mark walton

The Maze

My memories of meeting you
are kind of scattered.
My mind shattered by pills.
Glittering fragments
splintered on the dance floor,
picking up reflections
from the mirror-ball lights
and the whites of eyes.

I’m feeling alright.

It’s dark and hot
and I’m lost in the rhythm,
submerged as the bass quickens through me.

Someone pushes past
and I surface in a panic,
gulping air and looking ‘round,
and you’re there beside me.

Smooth, tight, white body.
Jaw set, eyes wide.
A handsome young lad
as lost as I am.

You turn,

and with a smile
you break the frozen drug mask
into pieces.
And beneath it,
dark eyes dance.

Damn, you’re handsome.
And I want some.

But before I can say a word,
the warmth of your smile
hits my chest,
breaks in a wave over my head,
and in a rush,
I’m submerged once more.

Before I disappear completely,
you grab my hand
and whisper in my ear,

‘Follow me’.

You lead me through the
labyrinth of passages
and stairs,
through a sea of sweating flesh
and beer and piss,
to God-knows-where.
Somewhere cooler, calmer,
with people seated everywhere.

A low buzz instead of a tom-tom beat.

You say:
‘Come here’,
‘Chill out’,
‘Sit there’.

I slide down the wall
to the floor,
legs apart.
You sit between them,
cool back to my chest.
My arms around you
cross your heart,
my chin upon your shoulder.
We’re a perfect fit,
though I’m guessing
I’m a few years older.

‘So, what’s your name..?’
Well it’s a start.

‘What’ve you done?’
‘Where you from?’
‘Want some water? gum? anything?’
‘What?’
‘-thing?’
‘Can I…?’
‘What?’
(sigh)
‘Doesn’t matter… Kiss me.’

A low hum and people stare
at the two skinhead boys over there.
Girls smile. Boys glare.

‘What d’you do?’
‘What you into?’
‘Anything really, what about you?’
‘Take me home and find out’.

More disjointed,
drug-fucked,
dirty talk,
‘til the words run out,
and pills kick in again,
and the filthy beat
coming through the floor,
drags us

down,


down,

down,

once more into the music.


Nine Wishes

I wish I'd never looked now.
Never taken the careless opportunity
to see who the message came from,
or what it said.

My need to know
over-riding your right to privacy.

I wish I'd never seen the words
that told me what you'd done,
behind my back
and how much fun you'd had.

Too much information
for my overactive imagination.

I wish you hadn't lied to me,
or blinked at me in
slowly dawning comprehension,
as you realised
that you'd been caught out in your deception.

I wish you hadn't gone ahead
and made the meeting prearranged.
Leaving me alone to my devices,
whilst you indulged your pleasures
and your secret, unshared vices.

I wish that things were different,
that the trust remained untarnished.
That each phone call,
and each absence,
didn't fill me with such anguish.

I wish for naive innocence returned.
I wish the fresh green leaves of love
remained unburned.
I wish I'd had more self-respect
and that I'd simply walked away
and never told you what I'd seen.

I wish that it was you, not me,
left stood bewildered and bereft,
and wishing for what might have been.


For A Friend

Boyfriend-dodging for stolen kisses
in recessed darkness.
You, rubber clad, mohawked,
dangerous looking.
A friendship seeded in furtive
suckfuckfumbled moments.

We swap numbers.

Waking next morning I find your cock strap
in the pocket of my jeans,
warmsoft leather between my fingers,
and, playing Prince Charming,
I come to your house to return it.

You look smaller in daylight.
Glasses on.
Mohican softtousledblond.
Both more sheepish
than last night’s fuckclub bravado.

Pushed against the wall for more slowgrope kisses,
‘Can’t stay, Sexy – I’ll be back tho’.

But then you’re gone.

Back to the metropolis.
Convalesced and West Countried out.
Bored and horny for more.

Business trips brought new adventures.
Cheap Kings Cross hotel rendezvous.
Running like wolves through neon Soho,
leering and mischief making.
Friendship forged in
Stella and ketamine.

Mornings waking bruised and confused.

But we survive confusion and contusions,
diagnoses and suicide bombers,
breakdowns and overdoses.
We share confidences and condolences,
and when the bullshit mask of confidence slips,
there’s no questions,
just the softest of soft shoulders,
or the sharpest of whiplash quips.

Each the other’s ‘other boyfriend’.
The one who knows,
who sees, sideways maybe,
through the jokes and the jackass laughs,
the go-on-then-just-another nights.

Brotherlover,
who knows where the bodies are buried,
where the self-destruct button lies,
and just how close the finger hovers over it.

And with each hard truth
the respect grows,
the bond strengthens,
and catching the glint in your eye
we down another,
light a defiant cigarette,
and laughing, ‘Dare you’, disappear
into another suckfuckfumbled Soho night.

samantha ledger

Electra

Do not include me
in your wayward fondling.
I was rampant beneath these sheets
before
your hands shifted towards my warmth.
Swarming about a fragile frame -
blame riddled bone shafts
hollowed out until concave -
brittle chips hips
overworked.

I am Electra.

I dance naked underneath the moon
cold - blue skinned.
Slimmed to starved I am consuming
self centered cells -
melded maligned to divinity.
Your overwhelming urge to claim
girls as your own blood
floods my mouth

I am drowning.

Let me lay silent in your arms
as you pander the ample curve
of flesh.
Beneath shallow breath I am leaving
you cannot contain me.
Free I shall slip from your embrace
with grace I shall leave.

I am your biology

Bound with fists and flushed passion
fashioned from Freud’s own text.
Watch me I am burning -
ash lifting into blood red skies
I am spread sprawling bawling
spawning a multitude stillborn lies.

I am my own complex

I am Electra

mathew d'abate

Going After The Darkness

raising the black halo
and wearing it like a crown
sitting on
the edge of the bed
staring at the yellow paint

when the night gives no
second prizes

when the shadows are
silver tongued

candles all burnt down
empty beer bottles
no more dreams
last drinks

when you chase dreams
all you will find are
ghosts

and they will not speak to you
until you know the secret their death.

ross vassilev

The Fall of Rome, Again

it ain’t the 60s
but it’s still a damn
interesting time to
live in America

watching the Empire
exhaust itself like all
that came before it

going bankrupt
from overspending
on the military

even as the military
gets torn apart
like an over-worked
horse in Animal Farm

sending money to
support pro-American
dictators while the
the schools fall apart

the bridges collapse

and Black and
Mexican inmates kill
each other in
California prisons.

it’s like watching
John Wayne dying
from cancer.


Sensitive

i guess the greatest
fear of any poet
is having their work
laughed at.

telling a poet their
work sucks is one thing

but i think most poets
would rather line
people up against a wall
and open fire
than have their poetry
laughed at

especially young poets.

but then you turn 30
and say

fuck it

you couldn’t care less
if anyone likes it or not

cuz you like it

and that’s what matters

so you start sending
it all out

left and right, everywhere

like a monkey
throwing shit from a tree.


Time is a Flea Bite on My Leg

nothing worse than 10 poems
rejected in one day.

nothing worse than hungry stray cats.

nothing worse than some guy
begging on the street.

nothing worse than little girls
murdered like flowers
with their heads cut off.

nothing worse than a crazy mother—
feeling like i was just
kicked stomped spat on pissed on

as i wander the dark afternoon
streets with candy wrappers
in the gutters

and fuck it’s only Tuesday.


Left Behind

lying in bed
in the afternoon

streetwalkers
turn tricks in cars

and teens walk
home from
school doped up
and glassy-eyed.

no one knows
what they’re
supposed
to accomplish
in this life

what “greater
purpose” there’s
supposed to be

i guess there’s
only dope and
blowjobs

and if you’re lazy
and/or broke

lying in bed
in the afternoon.


End of Days

we saw an old
homeless guy with
a slit in the back
of his pants

we laughed

we were kids

we thought it was

funny at the time

i don’t think it was
so funny now.

it was a chill windy
night in New York

Reagan was President
already senile

the first lady was
fucking Frank Sinatra

and consulting
astrologers
on foreign policy.

we didn’t know it
at the time but
the Soviet Union
was on its last legs
and America was
only 20 years behind

and soon nothing
would be funny at all.

puma perl

I’d Be Dead

I’d be dead if I wasn’t still alive
Fire hydrants were ghetto ER’s
Patient’s pockets empty as wakeups
Dope fiends with hearts saved lives

I saw EMT’s bringing a guy out
“You’re next” they said laughing
“Where’d he cop?” I laughed back

Ran into Papo on the curb, sweating
Shit I said and split my shot
He carried me out of the basement
I still had twenty dollars in my bra

When he got locked up he wrote stories
We were all animals in a forest
My daughter was a chattering bird
We collected cigarette money for him
Thirty-nine cents in four days

I was dead and I dreamed of nothing
Most days my wishes came true
Lower east side streets hold my secrets
I’d be dead if I wasn’t still alive


Age

Age may or
may not
bring wisdom
It will
definitely
make you
old and you
will do strange things

You may
sit on beach chairs
on hot pavement
blocking the doors
of Brooklyn buildings
while young mothers
struggle with
strollers and groceries
Stepping over your
drooping black socks
and sandals

There will be
nowhere
to go
on steaming
summer nights
Winter months
will loom ahead
stuffed with
television and
bathrobes

If age
brought wisdom
if love
was genetic
if children
were gifts
there would
be no beach chairs
on Brooklyn sidewalks
no six o’clock
phone calls
on Sundays
no droopy socks


I Am a Map

I’m corny as all hell
The Obama poster
in the window
of the corner bodega
almost makes me cry

I love the guy riding his Harley
dressed in a tuxedo
I love the kids on skateboards
below the Brooklyn Bridge
I love the kid in the library
who told his friend
he liked to read
cause he’s normal like that

I love the old lady
Who said “I was running,
Feel my heart
and the old man
who answered,
“I’d like to…”

I used to love
each kaleidoscopic moment
Obama spinning
on a skateboard
kids and old people
flying across a bridge

Today it tires me
I long for midnight gold
in an Arizona desert
the ginger dusk
of a Texas sky

I am a map
In bold letters
across my torso
it is written
You Are Here
Why here?
(I wonder)
continuing along
the same street….

david mclean

Anxiety Picking Clean

tonight is anxiety picking clean
the strenuous flesh
from the abject bone
with fingers unmanned by
futility and fever.

but the brutal blood is lazy,
and will not raise its head
to salute the patient sky,
the same that waits here
forever above us, a medallion
coined by love, just money
for dust, the moon another
sullen blind slut.

for life picks its own bones clean
like a self-sufficient vulture,
refusing the proffered help
of brothers and sisters,

and erecting her own skeleton
as a church for deaf gods,
silent under patient skies
full of moons and time.

anxiety is the active fingers
that cleanse the skull;
their activity being life,
their fever time,

they are not my fingers
but their anxiety
is mine


It is Not Beating, to my Unborn Son

it is not beating, which seldom happens here
where so few are Christians in this land;
but the children are dead, and they cut death's truth
in the unremarkable living flesh, disaffected fuckers,
since their mothers, like almost all mothers, are cannibals,
bitches who imagine dropping a brat means you own it forever,
that it is your whore. so mothers write poems called
“to my unborn son” because they are stupid,
and stupidity is why people do anything, says Homer
Simpson. they assume the kid will maybe fuck love good,
because nobody else does.

and thus the children are slightly desperate, already
as two year olds. i maybe had an unborn son
recently. the poem i might have written to him
would have run “welcome to the world, son,
and to an incinerator in the gray basement
of a hospital, where they flush away shit
like you would probably have become.”
i can stand it that the children cut the flesh
happier, it means that they are still human
on some level, but when they get ecstatic
over Gestapo seagulls squawking, and are happy

for whatever, then they will be dead forever,
because death is an inexorable lover
and there is no coming back from his grasp.
then i cannot stand to see human children
become pretend-happy soldiers in convention's
crippled army. it's then that i would like to have done
the cutting in them myself, but with a razor less superficial,
one that helped them even better, prevented
their final deaths. because all my dead children
live forever, and the are jet boys really so preoccupied
they don't care about the war, not any war,

not even the war that keeps society whole and sober,
that makes mothers murderers
and children grow up whores
and soldiers


My Hands Before You

my hands before you are dead animals
that touch nothing, wry sacrifices
to night and its sacred torment;
the one that wracks memory wakeful
lest we should ever forget it,

forget that my hands were animals
i slaughtered before you once,
and burned on a timeless pyre;

smoke rising thence to high gods
dead in the empty sky,
when our memories
were young then,

we were young men,
clean and fresh as madmen,
and the moon was new

luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal

Gloomy

The sweet birds sing
a tranquil song
on this sad night.
Filled with sorrow

and grief, I weep
like a man who
stares at the sun.
At twilight the

sweet birds also
sing at a more
frenzied pace. Night

seems to darken
their songs. Gloomy,
my gaze fades out.


Always Singing

She is always singing
and shaking her hips.
She is the fussy patient
who is always asking
for her own room. She
turns up her nose when
a new roommate comes in
the room. She likes keeping
to herself. She likes walking
around the room, singing,
and talking to herself.


My Dad’s Belongings

I found my dad’s old wallet.
He had no money inside.
He died in 2004.
He gave us everything he had.
A roof over our head;
He kept us clothed and fed.
He helped us through school.
He always worked.
He could have done more for
himself. Perhaps he would
still be around. Celebrated
another Christmas, another
New Year. This time of year
I miss him most. We all do.
That wallet was old and worn.
He had no money inside.
He emptied the wallet for us.
We have so many things around
the house that belonged to him.
Too bad we cannot keep everything.
His Mexican Magazines, his old
reel tapes and 8 track recordings;
many of the books and records
that are aging along with us;
It makes me depressed to have to
thrash, donate, or recycle
most of the things he loved so much.


Plans in the Land of Sleep

I make many plans in the land of sleep.
All of my plans I usually forget.
Sometimes when I’m walking in the sun
and begin to feel uneasy

sweat fills my skin. I find shade,
which makes me feel better.
I listen to the cadences of the dogs barking
and howling at the birds in the trees.

When I close my eyelids in the evening
I fill my sleeping eyes with new plans.
The next day my plans are a haze.

The only thing that remains is the sun,
which caresses my skin when I’m out of the shade.


Pill Me

I’m anxious.
Pill me please.
I can’t stop
thinking of
death and things.

I’m depressed.
Pill me please.
I can’t stop
feeling like
I’m worthless.

My mother
and my father
think I am
too much trouble.

My sister
and brother
think I am
a total wreck.

They put me in
this place. They
called the cops.
They told them
I was mad.

I don’t like them
for that. I
know I’m nuts,
but so is
everybody.

I can’t sleep.
Pill me please.
I can’t stop
seeing things

like shadows
and snakes. Please
pill me. I
feel so sick.

nathan tyree

Blood and Bourbon

After they reduced her to white ash rendered from bone, then crushed it to a fine powder, we stored her in the bedroom while we waited for the intermi-nable winter to pass. It had always been winter as far as we could tell. When the sun returned we would take the painful drive to Colorado to re-lease her to the mountain. The Rockies can have her now. We can't any-more. Then there's all that weight that we lost. Not to mention faith and dignity. I've been thinking about mixing blood with my bourbon.


What Wikipedia Doesn’t Say About Virginia Woolf

…filled her pockets with stones and walked into the river. She chose the tor-rent, the obverse of the slow tick of minutes stealing the details that were her life. The rush and flow pulled her down without a struggle. Just as well, really. The other option is blunt force trauma when the big truck runs the stop sign. Chest crushed. Legs cut free from the body. Exsanguination is not poetic. It wouldn't look good when they made the movie of her life.

rob plath

The Go-Ahead

i got a rejection slip
from an editor

it read:
"these poems do not
suit our needs, but please
feel free to submit them
other places"

yeah
& thanks for the go-ahead
to shove them
up yr asshole
but they won't
fit b/c it's as
tightly closed
as yr little mind


The Forbidden Brown Fruit

maybe the tree of knowledge
was really a few of god's ass hairs
sprouting out of the center of Eden
& matted together w/his cosmic shit
& the fruit was the almighty's dingleberries

& the first pair of people
plucked one
popped it in their mouths
& swallowed
& we've been
full of it
ever since


You Hypocrites

what if you found out
that god was wanted
in another universe
for mass murder
that he was put
in witness protection
in this section of space
b/c he ratted out
some lesser cronies
& now is existing
under the alias of
"the almighty"
would you defend him
just b/c he made the trees
mountains & flowers
& the sun rise etc...
you probably would
you hypocrites ...


Beautiful Impossibilities to Daydream About

i want to juggle
my brain, my left femur
& my spleen

i want to head-butt
christ on the cross
& get a real taste
of the spikes

i want to give the pope
a waistband ripping
wedgie

i want to jump rope
w/an unlooped
hangman's noose

i want to make
a colostomy bag puppet
& go around making it
scream: "everybody's full of shit
except me!"

i want to dye a rainbow
jet black
& put a bear trap at
the end of it

i want to melt all
the guns in the world
down & fashion
hash pipes

i want god to wipe
the asses of everyone
in every nursing home
on the planet

tim tomlinson

Suddenly the Camaro

… was shaking – the chassis, I mean, and the
wheel, the whole steering column shaking and
I could feel the shaking through my hands and
my arms and the late afternoon rums and
the cold beer chasers that lubricated
our throats for the dry reds of dinner
and the palette cleansing cognacs that
followed while we canoodled on your
thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets
after our passions discharged the first or
the second or one of those times that we
gave in to the impulse of the moment
till it became the routine of the day

and even while it happened the thought,
"I am fucking my girlfriend's sister,"
"I am fucking my girlfriend's sister,"
running through my head and making I could
swear my body shake my hands shake and we'd
add more rum more beer more wine more cognac
to the glass laughing at how fucking crazy
it all was and how sorry we were and
how disappointed we were in ourselves
and how the next time we swore would be the
last time and we swore to make it awful
and I know I tried but you didn't help
and now my vision is double fucking
squared and the passing roadside an action-
painting brushstroke blur and I'm reaching for
another cold Coors from the cooler and
the Camaro is shaking right through my
wheel-hand shaking and the speedometer's
red needle has pressed past 105 on
its way to 110, 120 and I'm
laughing and shaking and sweating and
smoking and drinking and watching the white
lines vanish beneath the hood expecting
any instant now the one thing – the dog
or the deer or the cat or the cop – that
will make me stop …
'cause no one gets away
with the kind of shit I've been pulling for
ever … but it doesn't fucking appear.

james darman

In the Best of Company

a lone blackbird caws-
against the rising sun;
then there is silence

i’m in the best of company-
alone w/ the sun and a black-bird


An Etcher Sketch of Days

winter sings its song -
carving the mountains with time;
a head full of dust

i’m at home in this moment – deep in wine;
dozing off into nothing: beneath the evergreen


The Eggshells and Birds of Winter

resting in fresh snow-
a footstep is soon buried;
sparrows never sleep

there are eggshells in the driveway today-
grief strikes; a skull splits: winter gives way to spring

Spring is for Flowers

drunk on winter’s wine –
a sparrow slips under doors;
snow clings to my coat

spring is for flowers – today
i have the sparrows and this coat

wolfgang carstons

Lapping Blood from a Small Hole

for my 11th birthday
my mother bought me
a bb gun
i went out back behind
our house
straight into the woods
looking for things
to shoot

firing bullets at trees,
flowers, rocks - inanimate
things without feelings
wanting something to kill
something that would squeal
when hit

a prairie dog
popped out of his hole
ran towards me
stopped & propped itself
upon it's back legs
staring right at me
i lined the shot up
perfectly
squeezed the trigger
the steel ball entered
his belly
knocking him over
onto his side

he wasn't dead
his tiny heart
still pumping blood
through a broken maze
of veins
each revolution
a spurt of blood
a mini geyser
squeezed through
the small hole

he licked
each new spurt

this continued
for half an hour
me watching him
lap blood
from a small hole
in it's belly
both believing
that it would work
somehow conquer
death

almost 30 years later
the image
of that poor creature
lapping blood
from a small hole
sticks w/ me
existing
as a perfect metaphor
for the daily routine

of true poets

doug baldwin

The Resistance

i'm so fucked...
my men, blown
on cheap Mexican dope,
gambling and women.
mercenaries,
spun, pinned and flipped,
and running in the streets like mad,
psychotic children,
amped on Pixie Sticks and Magic Markers,
the day after Halloween.

willing, but unprepared.
too horny to think straight,
too hammered to hold onto the rails,
as we roll down the swells.
they smell like goats
and expect command
to have all the fucking answers.

has anyone seen the new lieutenant?
i'll have gold clusters on her shoulders,
if she can get these fuckers to sit still.
and I'll pin a star on her tit,
if she can get them to the beach.

and i will personally have Annapolis
cast her in bronze,
if she can just fix this fucking mess.

richard wink

Another Accident on the Drayton High Road

Remember the man with the shovel
who bravely flicked sand onto the roads
in preparation for black ice
and disaster

Listen out for the tyre screams
you can never hear them
but you can hear the wail of the
sirens and make the blue and red flashing lights

They use this road as a diversion
its currently clogged. I watch
the impatient motorists consider tooting
their horns. I close my curtains
to black it all out

amanda joy

Bang on the Table


encrustment of ruin
and coating and
spaces between bones

your rawest material
the desire of a ghost limb

shining a smile wet
with spermicide

like some vacuum packed animal
your eyes distort my haunches
your cannibalistic thoughts
wrapped around
that band of muscle
my hand my hand

your clubbed fist
bang on the table

my tidy mouth
clasping scarlet

you yelping

death was a fantasy

death was a fantasy



Cream Clock

The body could
be an index
if stretched
a little

pulled

from
the buckle
under

a studied
clasping

pushed harder
it becomes
a phrase

develops a
rhythm with



arches
to a pause

references
overlap
blend simulate
stimulate

soften folds
to palm
to grow to
groan

to cock to
crow my
throat-

a serpent
swallows
clocks of
cream

connie stadler

Insomnia Rx

From this hospital window
I can see
the mottled reflection
of black leaves trembling
in night breezes.

Keeper of the watch
ever calm, ever bright
brings stark illumination
of the glass paned
still life.

The other watchman
black and bewigged
carelessly munching
stolen potato chips
presents lesser
challenge.

And, in a haze my bare feet
make rustled crossing
to the third stall from the left
for the second time
in an hour and a half.


Clinic


Porcelain fleur-de-lys
Blemish
Blue splash archway
Of routinized indignity.

Quaking
In
The
Wraith.

Plastic paneled
Calcified,
Barnacled
Inertia
Mocks the scribbled
Pathos of my pain-soaked
Particulars

As
Drops of spit foam
Fleck the shoreline
Of cheap orange lips
With every quavered
Signature
On ream upon ream
Of aborted humanity.

"He will see you now."

White walls, white floors
Dilate
Paper coated nudities
Billowing
In gunmetal gusts
Of neglect.
Each script, a phial
Of portioned potent
Suppliant
Insignificance

Yet to come.

maria gornell

An Ode to Smoking


I crave you like a lost lover
Chewing on pumpkin seeds
To trick brain receptors
I am immune to you..

My lungs can breathe
Free of toxins,
My skin is glowing
I haven’t gained weight
I suck on sugar free mints
Intensely like I was giving
The best blowjob
You ever did see.

My eyes are sparkling
With new mischief,
Feelings no longer repressed
Bouncing, kicking with
New energy,
I feel alive.

My teeth are back to
Hollywood smiles,
(I wish)
Years of abusing you
Have taken their toll,
But I’m days
Weeks, months,
Years closer
To not being
A victim of
Your disease.

Still
I miss you
Seductive smoke
Lingering,
Reaching my nostrils
Inhaling you
Then slowly sinking
Away from stress,
Your smell is now
Like the body of
My ex lover,
Hated with venom
Yet carrying
A wicked substance
It takes all my will
To fight.

I loved you
But its time
To say
Goodbye.

deanna prall

The Pusher

Guilt and inspiration are both the same to me,
Hitting me in the form of cold chills,
And about four moths of guilty memories.
I can’t help but think about
The one who started all of this,
The one who picked me out of a busy store window,
And lured me in with a concert ticket

That was the very first night
It all felt so right,
So I went with it.
And now I’m making him famous
And he doesn’t even realize it.
Everyone wants to know
Who that guy, with the special baggie is;
They want to know who put me in this hospital bed.

But he needs not to worry
He’s my sweetest enemy
I will not blow his cover
He’s the one who inspired this pain,
that finally set me free.


These Streets

Moments stand out in this chaotic city-
Golden moments where musicians strum
While I'm flipping through the pages of
A dusty old book in an antique shop

Noise and poverty rest outside
In their usual places
While homeless preserve leftovers from
A Dumpster in the corner of the alley

I light a cigarette and smile
At addicted ones standing next to me
We're all happy here
Amongst the chaos of the city

isaac seal

I Dance Like Elaine from Seinfeld

I haven't showered in 17 years
I dress in worn thin patience
I have never once brushed my teeth
They've been replaced by a slat picket fence
Untreated lumber, gaps cracks and whorls
My smile is not for the faint of heart
I have a strict unwillingness to improve
I never make eye contact
It would scare you anyhow
I stutter-step through life with an atrophied gait
My pelvis is rotting, my pelvis is rotting
I keep the secrets of life drunk on weeping tissues
They hatch, pupate, feed, grow
My fingernails spiral into themselves
I can no longer scratch the secrets out
But baby, in the pock-ridden face of all this, I can dance


Sad Lemon, No Birthday

At times, the lady and I
get along famously
[We sing, we dance]
She has a penchant for acting,
it seems I prefer action-
She read her e-mail an hour and a half ago
it resulted in another cocktail
[sad lemon, no birthday]
We licked each other's fingers clean
Read into this; a metaphor for an
allegory for a euphemism for a song
I then told a tale of substances
she wore a pretty hat
Enter an apparatus designed much like
an individual scuba

And other times, well-
Suffice it to say, that
the lady and I
we have a schism, crystallinity
[botched, call the ambulance]
burnt sugar spires into misfit “hemihedrae”
She asks, "Why an e-mail, when I'm
sitting right here?"
I can hardly keep my eyes open
"I'm afraid to tell you why I'm afraid."
This discourse of course makes no
sense at all
and we'll spend the rest of the
evening with shattered lemons,
reminiscing about 'back in the day'
[I'd swear it was a tuesday,
she would give our first born
on it being a Wednesday]
But he's the saddest of lemons
and should be spared a birthday regardless.


You Degrade

When I find I am denatured,
I thank you again for it, and
I will report my interpretations
of those findings post-haste.
The California gold rush is renewed,
though, I'd like to elaborate on the
fiscal insolvencies of a futures
market based on a non-sustainable
adjunct as an economic engine. To
wit, I will cite the morbid
affordings of a cyclical downturn.
To improve, a balance need be struck.
This is what makes you degrade.
And, I will further elaborate on the
subject in a more than topical manner.
Because; if beauty is only skin deep,
I state most assuredly that ugliness
cannot be. These are some of the
best and worst explanations possible.
On the other hand, there is
possibility in interpretive factoring
which I may not have surmised.
My negligences can be catalogued
in any demarcative structure you
find pleasing. Be sure you act on
these impulses sooner rather than
later, or I will have to compile
entirely new sets of data.

eric monten hobson

Untitled Bullshit

a moth being so beautiful
that you feel you must touch it
thus killing it.

my god damned genius of a daughter
explained to me that moths have
some sort of dust/powder like substance
covering their wings,
and if you touch the moth's wings
you'll knock off the fairy dust and
it can no longer fly,
then it dies.

the news of this fucked-up information
made me want to run outside into the streets,
screaming nonsense,
firing shotgun blasts into the air
in remembrance of all dead forgotten moths
that have died at the hands of my
curiosity and admiration.

shit, i got a dead lunar moth
in a small cardboard box
around here somewhere.