Sunday, December 5, 2010

Love as a Verb





Three superfluous words
hang weightless objects
of affliction.

Breeds helpless logic
a cold lonely bed
cobwebbed kisses
and a numb pubic bone

Fractured by incessant
failed relationship statuses
girl you never learn.

This relentless
falling in love with poets
never to taste more
than words

a curse.

The light preceded
lonely darkness
and you can spread out
like a starfish

Waking up alone
to light seeping
through blinds

accompanied by squeals

from happy children
who won’t witness
another daddy substitute
passing through from
lustful night.

Kick around a ball
then leave before
they had a chance
to remember his name.

Rather save those words
peel away flesh
dance in the mirror
of self empowerment

Then choose that
which you fully
deserve.

Poetess Maria lives in Liverpool, where she howls at the moon and drinks Jameson whiskey, while writing tremendous prose and poetry. You can find a morsel of her work in the Clinical Brutal Anthology from Clinicality Press as well as other online & print publications.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Beloved Friend

Beloved Friend,

I am writing this mail to you with heavy tears In my eyes and great sorrow in my heart because my Doctor just announce to me that I will die in few months time because of extent damage of osephageal cancer. I have been suffering from this dreaded sickness for long, base on this development I want to will my money which is deposited in a security company to an individual who is willingly to build a charity home for orphanage and abandoned kids.

I am in search of a reliable person who will use the Money to build charity organization for the saints and the person will take 30% of the total sum. While 70% of the money will go to the charity and orphanage. I am from Sarawak Malaysia, my husband died 6 years ago as a result of car accident. i don't want a friend or someone i know to handle this project. I want the actualization of my dream to establish this charity home to come in reality even while am dead.

The total money in question is $3.5million dollars. I will provide you with other information's once you indicate your willingness.


Yours sincerely.
Mrs. Razak

Monday, November 15, 2010

Streets of the Pan-Americano Nightmare I. II. & III. OF VIII.




for: Marko X

I. THE PAN-AMERICAN HIGHWAY TO SUCCESS AND PERSONAL GROWTH

There are one million
salmon-colored skulls
that live in the folds
of silver hands-

golden brain matter
where gold matters in the darkest reaches...

New age tragedies
are playing out in my nightmares
& my insecurity
is making a mule ofambition-
smuggling the "goods"
through a traffic tunnel from
immediate family
to ancestral pre-conception.

"HICE CHINGAL!"
such breeding is a question mark that has bent itself
into an obtuse angle
standing next to a sign
that says:
REST STOP

The theories on virtue & free death
are being smuggled in
from a cartel of Nihilistic
endeavors.

The words:
"Beware wronging the hermit
&
if you wrong him, kill him."
are being melted
in a silver spoon.

A sense of overpowering lust
is being loaded into
a hypodermic
& slowly
inserted into the varicose
veins of a distant future.

I wake up w/
the overwhelming sensation
of the frosty shade of a sky blue.
I am aware
& have never had to shit
so bad in my life.

A costume once belonging to an action figure
packaged in plastic
& calling itself the OVERMAN
-is found in the back of the toilet floating
just above the plug,
before losing itself in the current between brown water
& brain matter
between truth
& wishes
between dreams
& livelihood.

An innate obsession w/cannabanoids & caged
street violence is reviewing the itinerary for me-
that spans the next 20 years or so.

A dark baby boy has been born
too early in the farthest depths
of information-
where long forgotten salmon-colored skulls
are slowly shaped into marzipan &
sold in the costumed streetsof
DIA DE LOS MUERTOS,
while I attempt to pull apart
silver clenched hands.


II.FROM BORDERTOWN TO THE LOWER EAST SIDE

Brute force & lethargic posture
are patrolling
'la burros de la bordertown'.
The real borde
rthat's receding too fas
tin order to construct a proper wall
to keep them in-
el freaks
y' la
tools
(spit).

Something of a mystery
has latched onto a vile of wisdom.
An iota of home
has purchased a small room somewhere
very...very...
close
& while it stares into the darkest reaches,
it dreams of cat turds in rose beds & green diarrhea hanging from
an open window sill
on the freak's side of town.

Shrewd silence is tickling
my funny bone
when someone on the fence speaks up
about corporate downsizing
&
Proposition 19.

III. EAST TO WASTE-AND ON TO 102ND

A meeting somewhere
in the bowels of the Lower East Side-
there's a room of self-absorbed tools,
playing circa jerk
1980 HIGH
& reminiscing when it was just
good wholesome fun
& not
a burden.

They're calling each other addicts
& when THEY disperse-
some gather small armies outside
some become soldiers themselves
in a gang of unmitigated circumstance..

some are falling by the waste side
some are circumvent
some are cum receptacles
some don't even know THEY'RE alive anymore..

An electric snow bunny
has just boosted for the last time
& never bothered to roll over
even during the pivotal moment of survival.

She is no longer plugged-in,
and the batteries die slowly
as the Freaks continue to count the votes:
"And the totals are in!"
54% to 46% majority
have passed the new law
banning further introspection
based on loosely based-faith
and schematics of an influenced brain wave
that is sweeping the fair nation.

This means that 1 out of every 3
cabrons will contract the new-age
illness & attempt to seize control over themselves
through means of sating an intense sadistic fetish
&
immaculate cognitive design.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

I FUCKED A MIDGET




“I’m telling you, I fucked a midget.”

“Dude! No way!”

“Yeah, I’m serious.”

“When? Where? And why didn’t you phone me immediately afterwards!?”

“Listen, it was kinda fucked up. I… I didn’t want to tell anyone about it.”

“That’s understandable. We are talking about fucking a midget, after all, but still! Tell me about it, pretty please…”

“Alright, alright, so I’ve been using the ‘Casual Encounters’ section of Craigslist a lot recently to meet girls. Well, not meet them, but hook up with them, casually...”

“Gotta love that site.”

“I saw this ad for a ‘petite’ single white female, non-smoker, 26, looking for fun, and I answered it.”

“Usually most of those ads turn out to be porn spam.”

“I know. So I was wary, but the photo looked different than usual porn spam. It was a headshot from a weird angle, looked like it was self-taken from a camera phone in the bathroom, and her head was only in the bottom part of the mirror. She was sort of sexy… though I could tell she was a midget.”

“How did you know?”

“How do you not know? Midgets have very particular faces.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“So anyway, I had just taken some LSD and was watching the Fox News Channel. Big mistake…”

“What the fuck does the Fox News Channel have to do with the midget?”

“Nothing really.”

“Are you on acid now? Have you been taking it again before work?”

“Nah, and I’m not on it now, but I was the night I fucked the midget, some really potent shit I scored at a Dead show parking lot.”



“Fuck yeah! Damn hippies have the best shit. Back to this midget, though, please continue…”

“Anyway, yeah, okay, the midget. So I respond to her ad, and like 20 minutes later she replies.”

“That’s quick.”

“I know! And it gets weird too. Her name’s Bridget.”

“Bridget the midget?”

“Bridget the midget.”

“We shoot a couple emails back and forth, small talk. Then she, yes, she, suggests we meet at the bar down the street. Surprisingly, she lived only a few blocks away.”

“And you’d never seen her?”

“Nope. But I guess it might be easy to miss a midget.”

“You’re probably right. I bet a lot of people have midgets living near them and don’t know it.”

“So we meet at the bar, and she turns out to be even hotter in person. Had the rosiest cheeks I’d ever seen. Looked a bit like a midget Nicole Kidman.”



“A midget Nicole Kidman?! Dude!”

“A prime Nicole Kidman too. Not the cockeyed owl-looking bitch she is today.”

“I don’t know what Tom Cruise did to her, but it wasn’t right! Fucking Scientology…”

“Yeah, and I’m like tripping balls at this point, having trouble keeping a straight face because I’m at this bar slamming brews with a midget who looks like Nicole Kidman. Her voice sounded funny too. Midgets have very particular voices. She sounded like some shit from the Wizard of Oz and starts cracking all types of jokes. A fucking comedian, this midget was.”

“Soon enough I’m laughing so hard that I’m clenching my gut and beer’s shooting from my nose and she’s howling like a wolf and slapping on the table after every joke and people around the bar are looking at us crazy.”

“That’s not right, though. I bet midgets get weird looks all the time, even when they aren't cracking jokes.”

“We’re both pretty fucked up at this point. And she, yes, she, suggests we go back to her place… for ‘coffee.’”

“’Coffee’ with a midget. That’s fucking awesome.”

“You know, it was when we left our table that I really realized I was with a midget. After standing up from our chairs, I was just towering over her. She couldn’t have even been four feet tall.”

“Well, she is a midget.”

“Yeah...”

“So we’re walking back to her place and I’m wondering what it must be like, her place, like if all the doors were tiny, everything’s shrunken, what her toilet must look like, etc… If it’s a secret midget colony or something…”

“But we get there and it was a normal place; a nice, upscale, modern and fashionable one bedroom apartment, except she did have step ladders everywhere.”

“I guess she has to. She is a midget.”

“Once inside, she disappears into the kitchen, and I think she’s going to actually make coffee, as if the ‘coffee’ wasn’t just a euphemism.”

“But she comes out of the kitchen totally naked with a can of whipped cream in her hand. And damn, her body was hot. Had smallish but firm little tits with large light pinkish nipples, neatly trimmed blond bush, and was all together thin and shapely. She really did look like a naked Nicole Kidman, just in midget form.”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah, so I’m sitting there on the couch, tripping hard, seeing trails and colors everywhere, and like I’m saying, this midget walks out of the kitchen, naked, holding a can of whipped cream, and of course, I sprout instant wood.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“She sits down on the couch next to me, doesn’t say a word, smiles and calmly hands me the can of whipped cream. I shake it up a bit, then spray some in between her legs, then suck the nitrous right of out of the can, and go in and commence the act of cunnilingus.”

“You ate out the midget?”

“One might think a midget’s vagina would be really tiny or something, but it was normal female sized. She even had a rather large clitoris.”

“Bridget the midget, with a large clitoris, wow…”

“So I’m eating away down there, totally slobbering all over her vagina, my face covered in whipped cream, and she’s all squirming and whimpering as I lick at her private personal part. And dude, I could have sworn that as I was eating her, I was hallucinating her vagina lips moving, speaking to me in a voice that sounded like Fran Drescher.”



“The ‘Nanny?!’ Whoa...”

“Her Fran Drescher talking vagina mouth pushed me over the edge, and I just couldn’t bear anymore foreplay. So I get up and tear off my clothes, kick off my shoes, grab the emergency condom out of my wallet, rip open the wrapper, roll the rubber over my manhood, and dive back down to the couch and mount her, missionary style.”

“Always wondered how someone would fuck a midget…”

“Plunging it in, I feel she’s tight as fuck, and I close my eyes and imagine that I’m fucking her, the midget, and Fran Drescher’s mouth at the same time, which was disturbing, but strangely arousing…”

“Dude, I always wanted to shove my penis in her mouth, just to make her shut the fuck up if nothing else…”

“And so I’m on this couch, pure beast-fucking this midget. Skin slapping skin sex sounds very audible. And she’s yelling loud, screaming and moaning, and I start screaming and moaning and cursing and dirty talking to her.”

“But then it gets even weirder… I’m pulling on her stubby little legs as I’m banging her, and suddenly, one of them comes off!”

“Dude!”

“Yeah, a prosthetic…”



“How did you not notice she had a prosthetic? Couldn’t you tell that she limped or something?”

“I guess I was tripping too hard to notice…”

“Dude…”

“So her prosthetic comes off, and I’m holding it in my hand and wondering if this is really happening or if it’s the acid.”

“Duuuude…”

“But I’m horny as fuck and figure I’ll just go with it and I keep on fucking her and screaming and she keeps on screaming, even louder now, like not even noticing her prosthetic leg had come off, and now I start hearing her next door neighbor screaming and banging on the wall, telling us to shut the fuck up, and all three of us are screaming in unison and then I start beating on the wall with the prosthetic leg, yelling shit at the neighbor and at the midget concurrently.”

“That’d definitely be some shit I’d complain to my landlord about if it was me living next door.”

“Pretty soon I orgasm and collapse on top of the midget, but then I start smothering her, because she’s so small… and I’m still holding her prosthetic leg in my hand too, so I get up off her and lie down on the other end of the couch.”

“And she reaches over, takes the leg out of my hand as if it’s no big deal. Then she reattaches it, picks up the can of whipped cream, and walks back into the kitchen. A minute later she comes out, still naked, holding a huge bong, almost as tall as her.”

“I thought she was a non-smoker?”

“As did I. But she didn’t say anything in her ad about being a midget w/a prosthetic leg, either.”

“Fair enough…”

“So we take some bong hits, listen to some music for a while, and even dance a bit.”

“You danced with the midget?”

“Yeah, she danced pretty well for having a prosthetic too. Did the latest hip hop moves, the ‘Dougie’ and everything.”



“Damn…”

“Then we sit back down on the couch and watch ESPN for a while. Turns out she was quite knowledgeable about sports. We soon get into a heated argument about who was the overall better quarterback, John Elway or Joe Montana.”

“Who’d she think was better?”

“I can’t remember…”

“But she got really mad about it and threw me out of her apartment.”

“Some people take sports far too seriously…”

“Tell me about it! You realize that when you’re tripping on acid and a naked midget covered in whipped cream, hopping around on a prosthetic leg, starts throwing shit and pushes you out the door.”

“If that isn’t a ‘teachable’ moment, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah, I liked her though, wanted to call her the next day and see her again, but I don’t think I ever got her number. And I couldn’t remember exactly where she lived, either, because I was so fucked up when I went over there and more so when I left. Also couldn’t find her emails or her ad again on Craigslist.”

“Maybe you hallucinated the whole thing and just stayed home that night, tripped on acid and jerked off to midget porn…”

“You know, I probably did...”

“Fucking hippies, they always have the best shit.”

Saturday, September 25, 2010

an excerpt from the prose novella [sic] Lectura

As a young boy, around the age of six, I had a profound curiosity with the infliction of pain onto others. I was quite fond of torturing and killing insects and other small creatures outside my parent's home-at the height of several mundane afternoons.

Nothing was safe if it happened to catch my fancy. Small, gray lizards. Brown-spotted toads. Field mice. Blue-racer snakes. Black ants. One day my father built a slide in the backyard; perhaps to curb this crude fascination.

"Just be careful on it son. Don't hurt yourself" he would often remind me; as I scurried out the back door with my younger brother in tow. He, of course, wanted only to be involved with whatever sense of play I happened to enjoy-and found himself holding the magnifying glass, survival knife or box of matches alongside me when the URGE had struck.

One Summer, there was a fresh batch of kittens belonging to one of the nine stray cats who had settled into their roles of furry vagrants around our six acre lawn. The mother had recently found her way into the busy strip of road in front of the house, and had been flattened by an oncoming car some weeks prior. She was a gray, long-haired, mangy loafer and my contempt for her during her stay knew no bounds. In passing (her long tail hanging from the edge of one of the marble flower pots around the house-swaying back and forth beneath the hot sun) I would hiss wildly as I yanked that antagonizing appendage-only to receive a reciprocal response and multiple, deeply embedded scratches along my hands and arms.

This hatred I felt for Daisy or Leela or whatever her name may have been..did not rot with her maggot-ridden corpse along the waste side. But was merely transferred to the litter of black, orange, gray and white dregs that sprang from her pink and bruised snatch. I recall..feeling utterly sick at the sight of them leaping through the Summer grass..wrestling..chasing large grasshoppers along the way. Whereas other small children (including my own six year old daughter) found merriment in the observance of their feline exploits; I saw only small, hairy targets for a deep-seeded angst that I could not (and for that matter cared not) to understand. But under the watchful eye of my mother, I kept this murderous intent at bay..until the right opportunity would present itself.

One such afternoon,
my brother Stewart and I had spent several hours running back and forth from the house to the gargantuan, yellow slide; kicking dust and laughing as young boys do on occasion. My mother had just began hanging clothes on the wire a few feet from it and all the while keeping us, her own litter, in constant peripheral view. When she had strung up the last pair of my father's coveralls, she turned to find the kittens licking at her varicose ankles.

"Ohhh. They're so sweet. Look at 'em boys. Aren't they just adorable?"

The sight of her interest infuriated my little heart.

"Yes momma."

"Poor little things. They're so dirty. Their momma isn't around to clean 'em off the little angels. It's a shame."

She reached down and rustled the spine of one of the runts with stripes on his belly. This distracted me to such a degree that I unwittingly, tripped over a large tobacco stick lying at the foot of the slide while Stewart chased me in a game of tag. I rolled to the ground-scraping my knee in the process..and seemingly my patience along with it, as it careened against a brick that had found its way into the lawn.

"OWWW." I moaned, as I stood with a fresh hole in my Levis-small trickles of blood staining the white frays of the rip.

"Are you okay son?"

"Yes momma. When can we eat lunch? I'm hungry."

"Well, I got some white beans and cornbread in the house I can make. Is that alright with you boys?"

"YES" we said in unison. But my particular taste exceeded the hunger for slow Southern cooking. Deep inside that 3"6 frail piece of matter and bone, blood and muscle..I wanted vengeance; for what deed I still cannot say or really fathom. But the world owed me something wet and pure. It owed me many small lives..all at once, and I was to be satisfied. No quarter given. No mercy shown.

"Well, lemme go put the rest of the clothes in the washer and I'll start the beans. I still got half a plate of that cornbread yawl didn't finish from the other day. So it shouldn't take too long to fix everything. You boys stay out here and play; and stay away from that road where I can see ya' back here. You don't wanna end up like that old momma cat do ya'?"

"No momma. We don't."

The screen shut and I could hear momma starting the dryer..hear the pots and pans banging in the bottom-right cupboard of a four burner stove.

"Hey Stewart. You wanna play a new game?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"Let's call it Conan or He-Man or Hercules. I'll go first and show ya' how to play."

I picked the tobacco stick up from the ground and handed it to him, his smaller shaky hands unsteady as ever could be.

"Hold this and don't move. You stand right there."

I sauntered over to the litter, who were still in an innocently-blind stage of development; letting any old/young pair of mits (tiny, callused, soft, evil) hold them for a few precious seconds..preoccupied only with the high grass that year and the ritualistic nibble on a stale slice of bread crust left for the cardinals and blue-jays that frequented the bathes. The silver bowl of community water was more or less a well where they would gather and lift their tiny tails to the sun and speak amongst one another, oblivious to the dangerous and approaching world around them.

"Here kitty kitty kitty. Dtttkk. Dtttkkk. Dtttkk. Here kitty kitty."

I squeezed their little backs as they wiggled to and fro in my palms; softly at first..and then a spontaneous, momentary iron grip-just to feel their insides roll around behind fur in my hands. I managed to round up five within the confines of my puny arms, while Stewart stood in position with a blank look and chubby splintered fingers. You could see the blood rise to the top of his Casper-white knuckles-both hands clutched around the end of the stick..as if he knew what I was going to do before I had any clue.

"What are you doing?" I said as I lay the kittens at his feet. "Give me that. Now take them" one tries to slip away, but the escape is thwarted by the inside of my foot "Gotcha! Now take them to the top of the slide and hold them there for a second. I'll tell you when to go."

"Go? What's this have to do with He-Man?"

"Just do it!"

Stewart reluctantly walked to the seven-step, iron ladder and began climbing to the top as I took my stance below. My brother and I were baseball fanatics. My father had instilled that much in our upbringing. Stewart and he liked the Atlanta Braves, Texas Rangers..and men like Nolan Ryan and Greg Maddox. I was a Mariners, Reds, and Oakland Athletics fan; idolizing the greats like Ken Griffey Jr. and Jose Canseco. Home-run hitters all the way; knocking that bandaged, 'white piece of shit outta the park..outta the sky, speed and trajectory aligned..outta sight, outta mind..gone..into infinity..blackness..space..never-was.

"You ready up there?" I asked, as Stewart (loyal and stern) waited with the first runt of the group. Puny. White. Ocean-blue eyes. Ears fuschia pink shade like a pussy should look; staring down the yellow railway at an ugly stick and none the wiser.

"Ready." he murmured.

"1....2....3, push her down!"

It slid at a slower pace than anticipated, its tail skidding along the hot yellow plastic. But still, with enough force that I was able to aptly gauge the distance in correlation with the width of the head and the length of the stick..

It rolled violently through the air..approximately four feet to my right and as its head turned my way, one Pacific-blue eye dangled from its socket while tears of blood gathered in the corner of the other.

"Next!" I screamed. "That was awesome!" Another came. This time a meaty, orange-fast pitch..
'right
down
the
middle.
The lion has escaped the confines of the slaughter below, and lunges for Caligula's testicles!'


The crack of its fragile skull sounded like the smack of a bat against a stone in a carefree game of stick ball..the backyard with the neighbor kids. Even then, there is the temptation to knock it back in the pitcher's face and even at such a young age, I knew this..looking up at my younger brother (adopted) holding another gray victim scratching its way up the slide and away from the pit of brains and tears that awaited at the end of the slope.

to be continued...

Thursday, September 23, 2010

No More Sex With Fruit

It all started when I started dating this women whom I was crazy for. I had been in love with her since high school. From time to time she would want me to stick a banana in her before sex to get her in the mood. At first it was awkward. It eventually got to a point where I too was also having sex with fruit as a kind of foreplay. Don't judge me. I was head over heels for this woman and would do anything to make her happy. I never let her know in the beginning I was a little annoyed (and jealous) that a banana was penetraiting her wet vagina. Then I also never told her in the beginning how odd and freaky I felt the first time I stuck my penis into a orange. Although I did like her licking off the juice afterwards. I also never told her after countless times bring fruit into our bedroom that I started to like it. And that I sometime had sex with fruit while she was away at work. So that time you got upset that the last apple was missing, Jeffery really didn't come over to visit and ate it. I had sex with it.

Then one day she left me. That's when I grew into a deep depression. However that depression did not stop me from continuing to have sex with fruit. I was completely satisfied, even in my depressed state. If you cut the correct size hole into anything, it could be magical. When I ejaculated I of course would throw it away. But there was one time or two the sex was so amazing I kept it around for another go-round. Then came the day when I got over the evil women who had broke my heart. I started to hate everything about her. Which brought me to a point where my I started to doubt weather or not I should continue to enjoy having sex with fruit since she introduced me to it.

Around that time I was very confused on what I should do next I happened to see the evil wench. I happened to be on a different side of town and needed to run to the store for some fruit rollups (ironic I know) for my neice's lunch the next day. I strolled into the grocery store like nothing. I was just about to make a comment inside my head how ghetto the store was when I saw her. I had heard rumors that she had moved on and was seeing someone. But this time she was solo. I pretended I did not see her but it was too late. She spotted me. DAMN! I knew I should have gone to another checkout lane. I said hello and he had a forced short conversation. I could not help but notice THE FUCKING FRUIT SHE WAS BUYING! You fucking cunt, like I am not supposed to know what those bananas, apples, oranges were for?

I was pissed. I decided no more sex with fruit. That was the final straw. Fuck that bitch and her kinky sexual outlets.

That lasted all but a few days but then I began to get horney. NO! I couldn't do it. I toss all the fruit out my window. I WAS DONE! I had never paid for sex and wasn;t exactly sure how to go about doing that without getting caught so that was out of the question. I need stimulation! I needed something! Then as a spontanious desperate act I slammed my penis into the peanut butter. The soft sticky goo made me melt inside. What was this utopia of sexual pleasure that I had discovered? I did not know what was more pleasing. The sex with the peanut butter jar or having the dog lick it off afterwards.

So to my ex.... fuck you. I am over you and over sex with fruit. I have moved on myself. To a new avenue of pleasure. And it doesn't involve anything you ever taught me.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

ZOO CHANGE


ZOO CHANGE

It was, I knew, bordering on psychotic- folding the letter yet again and re-inserting it into its creamy envelope. OCD. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This repeat activity, the reading and the re-reading had emptied the coffee pot. It would be a rare thing indeed to live a rich life without a bomb never having been dropped randomly through your post-box. This explosion had been anticipated, long awaited. Here it was, albeit somewhat overdue. Hot. A new brew of liquor strength emotion whose smell alone seduced the naughty past from slumber.
I watched the awful pleasure of it wake utterly regardless of my flat’s harsh light and gleaming surfaces. The blue film would have to be re-run before suitable arrangements could be made. A small phone call. A place to meet. Starbucks I thought- safe, neutral, other women with offspring in breeder’s buggies, machines hissing, mobile songs.
I was ten back then, one of absolutely identical twins besides the gender. My wanton sister never minded my almost hairless disproportionate dick. A thing that made me significantly sick. A tool she loved to fool around with, loved to lick and loved to stick inside her beautiful secret. We habitually did it ‘till the torrid afternoon we were first and last discovered. Lou’s chin was covered in my cum. I was finger fucking her from behind when the bedroom door was violently flung open and the air was blown apart with my name shouted louder than I’d ever heard it before ‘Zoo!’
They re-homed us separately. I never saw her after that- except in mirrors as I daily shaved or regularly dealt with whiteheads.
I tried homosexuality but it always hurt- apparently I have a gristly sphincter peculiarly resistant to stretching. Men quite happily sat on my large prick but I always felt some sense of ennui and the notion that something crucial was missing. A cock in my mouth was neither north or south to me. I stuck with it for years because on some subliminal level I recognised my growing addiction to the various flavours of body warm gissum. I actually had a boyfriend who memorialised my member in the best latex. Imagine that in my various effects post mortem. He inevitably went. I never could keep any of them. Well, in truth, I missed her. I missed my stolen sister. None of the gay interlopers knew there was a competitor, a very heavy hitter, hiding in my closets.

Eventually I tired of it. It. I’d known for years. The source of all my inner sorrow lay between my legs. A psychiatrist concurred- for the sake of my sanity it had to go. You know the process- lengthy and stuffed with drugs and self obsession, pre-op, depilation, boob-job, plastic-surgery, then the final coup-de-grace. In recovery I laughed- told the surgeon to feed it to his dog.
Funny. I suddenly had a painfully re-formed fanny I had to prod with a prosthetic to prevent it from closing, healing over. I had a button clitoris created from the meat of my bell-end. I remember when I was mended I saw myself in a full length mirror and it was not me who I saw but her- a perfect, kindly, sympathetic caricature of her. Lou, Zoo, two peas in the pod.
It didn’t strike me as being at all odd. In fact I felt awesome, transcendentally complete. Because we are identical twins we have the same size hands. Brilliant. Because we are identical twins we have the same size feet. Fucking fantastic.

Now, after all this time, she wants to meet me. Fuck a cunt. She doesn’t know. What if she wants a cunt fucking? I’ll take along the latex me, the virginal best of latex strapadictomes. Tubes of tingle linger lube. The transgender diaries. Photographs. Book a hotel room. Cream trouser suit. Nothing flash. Black hair slicked back. Minimal slap. Rather demure. Vintage Jean Muir.
She was there before me. Par for the course.
I should not have been astonished. Lou was in a cream trouser suit. Black hair slicked back. We mirrored each other as we kissed. Cheek. Cheek. No tongues.
You never fall in love so fast as when you fall in love with the perfect representation of yourself. Shit. This was it. I was ten again, pumping her pussy with my long lost cock. She was shouting don’t stop Zoo, Zoo don’t ever stop. I was delirious with pre-pubescent exposure to endorphins. Screwings. Doings.
Lou collected the low fat latte caramel grandes. I was plotting the route to the queen-sized bed, imagining my bendy model disappearing deep into her velvet secret purse- curse or no curse. Of course we had a lot to talk about, years to catch up with. It could fucking wait. It is so post coital, pillow whispers between incestuous sisters.
I had not felt such holistic quickening excitement for two decades.
Lou took my shaking hands quite firmly, almost disturbingly firmly. She told me then, straight out, cold, clinical- she’d followed my whole journey, was fascinated, incredibly well-informed, hideously researched as if it really mattered, which of course it did. Cunt.
Her journey is very different, opposite, travelling in fact totally the other way. She’d been in close contact with my former boyfriend, learned about the perfect latex artefact. She asked me for a loan of it to take to her brilliantly creative surgeon in Holland. He’s a wizard with inner thigh tissue. Her thinking was, if she was going to have one at all, she might as well have one like mine.
Of course I let her have it. I always had given her things. We were always close. She/he was my very close sister. It’s not been returned. No loss.
Where is he now? How? Why? Shit! I have absolutely no idea.
Like most long-term post-operative transgender creatures I am constantly battling phenomenal suicidal inclinations, looking in mirrors, popping pills, getting drunk, turning tricks and waiting for the belligerently straight postman to bring me a letter that will change my life like a nail bomb would a mother’s meeting in Starbucks.

Zoo Blessed.

Chris Madoch © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST PUBLISHED BY PARAPHILIA ONLINE MAGAZINE


CHRIS MADOCH...

Has a book due out in New York in Spring 2011- a collection of his most contentious poetry entitled ‘RUMOURS FROM THE BALCONY’ He is regularly published online by Tante Mieux and Paraphilia and is Editorial Director at Un Hauteur Bizarre. Elsewhere on the internet he is known as ‘THE QUEER MESSIAH’ and he has a large fanbase on Facebook at his page ‘CHRIS MADOCH ART’. Chris is in the 26th year of his relationship with the considerable fine artist Dan-Paul Flores. Prior to that he was married for 13 years and has 3 daughters and 9 grandchildren. He used to teach but now writes as much as possible between sharing a small business and managing an estate. He took his degree from Southampton University UK via Winchester College- majoring in Education and Theatre Arts.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Untitled Transmission from South Korea


as we light a cigarrette coated in korean toothpaste i ask my korean PLP (platonic life partner) do you have anything to say to the meth lab

"I like the snap, crackle and pop"

and then she says "thank you Motorcycle Diaries for inspiring me to be a complete commie asshole once again, one more year of smoking toothpaste and traveling and I'll be a cool motherfucker."

Yup. That's what we do in South Korea to get high. I don't know if it really works. Why have we resorted to smoking toothpaste you ask? Earlier this week, a friend and I were sitting there discussing the danger and expense of obtaining weed here.....

He asks me "Do you have Korean or American toothpaste?" Fortunately I have some Korean toothpaste because the American kind won't work. I wasn't sure if I felt anything except the bottle of wine and the half pitcher of Hite. Maybe mix it with a little of the national beverage, Soju and you can achieve some crazy results. According to various online sources Soju can double as an industrial strength window cleaner and drinking three bottles is akin to a powerful hallucinogenic. One person said something like "you might not feel the first bottle but after the second two you might wake up on the sidewalk in a pile of blood and vomit, missing three teeth, people walking over you as if you are a pile of newspapers."

pantifesto teaches english in south korea. she obviously smokes toothpaste and dreams of weed.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Bark Like a Dog and Bite a Random Woman in the Ass

















Miami Beach 2006

News of the attacks spread quickly

A man, Caucasian, 25-35, 5-8 to 5-10
running up behind random females in public places
pulling up their dresses or skirts
and biting them in the buttocks

Sometimes he’d bite hard enough to draw blood
but usually he’d just leave teeth marks
and a very upset woman

It took a while for the police to get seriously involved
because when these incidents first started being reported
responding officers and 911 operators would think it was a joke

(One leathery skinned cop
laughed off a woman’s biting claim and hung the phone up on her
so the lady showed up to the police station
stormed over to his desk
dropped her pants
and angrily took out her ass to show the teeth markings
[a plastic molding of the bite mark was later taken from her right buttcheek
in order to potentially identify the suspect via dental records])

Though the vast majority of these cases went unreported

Several women were too shocked by the incidents to speak up
as it isn’t easy talking to somebody
about how a random guy ran up behind you and chomped you in the ass

After receiving nearly a hundred such reports, however,
in only two months’ time
the police realized they had a serious problem on their hands
because a man running around
biting women in the buttocks
just isn’t good for tourism
or the city’s overall image

And once the media got a hold of the story
and amateur cell phone video of an attack surfaced on YouTube
the cops got serious about putting a stop to the menace
now colloquially called around town
“The Butt Biting Bandit”

Now, because the assailant would bark like a dog,
or make other animal-like sounds
before, during, and after these incidents
and would even run away on all fours
the police realized they were dealing
with an especially unstable and dangerous individual
so they set up an elaborate sting operation
involving the SWAT team to take him down

On a swelteringly hot and humid Friday evening
under a reddish sky,
illuminated by Saharan dust and a handful of stars,
an undercover female agent, attractive, mid 20s
clad in a tight, but not so tight it’d be difficult to lift,
hot pink one piece miniskirt
was planted in the area
that had the highest frequency of ass biting incidents

Several sets of cops in jogging suits
waited across the street in unmarked cars
with infrared binoculars
sipping 7-11 coffee
listening to sports radio
as they staked out the scene

And the SWAT team idled in a nearby house
watching “So You Think You Can Dance”
on an old clunky cathode ray tube TV with rabbit ears

The car cops, who all had comb-overs,
nearly identical scruffy moustaches,
and who all wore aviator sunglasses, even at night,
ate bear claws and ring dings
their sticky fingers hoisting up binocularized eyes
that paid special attention to the undercover female agent’s ass
as she stood by a mailbox, chattering on a cell phone,
occasionally bending over (purposely)
to fidget with her silver Gucci stiletto heel shoes

Sure enough
the butt biter appeared
dressed in black jeans,
black Miami Hurricanes t-shirt, and grey skull cap

He crept up slowly behind the undercover agent
tip toeing like the Grinch
then plunged to his knees
made a shrieking, turkey-type bird sound
clutched the hems of the agent’s skirt with his hands
and assumed a vampire contortion with his mouth

When suddenly
a hooded policeman perched up in a large palm tree nearby
threw a net down over the suspect
trapping him
as if he were a rabid animal

The female agent twirled around
pulled out a semi-automatic handgun from her purse

And with that
waves of crumb-faced cops in jogging suits
poured out of parked cars all over the street
and the SWAT team swarmed out of the nearby house
with laser-lit AK-47s aimed at the suspect

The suspect continued to make wailing, high-pitched bird sounds
and clawed, writhed, and flailed wild kicks at his captive netting

The first officers to arrive
beat him senseless with batons to subdue him
then they peeled the net off
handcuffed and shackled him
and flung him,
as he still made bird sounds,
though they were only whimpering bird sounds at this point,
headfirst into a paddy wagon

Later that night
the police searched the suspect’s apartment,
a studio flat atop a laundromat,
in Little Havana

Every inch of the grimy little place was plastered
with pictures of women’s butts
in various states of undress

Everywhere there were butts
on all the walls
all over the bathroom, refrigerator, stove, kitchen table,
on the toaster, even on the toilet
(and the toilet lid was duct taped shut,
and there was a kitty litter box next to it,
which apparently he’d been using)

And he had butt-shaped pillows crowning the soiled mattress in the corner
and covering the remainder of the mattress
was a tattered old beige sleeping bag
that had stitchings of butts all over it
which he’d probably knitted himself
as the cops discovered a sewing kit in his bathroom
by the basin of his mildew-ridden, bright purplish colored bathtub
that was filled with rubber duckies
with crudely rendered pentagrams painted all over them

The suspect’s butt-covered, loudly humming
and mechanically vibrating refrigerator
was packed with cans of dog food,
enema bags containing cheap vodka,
and 2 liter bottles of Diet Sprite

On the top shelf of the fridge
they found a butt-shaped birthday cake
with a tiny red toy tricycle made of shiny plastic
wedged front wheel first into the cake’s ass crease

And when one of the forensic guys
pulled the cake out of the refrigerator
he noticed
that one of the toy tricycle’s little back wheels was missing




funny animated gif

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Mausoleum Love

Part 1

Baby …how I can ever recover
From that day
Not very long ago
You squinted and drooled at me in that tawdry fashion with obvious lewd intention
Among that polyester set retinue
Hell, I knew … from across that grey linoleum floored room
That it wasn’t just the smell of
Fresh formaldehyde residue
Wafting in our eyes
It was like
We were the only two persons there with body heat in that joint
And maybe we were…
It seemed that steam started melting our corrected vision lenses to our respective uni- brows
And suddenly it couldn’t have been hotter in that viewing room if I had worn nothing else but lime Jell-O shot pasties and sat under my cast iron steam broiler gazing at erupting lava lamps hump
My secretion glands went into overdrive as you sidled up all raging bull
Nose and ear hair steaming
Bulging those plaid pants in swollen testicle deliciousness
Those giant glistening pink jowls wobbling like perfectly round cheeks on a newborn baby face all tit sucked out and sleepy
Resist!…hardly…I went all mad mad cow…brain holes and all
Oh baby, you were so already in like Flynn…come on big boy and milk me
You grabbed my sweaty hands
To dance
How unexpectedly romantic at a funeral but, I could hardly move
These veined legs weak like overcooked macaroni plus… a terrible urge to pee right there
You’ll never know what you do to a girl
My labia lips started singing really high kinda like a girly Italian counter-tenor about cigar factory workers in Toledo with the clap dancing the Bossa Nova or something
Then you whispered…
Your place or mine?

Part 2

Oh baby,
You don’t have to ask twice and don’t ever apologize
That ride on that urine soaked city bus was excruciatingly sexy
Every bump and jostle heightening what was on our minds
I hardly remember arriving
I Wiggling out of my widow weeds and girdle like a mad woman to take a seat and get ready to take in every second of you stripping-teasing
Seductively folding that corduroy suit into origami…baby, I like a man that’s tidy…and so so creative …and it was just plain amazing when you quickly knit that tweedy vest out of your own pubic hair
Then, in a blinding flash…there you were…all of you…. in the air…yet, so close to the floor
Your fine fine tool like a shiny white plastic immersion blender complete with attachments at the ready to whirl and, turn my insides into a deep vat of eggy mayonnaise
Oh, it was so on…you had me at puree
Like whirling dervishes we started to slam all over your ill-lit man cave
I your willing sex slave
In a blink you had me pinned up-side-down with fishing tackle on that strange extensive antler collection staring down from those creepy wallpapered walls
Then I gnawed myself down and grappled you into a clean one armed Admiral Nelson
You only chortled and nibbled my big toe clean off
Then I smiled coyly and fisted out some of your hair plugs to make myself a little hand tuft
You mustered on top and screamed out passages from Dante’s Inferno while strapping on spurs
I switched it up and rode you like a spitting ill tempered llama through the Andes as I got busy stuffing your mouth with used handi-wipes
You tried to rip my throat out with a router
I got out your fingernails with my pocket grouter
God! I love a man with power tools
You took me from behind, on top, the side, through broken teeth and then hanging from out past the window seat
I could only hear gurgling moans of pleasure as I fed you broken glass extracted from my diced up sinews of my mangled feet
Baby, we were like a Ferris wheel hurling out of control at a state fair
And, our juices were flowing like sick sick vomit from buttered corn on the cob eating slobs watching the prize winning pigs go at it
Then…. you warned me of an impending eruption and yelled
This is going to be a ten on the richer scale
And baby it was
I don’t need a seismograph to tell you
That the Earth moved that night
And although, I did notice you actually had a seismograph in the closet you were checking… honey, why were you hiding those heavy chains anyway?
Your landlady only confirmed our magnificent passion when she pounded on the door to see if there had been another cat brawl and warn you not to have pets tied up down in the basement here again to torture!

Part 3


After that was settled… I could hardly move
My loins were limp like overused Sham-wows…ah, afterglow!
But morning had to come
And you said adieu…or actually get out and tenderly gave me change for my dollar bill so I could catch a bus
Oh baby…is this love?
Or just a one nighter
I don’t think you have a phone
I think that’s what you said
And since I don’t usually take the bus
And I kinda forgot were you live
So I’ll just wait by the funeral home
And remember how you made me groan
And hope somebody you know dies
Real soon



Sate is the daughter of a Lutheran minister… And you know what they say about them.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Homegirl vs. the Shadow

Homegirl woke up early; Punkboy was snoring snoring next to her and she just didn’t have the patience to keep laying next to him pretending to be sleeping until his tatted fingers started moving all over her, looking for her clit, looking to see if she was wet. Punkboy almost always woke up hard; Homegirl usually liked that about him. She usually went along with the pretend that he was the initiator, the hunter, the predator, that he was the one looking for sex, looking to see if she was ready or, better yet, if he could make her ready.

This morning, tho, she was feeling out of sorts and rolled quietly off her side of the bed. Punkboy snored still and she padded barefoot to her pile of clothing on the floor. Of course, they’d fucked again after coming home from the dive bar. When together she and Punkboy were like two virgin teenagers set loose in a Texas cathouse. Or some other weird simile about sex and virgins and teenagers and Texan whores, but that’s the best I can come up with right now.

Homegirl had to work that night, but Punkboy had off. Maybe that was contributing to her offness. She didn’t know. She put on her miniskirt and her kneehigh boots and her bra and her shirt and couldn’t find her panties, but didn’t care. Punkboy’d take care of them; he’d probably clean and hand them back to her all folded nicely the next time they worked together. Surreptitiously, of course, so no one would know.

She didn’t know if he just pretended to her that none of the boys knew or if he hadn’t told them. She hadn’t told the girls yet cos the last time she’d told one of the café bitches about having something with one of their co-workers, some kind of feeling for him, the bitch’d waited until she took her vacation to Montreal and when she’d come back, the two were a couple and in love and making out in the small back room that served as both supply/mop room and employee changing/time card room. She had to push past them to punch in; what she’d really wanted to do was punch the bitch out cold and suck face with dude over, maybe even on, the passed out body.

Those café bitches were always all around stealing your love.
That may be my insight, tho. It’s already hard to tell.

She did care that she and Punkboy almost always had different nights off; she was always worried he was meeting up with other girls on those night; she was always worried he’d fall in love on one of those nights off and come into work the next night with hickeys and rope burns and even a new tattoo.

She’d never inspired that kind of love; she’d never caused a guy to get a new tatt ever.

That she knew. & it probably didn’t count if you didn’t. In fact, I’d like to say it’s hella creepy if you don’t. That’s like pure stalking territory. Not like I’d know.

She grabbed her purse from the doorknob; she didn’t remember leaving it there, but that didn’t bother her.

There were a lot of worse things not to remember.

Homegirl left Punkboy’s bedroom quietly. Punkboy was almost thirty, but he had a roommate, some big shadowy guy who smoked a lot of pot and didn’t hang with any scenes. Punkboy’s roommate gave Homegirl the creeps. She called him Shadow, except to his face. To his face all she said was, Hi, if she had to. She was always always hoping not to run into him on her naked way to the bathroom after she and Punkboy’d fucked for hours.

She knew he listened to them doing it and jerked off. She knew he thought about her cunt and she knew, somehow, he thought of it as glistening.

That really creeped her out. Anyone who daydreamed about a glistening cunt creeped her out. Cunts don’t glisten. They get moist; they get wet; they make inappropriate sucking sounds, they quiver and fasten around cock shafts, they’ve got fucking minds of their own, but they don’t glisten and they don’t sparkle unless you’re a stripper and douched with glitter. Yeah, there were pretty cunts just like there were pretty cocks. Punkboy liked to look at her cunt a lot, so hers must have been a-ight. His cock was nicey-nice to look at, too. He’d sent her a jpeg of it via his cell phone. She’d look at it when she was having a bad day, when Richboy didn’t call, when her two roommates, both guys cos there was no way in hell Homegirl was gonna put up with bitch roommates macking on her mens, were pissing her off, or when she had to work counter at the café.

She hated working counter; she hated being fake nice and usually couldn’t be bothered. Usually she said, Can I help you? & then rang up the order & then said, (whatever the total was), please. All without smiling or inflection.

There’d been a really cute boy that’d starting coming in every night at the café; she and her friends called him Prettyboy. The second week she’d waited on Prettyboy she’d knocked over his pint of coffee on the counter, which was conveniently crotch level on a lot of guys.

She said, I’m so sorry.

She said, Here’s my rag. And tossed him a damp towel to wipe himself down with. At least she knew better than to wipe his crotch down herself. That would have been pure Hollywood bullshit and would’ve freaked Prettyboy out even more.

He was already freaked out; she could tell.

The next night he didn’t even say hi when he ordered his pint and he wouldn’t look her in the eye. She’d decided there went her chances with Prettyboy, which was probably okay, in hindsight, cos who wants to date a guy who’s prettier than them?
That crotch fiasco was only one of the reasons she liked to work kitchen instead. She never had to worry about what people thought about her when she cooked. She could talk the dirty talks or not talk at all. She could be hungover and run to the bathroom and vomit and then come right back and continue making sandwiches like the professional she wanted to be.

Secretly she wasn’t a professional cos her Catholic mother’d instilled in her one mother of a superego. That bitch was always and forever trying to repress her impulses. It’s why she wanted to be a professional but couldn’t; it was one fuck of a never-ending cycle.

Homegirl even felt a little guilty about being creeped out by Shadow. She’d made it to the stairs this morning without seeing him. Shadow and Punkboy rented an entire house instead of a flat like most of the people she knew, herself included; it was a small house, but still, Homegirl kinda wondered how they could afford it.

But she only kinda wondered. She didn’t want to know that much about Shadow.
She was at the bottom of the stairs and then there was Shadow. He was going to walk past her going up it looked like. He was gonna squeeze past her and “accidentally” brush her side, her hip, her breast, some of the places she knew he wanted to molest. He was a big bald guy with neck rolls and as he approached her he seemed to make himself bigger.

Hey, he said as he brushed past her. She smelled onion stank breath; she tried to make herself smaller but she was a tall hippy Midwest thing.

She wanted to say, Hey, you fuck. I know what you’re doing.
She wanted to say, You’re such a fucking Chester.
She wanted to say, Touch me again and I’ll cut your nuts off in your sleep.
What she said was, Hey, and then she shot the fuck out of there like that loose canon she wanted to be.


Ryder Collins went looking for love, and it started raining bullets.


Monday, August 9, 2010

the tv's up against the wall like a painting while everybody here in the museum's fainting-richard hell/ the pistol and the sneaker

the tv's up against the wall like a painting while everybody here in the museum's fainting-richard hell
by: marko x

[for mikey welsh]

to say that america has no culture, only smiling song & dance
men, is ragging on the obvious, is like picking on a cripple.
all about schmoozing & banal sex appeal. sadistic pedophiles
& masochistic star-fuckers. occasionally the poor tortured artist
which they know they'll make a neat profit on when he or she
takes their last bang, hit, slice or fall. truly great artists are
ignored for the most part. gallery owners say they can sell your
work if you agree to let them manage you. i dump an entire can
of yellow paint over their head. i tell them it was van gogh's
favorite color. a poor saint of a man who sold one painting in
his lifetime. i scatter sunflower seeds over them to see if they
stick. i ask them what's their asking price. publishers say they'll
print your book if you can send a list of at least a thousand
people you know who will snatch it up. worse, they'll publish
if you agree to take any unsold copies off their hands. i don't
know a hundred people. worse than that, are strictly vanity
publishers making money off frustrated, desperate writers,
who could do the same themselves for a fraction of the cost.
i write art-hater all over their whoring body handcuffed to
a bed in crack motel. record companies sign naive kids to no-win
contracts, which unless they're one in a million & catch the
popular imagination (shudder at the thought) will never make
the band or the songwriter a cent because they must pay back
recording expenses, video expenses, clear channel payola before
they see any profit. i've read an indie label must lay out half
a million before clear channel who has a monopoly on fm radio,
will even start talking. i plant a megaphone in their tin ear
& scream philistine motherfucker. i write a thousand page
suicide note which nobody will touch. what do i care. is that
that a statement or question? let me pretend to touch it up
a little.

Marko X is a reclusive poetry and prose writer from Oregon, or outer space, motherfucker. Don't fuck with his spaceship man. Seriously. He has some of the koolest fuckin' titles this humanoid has ever seen!

The Pistol and the Sneaker
by: Rob Plath


My father held the pistol up to the screen and through the mesh he whispered,

"I’m going to blow your motherfucking head off."

My older brother was asleep right in the bed next to the window. The kid, Al, my brother’s friend, spun around and ran down the lawn in the dark. My brother kept sleeping. My brother’s friends often pulled their car up on the curbside a house down and one of them crawled up to his window to get him to sneak out. My father shut my brother’s door and put the pistol back in the drawer in the master bedroom. The pistol he used to carry when he collected money from the ’bums’ that didn’t pay back the loanshark on time. He had a large bayonet in the drawer as well. Then he went to bed.

The next day after school my brother came home and asked my father if he had pulled a gun on his friend Al.

"You bet your fucking ass I did," he said

"My friends were afraid to come around now," my brother lamented

"That's how I want them to feel," my father shot back.

"Do you have Al’s sneaker," my brother asked.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "You should've saw him run," he laughed.

"Can I have it to give to Al?" my brother asked. "It's his only pair."

"Tell him to come get it," my father growled.

"He's afraid," he told my father.

"If he wants it he has to fucking come get it. I tied it to the garage door handle," my father snickered.

My brother shook his head and went to his room.

Later, John approached the house. John was my brother’s closest friend and one of the guys in the car that night Al lost his sneaker. John was the only one not afraid to the house. John’s father knew my father from Brooklyn. He was in hiding for years ever since he was wanted for murder during a truck hijacking. John laughed when he saw the sneaker dangling from the garage door.

"Your old man is a fucking rip," he said to my brother.

My brother began to laugh along with John. Just then my father came out.

"Hello," John said and then pointed to the sneaker.

"Only Al can untie that sneaker," my father growled.

John laughed loudly. My brother laughed then.

"You kidding," John asked, laughing.

"Tell that motherfucker if he wants his sneaker come get it," my father repeated.

"You weren’t really going to shoot him?" John asked my father.

"I almost did," my father said.

John laughed. My father liked John although he wouldn’t show it. He knew John had balls like his father. My father went back inside the house and my brother and John left. The sneaker still dangled.

An hour later John’s car pulled up and my brother, John, and Al got out and walked up
the driveway. Al a few steps behind. My father immediately came out on the porch. My brother and John laughing pushed Al towards the dangling sneaker.

"You ever come to the window at night again and I will blow your fucking brains out you fucking little punk," my father said.

And he waited with his hands on his hips for Al to untie the sneaker.

"Go ahead, you cunt, take your sneaker," my father said.

Al, his hands shaking, untied my father’s knot. John and my brother were standing there dead serious. Al finally got the sneaker and walked to the car. My brother and John said goodbye to my father.

"Don’t ever fuck with me," my father told them, "or I’ll put a bullet into each one of you," he warned.

He let the screen door slam and disappeared inside the house.

It's Rob Plath. Nuff Said. He is featured in Tree Killer Ink issue #4 from Epic Rites Press as well as any other small publication you can probably wrap yr little head around.

Read both of these guys, or be swaLLowed up by the jowls of Cerebus drunk on three-day old blood.


Cerebus Pictures, Images and Photos

Monday, August 2, 2010

Anal Sex/ Fuckin' for Money and Blowing Weed in Babies' Faces




Anal Sex

Your hard cock
Drills into my anus like
A nail into a wall

Pounding into me
With each bit of steel
My ass is your sheet rock

Your head’s lubrication is the putty
so you could enter my anus
Hear me let out screams of Owhhhhhhhs and
Ahhhhhhs

Hands with callouses
gripped to my hips
Balls slapping and echoing throughout the air
Ass in the air to your face
Breasts bouncing like boxers boxing.

Anal Sex, Ashly Salmon 8/23/09

Ashly is ON THE ROAD, man, writing for an upcoming poetry anthology.

Catch her here if you can.

*Anal Sex is also published @ Modus Operandi



fuckin' for money and blowing weed in babies' faces

this is the beginning of a short story i'll probably never write

“That’s just a bond I share with my son. We roll a blunt and we smokes it. It’s the only time that little asshole calms the fuck down,” my neighbor says in reference to her four year old. Her five month old is haphazardly splayed across her lap. She snorts thick smoke out of her nose in a slacked attempt to keep the thc from escaping her lungs too soon. She hacks a blast of fog into her babies face. You could smell the dirty diaper from across the room. You could see the remnants of last nights crack binge on the mothers face.
.. ..
My roommate is parked in intrigue, intently following the do’s and don’t of the pimp-ho industry as being explained by another neighbor. He’s on and on about how he be rollin’ hard and livin’ large, ain’t never been caught and how he’s just born into business, got a sense about how things go, and she’s buying every word that falls from his broke ass mouf. He’s hustlin’ and she’s grappling with the idea of selling more than just the idea of sex. You can see the excitement rise as she bites her boudoir lips at the prospect of the only thing she loves. Money.


Brave Evolver will kick yr ass at fake Sumo Wrestling. And possibly write a poem about it. She currently rules New Mexico. With an iron fist.


you can find her here.

Monday, July 26, 2010

NATIONAL PAST TIME

PART ONE: TEAM ROSTER

1st Miguel Rodriguez
2nd Skeet McCoy
3rd Kevin Boyle
shortstop Jiro Watanabe
right field Raoul Herrera
center field George Kowalski
left field Jason Sugarman
catcher Gilberto Aragon
pitcher Elroy Lincoln
pitcher Michael Timmons
pitcher Jennings Masters
team manager Pappy Hargrove
bat boy Travis Fleming



PART TWO: NECESSARY RITUALS

Second Baseman Skeet McCoy carries in his left
front pocket a rabbit’s foot dyed electric blue.

Center Fielder George Kowalski never goes
out onto the field without making certain
that he steps on the foul line with his left foot.

Left Fielder Jason Sugarman avoids the foul line
altogether, avoids the chalk as if it were death.

Closing Pitcher Jenning Masters eats a huge platter
of fried chicken the night before a home game but
on road trips he consumes two McDonalds Double
Quarter Pounders. No cheese. A chocolate shake.

First Baseman Miguel Rodriguez makes the sign
of the cross each time the pitcher winds up.

Starting Pitcher Elroy Lincoln shaves his eyebrows
the night before his turn in the rotation to start.

Team Manager Pappy Hargrove wears mismatched socks,
counsels his players to abstain from drink and sex.

Relief Pitcher Roland Hemms carries on a chain
around his neck a tiny vial of weaponized anthrax,
hermetically sealed and concealed beneath his shirt.

Right Fielder Raoul Herrera, masturbates into his
glove before the game while holding in his mind
a mental image of his teammate, Skeet McCoy.

George Kowalski votes Republican. Elroy Lincoln
votes Democrat. Miguel Rodriguez practices a form
of Santeria entailing the ritual sacrifice of cats
which are easily procured from his neighborhood.

Pitcher Michael Timmons keeps his own spittoon
in the clubhouse, toting it to dugout or bullpen,
even on the road. A monagram etched in brass.

Shortstop Jiro Watanabe has also acquired
a brass spitoon, though he has yet to acquire
a taste for chewing tobacco. Only Chiclets.

Raoul Herrera sleeps with his favorite
Louisville Slugger, limbs twined round it.

Third baseman Kevin Boyle drills holes in his favorite
Louisville Slugger into which he pours a small quantity
of molten lead. It adds heft to his swing and connect.

Catcher Gilberto Aragon chews Bazooka
Bubble Gum. He consults the tiny comic
strip wrapped around the gum, believing
Bazooka Joe is a modern day oracle.

George Kowalski seeks relief in primal
scream therapy. Sometimes appropriately.

During lulls in play Kevin Boyle scans the female
fans in the nearby stands hoping to catch a peek
up a skirt, needing only a camera to snap a shot.

Pappy Hargrove walks the bases clockwise during
pre-game warm-ups striving to undo The Curse of
The Pig. Piggy, please come back, he chants.

Jason Sugarman taps his bat on home plate three
times upon entering the batter’s box and only once
between pitches, drawing strength from the earth.

Bat Boy Travis Fleming stations himself at the dugout
entrance, always at the ready to hand each player the
appropriate bat and each player in turn will rub the
close-shaven head of the bat boy before going on deck.
On the back of his neck he sports a tattoo of a pink pig.

Raoul Herrera taps the plate five times butt end down
to discharge the negative energies and then twirls the
wood back to business position. A smile and a wink.

Michael Timmons practices in his back yard,
pitching against a scarecrow, aiming for the
stuffed head, drawing a bead to throw a beaner.

Sixty-six years ago an inebriated bricklayer named
Walter Kakatonis was refused entry to the ballpark,
not because he was drunk, but because he was toting
a toddler pig under his arm. Claimed he never went
anywhere without his piggy and if he and piggy were
barred from watching the game then, by God, there
would never be a World Series played in this ballpark.

Travis Fleming dreams of pigs. Miguel Rodriguez
dreams of cats. Kevin Boyle dreams of snatch.

Skeet McCoy refuses to bathe while mired in
a hitting slump. He must sleep on the couch.

Jiro Watanabe keeps taped on the rear wall of his
locker an 8x10 glossy of actress Gillian Anderson
portraying Agent Scully. He has never seen The
X-Files. He keeps in his wallet a photograph of
actress Katee Sackoff. He loves Gillian, but thinks
Katee is lucky. Some things are difficult to explain.

Michael Timmons keeps in his wallet
the loyalty cards for the local strip joint.
Buy five lap dances and get one free.

Gilberto Aragon is diddling the wife of Skeet
Mccoy, who also used to be the wife of George
Kowalski and before that was the on the road
mistress of Elroy Lincoln. The Game is her life.

The skipper is porking the bat boy, mentoring
the lad in order to instill a strong Spartan ethic.

Gilberto Aragon affects silk boxers worn over his
protective cup. Chili peppers, dollar signs, red hearts.

Roland Hemms eats only Mexican food before a game.
The hotter the better. When he throws heat, he farts.

Around the horn as horsehide slaps leather,
a brown jet splats brass. Cleats truffle up
the turf. A harrowing gut-scream, the tap of
a bat. A wrinkle of wrapper, the rattle of
Chiclets. A whiff of burrito, the swish of silk.

Around the horn. Come back, Piggy. Piggy, come back.

At attention to salute Old Glory the players all stand
to mumble the half-remembered anthem, hat in their hand
over their heart and commence play at the umpire’s command.
The ball seems be flecked with genetic material and
Kevin Boyle has garnered the attention of a husband.


obama/mccain insert Pictures, Images and Photos

Sigerson pitches from a left-handed stance and it's always a knuckleball fucker. He writes poems and prose. Go here. Or we'll find you with baseball bats and lubricant. Don't fuck with Sigerson, hombre!

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Monday, July 19, 2010

XIII. Through Television Eyes into Cosmic Fade

no longer dreaming of Atlantis and a waitress ass
like convicted cowards behind retinal bars
dreaming is becoming sodomy of the duped
mangled tubes of empty K-Y on motel nightstands
dreaming is becoming stolen Bibles of Gideons or New World Order
in fetal curled asylums of the same hotel rooms
nicotine tingeing of cigarette butts on tub-skirts
and crayons of makeup for failing marriages

no one fucks Lady Scaramouche anymore
watching bareback canoness being buried beside hookers
both spread eagle on parallel armed crosses
virgins buried abreast cadavers of strippers
refracted in colossal Prismatica left immaterial
like watching fragments of pay-per-view
in sodded humdrum under cosmic spotlight of stars
watching purgatoried hitchikers under raven wing of night time
pecking buxom worm from fast food trays
incubated heat lamp dynamo winking one eye down
the brainsick madman behind the counter
diffusing twisted ends of a pencil thin mustache
in a perma-grin love affair with teeny-bopper cashiers

watching thunderous guitars blur into talismanic wands of MTV
voodooistic reverbs and shaman riffs on Headbangers Ball
Cable God and his minions of puppeteering on strings
sublimating from frizzy faces of four feet speakers
from one eyed shrews of blue-toothed CD players
in sermons of Saint Anger from a carpet pulpit
watching Air Jordans hotfooted and wagging tongues
legends climbing into constellations of market share
where planetariums pay homage to existence
their pudgy circles orbiting godliness
in rings of of cosmic diamonds and rave
watching pitchers hit homeruns cuz the chicks dig the long ball
and tearing out ACLs with plastic sporks
of having overdosed them to bone brittle
flipping a hundred channels of narcoleptic stare
every fifteen minutes of meaningful drama poorly interupted
by twelve dancing rabbits with toilet paper

laughter-loving children who once were irresistable forces
now mummifying into immovable objects
giving birth to billions of remote controls for vision sake
growing old with eyes like cantaloupes and no brain behind them
watching waves run like wet dogs along beaches
their salty tails wagging into pools of skin-breakers
their starving hound nostrils in clumping sand and Cheetos
beside venerable white-haired lady and her Universal Lie
in a metal detector for reposing retirement
this human hope of prolonging man’s irrevocable torment
engaging with autistic dimensia of lover-hood
proposing to prophesied wives in Japanese Shangri-la
looking up like wanting coy from a pond of austere knees
shooting heart up through phiz of broken glass
and left wheezing in rejection on her lap

watching facades slip into alterior conscience
traveling into caves of ancient beastial divination
scrolling pages of holistic medicine or retardation
with shaking fingers and pang of hallucinogenic hangover
waiting for someone to answer in a room of deaf
awaiting slip of blade from gospel torreador
staring back with autistic eyes and imbroglio
weeping at the solace of their passing
furrowing into rabbit holes after that skinny bitch
her shrooms and mescaline breath always unattainable
lolling in spent lover sheets in sweating withdrawal
finding comforts in alleyways with someone else's daughter
in illusionary prom dresses and skinned up knees
like plastic dolls atop a wedding cake

why is Barbie killing the American woman?
making her up in two story and pink Corvette
and sending her off to vowing church with Ken


BIO:
Cochise is a poetry and prose writer from Charlotte, NC [Ric Flair country] who is currently attending the University of North Carolina. He used to live in Florida, where prose and poetry writers talk about geckos and smoke good weed. He hates posers and is a real sucker for brunettes. He is also the walking reincarnation of Aldous Huxley in this editor's opinion, so give him some mescaline and a notebook and watch that motherfucker fly!

Go here, motherfucker, and read some more of his work. And we might let the gimp out of the basement for some sunshine and water: myspace.com/silentgunslinger

mescaline Pictures, Images and Photos

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I blame Capt. Yossarian

..............

The traffic lights seem to change the mood of the room with every switch they make, red a soft seductive light, yellow an almost too bright for what is going on in this bedroom light, and the green, oh the green was the I am clearly going to remember all of this in the morning light. The noises she was making were border-line frightening, I half expected the police department to be kicking down the door at any minute, mixing an array of streaming red laser lights to the yellow that was making me feel so guilty. Three fingers fully involved, a strange notion in the pit of my stomach, I could keep my thumb, palm knuckle deep in her now sopping wet pussy and touch her knee with my out stretched pinky. ‘I can do this, just keep your eye on the prize' I continued to encourage myself. I fondled her breast some as I began to slide my fourth and smallest finger inside her. 'Almost there' I thought as she started shaking, 'I hope she doesn't cum yet, I really do not want to have to do this again.' slowly I added some rhythmic movements, curling my fingers up, tickling her G-spot. With the quickest of upward thrusts, I managed to mix my thumb in and was mid-palm deep inside her. Wait, maybe I should explain how I got to this point...


A couple days ago I was enjoying a mid-afternoon smoke outside my apartment complex and this guy I know pulled-up in his lame-ass canary yellow Pontiac Fiero, with one of the not-so-hits of the 80's playing on his stereo. I could see the three high school girls holding back their laughter as they crossed to the opposite side of the street, once they reached a safe distance one of them yelled something that was muffled by the scratchy voice of Tiffany, or Debbie Gibson or Peter Gabriel, whoever sang that song "I think were alone now" but I can assure you that is was not a complement. Troy, not sure what his first name really is but I have called him Troy sense I met him, he doesn't seem to mind, maybe it’s his name. Troy turned off the engine and killed the horrid music.
"ahh, love that song, just love it. Don't you?" he asked. I shook my head and replied
"Umm, no man, reminds me of aerobics in eighth grade gym class." He just smiled as he rounded the front of his car. I thought about how cool it would be for him to do some 80's movie style slide across his hood, falling and landing in that puddle of oil and soda and God knows what.
"Oh man, where the fuck did you get that?" I was pointing to his wicked awesome belt buckle, Pabst Blue Ribbon, bout the size of a twelve ounce beer can, just as shinny and just as cool.
"oh, this thing!" he grabbed it with both hands moving it up and down like he was trying to catch the sun and blind me with it, "shit man, had this thing for years." I couldn't stop staring at it, knowing full well I was fixated on this odd mans crotch.
"I need to find a damn midget, where can I find a fuckin umpah lumpah?" I thought I said this under my breath but he responded with
"did you say midget?"
Oh shit here we go, some long speech about how they hate to be called that or something
"yeah man, I said, I need to find a midget."
"Hell dude, just go over to Rays this weekend, there is this group of five or six little people who party there every weekend man."
Rays yeah I know that place, it’s a gay bar on Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays I think, but Thursdays it’s all you can eat nachos and two dollar margaritas. "Right on" I said as I flicked my smoke out onto the street and walked away. I wondered why he didn't ask me why I needed to find a midget, and then reminded myself; this is California.


I climbed out of the pool, the water running off me cooled my feet as I walked across the hot concrete. I put my hat back on as I sat under the umbrella table, the only shaded spot out there. My friend had sent me a text that read, 'any planz 4 2nite' I hate what texting has done to language I thought as I sent back, 'ahyut, gonna grab some beers downtown' then lit the last smoke in my pack and moved my chair out into the sun, cracked open an ice cold Pabst and couldn’t help thinking about how awesome the day has been thus far.


Later that night at Ray's I meet Beth, nice girl, long dark hair, deep blue eyes, a huge head, and only bout four feet tall. After three Long Island ice teas she was dancing like she could bend at the knees. You need to know at this point, I am six feet three inches tall, she is three feet nine inches tall, yes, we looked awesome out there cutting a rug. She could suck my dick right there on the dance floor and people would think we were just slow dancing. but, with her sitting on the bar stool and me standing we could make-out just fine. She grabbed my cock after about two hours of flirting and told me to take her home and fuck her. I paid the tab, hailed a cab, and took her back to her place. I didn't want her to know where I lived. We staggered up the stairs to her apartment, well, I staggered she waddled. She put some music on and we crawled into her bed. With the bare bulbed lamp turned out I noticed the way the traffic lights on the corner lit up her bedroom, reached for my cell phone to try and get some video of this event but the battery was dead...


Last night I didn't just fuck a midget, I fist fucked a midget, and not just for the fun of it. Last night I fist fucked a midget for a tee-shirt, a tee-shirt I hope is worth all the nightmares I will awake to, all the memories of her biting my arm as I drove my cock in her ass. Her looking up at me and screaming "YES, YES, YES..." and me thinking how she looked like a puppet with my whole right hand inside her. One good thing if nothing else comes from this. My dick has never looked bigger than it did in her one knuckled stubby fingered hand! ...


Murphy Clamrod, lives in Fresno, CA. now, recently relocating from the New England Area where you park yr cawr, next to the bawr, where it isn't that fawr. He has a strange fascination with PBR and subscribes to Asshole of the Month Weekly. He also has "a face for radio" and hosts several Blogtalkradio shows about poetry, prose, and the like.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Slugs and Soft Drinks

Taken by surprise I fell into the hole. Squishy membranes succeed the rush of blood I waded through. Warhol watches porn to my left, witches chant in tongues in another corridor. The blood flow slows.

A demon asks, “are you Jack Dilaudid?”
I shake my head. He grasps my hand with slimy soft drink cup hands. Slugs snag on my bare feet that smell of grated cheese and feces. Into a room he pushes me, the demon that looked like my father. Red in the eyes but under no narcotics.

In this vicious room, televisions are everywhere. I sit on a swollen couch, swollen with the stink of death. Blood stains are evident wherever my eyes go. Ugly women are at my feet, begging for my sickly penis. The penis of a dying dog in an alleyway sullen and lonely and fading fast.

From a door in the distance I could not see, an old white man appeared. He walked infallibly confident. Like a porn star's horse erection. Slimy and with a Texas born man’s strut. I thought it was God. I thought I had been wrong my whole life. All the drugs and the breaking of hearts and the disappointment that has been my life would be shown, reel by reel, a single frame at a time, a billion frames of sin, debauchery. The things that make legends.
I stare at him. He stares back as if to read my mind. I tried to extinguish the guilt beneath my blackened eyelids. Prophets come into your life once. This was my prophet. It had no wings. No halo. No golden light to lift me up. It was a crusty old white motherfucker that was here for my salvation. What I’ve hated in life has become my savior in hiding. The end.

But Jack will be back soon. I never stay away for too long.







Jeff Sibley is one sic fucka