweet confetti of annihilation,
save us from the garish fate
of baboon-butt bright self love.

Friday, August 20, 2010

DISCARDED SOCIAL BURDEN

by Junie Moon

Faint rays of sunlight
through a tiny window
caught the spinning
prism, rainbows danced ’round
that tin can trap called home

Ha, just think, mobile home,
mobile suggesting it would move.
That old bucket hadn’t moved
in thirty years sitting
in grammies back yard

Feeling trashy was easy
when picking up
food stamps each month
was the high point of life

Even worse, the way
people look when
getting groceries,
some folks look away
others look on in disgust

One step above homeless,
a refugee, a pariah,
unwanted, used up, just one
more name on the welfare list

Finally she heard the baby crying,
so distant, strange, unreal,
all alone, disconnected from all
other life forms

Poverty and neglect
suffocating her;
strangling a tattered
will to live.

Just a little light of hope
would, perhaps, give
enough strength to keep moving

Long ago she had given up on God
or any other type of salvation,
redemption surely did not know
her address but the bill collectors did

If only she could just leave,
yes, leave this ALL behind
She went down to the river
most every day when
the baby slept

The water, sparkling, golden,
freedom soaring where the
sky crosses the water


Thursday, August 19, 2010

LUST BLOWING UNDER THE DOOR, BRIGHT AS STRAW

by Lyn Lifshin

Your smile’s like sun
flowers he said
as tho
embarrassed his
hands were
pressing
awkwardly the
ring on his
second finger
close to her
eyes
from that room
a wheat sea
lust
blew under the
door bright
as straw
and his warm
parts on
her belly
those small
bones that
changed her
small
bones to water
And not even
knowing
his name
until later
when the floor
fell
the room
turned into a
painting
and the paint
cracked


Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Big Shiny Prison

by Ryan Bartek

Here's a PDF "non-fiction counterculture book" by Ryan Bartek called The Big Shiny Prison. It's a free download.

And another The Silent Burning.


BECAUSE

by Jonathan Hayes

it’s the sadness
of sulfur, or
the fact that
suicides are just
statistics, that
makes me want
to love you, while
i still exist, and
fill in that empty
four-letter word
with all my blood
and breath

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Westy bar

by Ben Smith

No one likes the juke box
and any time it's on
the locals ask to have
it shut off.

Every one drinks alone
but in company
and quietly
sip at their beer
with the thunder
of loneliness.

Every time the door opens
people snap their heads
and look to see if it might
be some one who they
know and will break them
from the annoying and
tedious conversation
they are having with people
they hate.

The old dudes that read from
glasses
and
they
have grey hair.

Putting 10 buck bets on every race.

Any thing to elude them from
the outside
and make belive
that it's okay to be this
old and
drunk and
lonely
and un afraid
of death
or something
like it.

Monday, August 16, 2010

THE CARNIVAL

by Ben Rasnic

August heat precipitates

steady rain feathering

pink cotton candy swirls

and watercolor canvas pools

quivering in neon funhouse mirrors.


Sideshow games tilt

from leaded milk bottles

and greased crystal dishes,

shooting gallery rifles with bent sights

and barrels crooked as a raccoon’s penis.


Bearded bikers

sport tattered denim,

arms plastered

in purple ink tattoos

man the ride controls.


We ride the Scrambler, the Cyclops,

the Tilt-a-Whirl and finally,

the Ferris Wheel where we kiss

until our lips chap, then cozy up

in the black curtained booth,


my sweaty palms pressed

against her bare naked breasts

for the first time,

nipples pink and swelling

like candied apples;


exit through a mud puddle maze,

ghost image film strips

of blurred lives

and spent quarters

trampled underfoot.


Tuesday, July 7, 2009

by John Kusak

8:50 p.m.

Gutenberg,
removable type,
has come a long way.
wireless laser printing
and now, the new thing is,
blogs
I hope there is a great poet, still young
Somewhere, perhaps in Bogata, or Buena Aires
Who writes with a stick in sand,
Or charcoal on white ash tree trunks,
Who will be captured by Google Earth
Each letter disappearing into the cold black sea
As the tides push in or the fire blazes.

9:02 p.m.

I am naked
The humidity is causing my lungs to grieve.
I relax them with a cigarette
which only makes their lugubrious mourn
A bit more acrid.
The ceiling fan methodically returns by ritual
As if not by physics or electricity.
Perspiration has risen to form a nice thin sheen
of silky sweat off my skin
I am watching my cock get bigger and smaller
as if it has a brain of its own,
it's difficult to be serious enough,
to feel the un-pleasantries of heat
when I am staring at my own penis.

9:12 p.m.

The last 25 minutes have been a waste of time
Please forgive me, reader
These poems rather suck,
Sometimes writing makes me feel as if
I am dissolving in time to a climax tragically in decline
These times, I need to go outside
And change my tires.

Friday, August 13, 2010

gun shots bust like nickel plated cherry blossoms

by David Smith

gun shots bust like nickel plated cherry blossoms

pulled from the waistband of low jeans

hidden in the sleeves of Richmond sweatshirts

blooming the shatter of auto glass explodes

with the impact of wayward chevrolets

at twenty third and rheem while

mothers fly from living rooms and bound

front steps to snatch babies from front yards

behind chain link and denial

dragging small arms of frightened

screams at mamas fearful urgency

overhead metal slams into the siding of old houses

burrowed amid termites and unrelenting detritus

of slow and persistent consumption

these streets are ruled by the warlords

whose law is vengeance like winter rain

driving hard dark and cold

into impotent neighborhoods

buried deep into weary rooftops

that cannot resist them nor repel them

but pay tribute with diverted eyes

and avoidance of darkened sidewalks

while disclaimed soldiers barter euphoria

and seek disrespect

among the homes of their enemies

classmates in the iron triangle

children run to school wary of the cars that slow

and pull to the curb and thump their skin

dark figures in dark spaces taunt them

and provoke scurry and furtive flight

into the arms of shit apostles


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

My First Two Kills

by Jim Davis

Wrapped in heavy down we are
sitting ducks, rotting leaves,
when expected to crunch, mash
from all the rain and the kick
from this .22 is far too strong
for prepubescent boys, tears
shoulder sinew from soft, fleshy arms.

Sparrows sing in the aligned crosshair
of my new Red Ryder. plunk. plunk.
plunk. One crumples and falls
like the seedling of a maple,
spinning like a helicopter
to the expectant forest floor.
I pinch that little bastard by its dead neck,
palpate the skull I put holes in
and pose for a picture, holler,
present the tiny carcass
to my father with pride.

Buckshot explodes, freckles the cornfield sky.
My father winged a goose and I
perform a heavy-handed choke that
bloodies my leather gloves. I strangle,
suffocate, pull life from feathered limbs.
I wipe blood on my overalls:
warpaint.

The Kama Sutra of Edward Cullen

by J. Bradley

There is no hitting this, no fingernails
sifting through the diamonds all over
my chest, no tree bark to mark
our backs, no necking without teeth.

We'll just stare. Awkwardly.
Staring into you. Romantically.
Staring at you. It is creepy?
Not when pre-teen girls hunt
for this cock hoping to slake
their thirst for true love.

Oh dove, I would snap your wings,
drink your plummet, wear the neck
like a crucifix to ward off these girls
who wear their ovaries on their sleeves.

One day, I will build up the courage,
the resolve, to stop the staring,
stop giving you that pensive look
that unwinds your panties.


*http://iheartfailure.net/

Sunday, August 8, 2010

This is just to say

by Mark James Andrews

I have swallowed
all the pills
that were in
your red purse

and which
you were rationing
saving
for your work week

Forgive me
for getting loaded
I knew
they weren’t M & M’s

A Library Fantasy

by Denis Robillard

Zuk’s spirit was impaled upon
the knife of love
It all started when the young
red-headed gazelle rose up
like a zoo flower
and crossed a perfect set of legs
containing a Tantric mystery.
There was a lie on her lips
a lost gaze inside her fiery eyes
a moist stamp inside the passport
of her heart.

3 Poems by Emily Handover

1.
i painted a picture of you
in my mind
while he buried himself
deeper inside me
you had on that sweatshirt
with the ripped sleeve
and your hair
combed back straight
i hate your hair like that
but the only way i can
get off is by
picturing it


2.
he told me i had
the tightest slit he
ever felt
i told him i was a gypsy
a vagabond
traveling
around in search of
the biggest sea monster
one could find
and
my search wasn't over
i gave a final tug
before leaving only
the stench of
salt water
and a disheartening memory


3.
slung back another
handle of rot gut
tripped over the
memories i thought
i forgot
and fucked another sailor
to prove i don't care
only thing i got
is an empty bottle and
an itchy cunt

Friday, August 6, 2010

Peruvian Dream

by Eliza Ronalds-Hannon

Dozing through the Andes
In the front of a crowded bus
Her unconcious uncurls, stretches, and crawls into his dreams
As her head rests on muscle and wool.

On his mind's ride the bus is guided by breath-
The exhalations of the black eyed panpipe player who boarded ten miles back.
His quick and airy melodies loop them through sharp curves;
And long clear notes send them down steep straightaways.

The musician is driver and passenger,
Navigating a bloodshot landscape.
He predicts each curve of the terrain
And meneuvers with gentle blows.

As his rhythms quicken their speed increases.
Outside, the grazing llamas fly by faster and faster
Until they fade away completely as the bus leaves the ground
And enters a foggy airway punctured by ragged mountain peaks.

She wakes to the smell of damp wool
Scratchy wetness on her face, his chest.
His tears or hers?

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Eyes of

by Sean McGahey

The eyes of patronising spinsters
looking at this street bum's
Cider stained suit of humbleness
Dog ends and empty packets of
hope scatter the floor.

"even-sev" by Sarah Ahmad

video

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

"lover a banana"

by Diana Salier

pssst! i'm full of vitamins
chiquita banana quips
with pride
at the breakfast table today
as if i need a reason to want to be here
with her.

well don't rub it in, i say
that may be so, but let us not forget
that i'm good for you too,
aren't i?

and then i peel off her
unripe first layer
i should have waited
more than five minutes
after bringing her home

because halfway through the long
curve of her body, i'm weary of
the premature taste

i toss chiquita banana
in the nearest receptacle
with all the love and care
of a hired mercenary

and grab a raspberry yogurt
instead

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

"Tale of Two Lovers"

by Derrick Keeton

The rails feel cold on my fingertips as I
Descend down the stairs
That winter leaving the hospital, you behind
As usual, they say you’ll pull through
But instinct tells me it shouldn’t have taken this
Long

Long as lonely nights which pass like a pontoon
In the throes of thunderous waves on the high seas
And so strange, the torment, if only the gun had been
On safe, last winter would not have passed so bitter
Yet, hope tells me they are right, and your recovery will be
Slow

The mirror haunts back an image of a man who has seen
Death from an empty bottle
Each restless eve I drink away the memories of the days
When you were here with me, you scoundrel!
I told you never to touch that cold killing machine, my breaths die
Short

Cascades of consolation rest at my door in envelopes
As if a mailman left them there in sheer pity, avoiding the box
Next to the drive, and the cold comes once again, three winters it has been
You’re lead-leaden body now shows a familiar pair of eyes
You tell me to bend low, say, “I wanted to end the pain.
Of letting you know I cannot love you.” And as I leave…
The great specters of misery and scorn weigh heavy on my eyes
They say, “He will not make it through the night.”
The rails are cold, but not so cold as the reality of death, its venom poisoning so
Fast

Monday, August 2, 2010

questionable vocalization skills

by Carl Miller Daniels

a sexy good-looking young man
is kissing the lips
of a sexy good-looking young woman
while that good-looking young woman gives
him an inept but heartfelt and well-intentioned
hand job;
**
the sexy good-looking young man
got off anyway, a
good gushy series of sloppy messy
cum spurts.
**
the young man then
reciprocates, using his
fingers to try and
bring this woman
to orgasm.
**
in the middle
of it, a neighbor calls,
invites them both to
dinner.
they say yes.
**
several weeks later,
details emerge, and
everybody involved
feels very hopeful
about the
future. in fact,
that night,
when the
sexy good-looking young
man is again getting a hand-job,
he tells her "yeah baby
yeah."

gorilla architecture

by Carl Miller Daniels

"refry the beans on the doorstep of darkness"
and
"cherish the fallen angels, for they are
often the most beautiful" --
these were the thoughts
that the sexy big-dicked young man
was having as he was watching
the birds migrate, and,
as he watched them through
the little tiny itty bitty interwoven
holes of his screened-in porch,
he kept saying to himself,
"refry the beans on the doorstep of darkness"
and
"cherish the fallen angels, for they are
often the most beautiful" -- until,
the certainty of his own
madness loomed like
a twisting clothesline
on the horizon,
and even the
turnip that was sucking on
his dick
could no longer distract
him from the certainty
of orgasmic
introspectivity,
the yearning of his
pants to slither back
up his ankles, and, at
the very least, cover up the
knees.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Flat Water Prayer

by TM Göttl

Coliseum dog fights
marked up the bank vault doors,
while gray-templed men, wearing
expensive wrist-watches,
stirred their coffee with silver barreled guns,
whispering through grated windows.

We escaped
across flat water borders,
passports and nicotine in our pockets.
But I watched my last prayer,
limping to the east,
weighted down by glass antennae
and polystyrene wings.

Summer spells never answer
with open grand ballrooms
and naked tables,
making room for halogen bulbs,
caught, in thorns and burning shrubs
like a multicolored spider
collapsing at dawn.

I could hear the overseer,
His voices of London glass,
above His Times Square eyes,
above his feet, the glittering wrecking balls
walking through Dresden markets.

What hopeless sigh can rise
more than crusty dial tones creeping up the stairwells,
especially under my
frantical embellishment, gluing on every feather,
every pretty bit of tinfoil
riding by on fate and a
plagiaristic breeze?

And who are the eleventh-hour sponsors,
bearing my paper airplane testament on their backs?
A pair of white foxes, flying,
tails afire, flanking a snapped quarter-star,
guarding hostages
and the tiny alloyed messengers,
who climb to the ends
of the elephant grass,
velvet and silken bags
tied to their limbs,
but they climb, my friend.
Still, they climb.


*TM Göttl lives in Cleveland, OH. Check her out at:
http://www.buffalozef.net/

...and be sure to check out this site too:
http://www.eveningforchuck.com/