KLEFT JAW SPRING 2013 ISSUE ONE

OUT NOW!

Featuring words and art from:

Michele McDannold, Seth Elkins, Mark Hartenbach, CL Bledsoe, Aurora Killpoet, John Swain, Lilly Pennhall, Jesse Mitchell, Holly Jaffe, RL Raymond, Maria Gornell, RJ Looney, Ben Nardolilli, Matt Sradeja, Jeremy Hight, Newamba Flamingo, frankie metro, Dustin Holland, April Michelle Bratten, jason neese, William Seaward Bonnie, Tom Legge, Stephanie Bryant Anderson, J.D. Nelson, Jerard Hutchinson, James H. Duncan, Tim Murray, Gabriel Richard, Howie Good, Youssef Alaoui-Fdili, Andrew McIntyre, Lindsey Thomas, Bud Smith, and Bill West...

Read this magazine, bitch, and don't be a fucking toothbrush.

Word is bond.

CLICK HERE

Nothing to Lose (or Freedom) by: Michele (mama punk head hostage) McDannold

i want to be the next S.A. Griffin
yeah- the guy that got
fucked over and deleted
as Editor from the Outlaw book
before lawsuits
before justice


i
want to be that guy
"that kind of pissed that leads not to revenge
but to a reckoning"

people will shed a lone tear
sniffle
and shake their head a lot
i will keep on gathering great poems
sharing the news about great poets
new ones
old ones
killer ones
fucky ones
we'll call it
the "didn't make it to twitter
because it had too much
character" book
i want to drive down the great river road
i want a reading
right now!
in bars
bookstores
and bowling alleys
i want to read/scream
at bikers and rednecks
housewives and whores
i hope they throw stuff
and spit on me
chase me out to the car
yelling
"we don't like your kind
'round here"

but they will secretly
worship me
and my freedom
and my hoard of poets
from the suburbs
the city
the farm
they're multiplying like gremlins
one dash of sit and spin
and they're out ruining christmas

i want them all
(not to make them famous)
to make them infamous
to spread their disease
of think
of cut out the bullshit
and get to the point
i want America
in her glazed over Red Bull eyes
to really
really
wake the fuck up
this is no time to let it ride
the great depression
is your brain on ice
your investment in image
the "i'm okay- you're okay" is a dead hippie lie
the 1% is selling everything
is selling you, me..
McDonald's and Twilight books

medication via
TV ads
the party is over
the beatniks are dead or dying
the outlaws are a joke
who's packing their gun and their Medicare card
at the same time?
i want to know!
the wild west is tamed, my friends
rail against that which seeks to defeat you
every day
every hour
RIGHT NOW
get in your car
go
don't kill the first thing that gets in your way
kill em all
kill em all
kill em all,
motherfuckers.
they call us the X generation
with nothing to lose
but our Nirvana CDs
and Fight Club on DVD
didn't you get the memo?
the "they" have
co-opted your identity for mass marketing
you can now buy
the special edition director's cut t-shirt snuggie toothpick rim job w/ decal
get the fuck
OUT
out of your house
and stick a fist up their ass for doing this
don't buy the hype
use it against them
like the goddamn motherfuckers nothing to lose asshole poets that you are

*The Operator & Chemist would like to acknowledge and congratulate Michele "One L" McDannold on her recent step forward with Punk Hostage Press. Michele is 1/3 of the editing team and head of public relations. Expect great things from these motherfuckers. Respect. Word is BOND-

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold III. OF III.

from THE DEATH BOOK

POEMS TO CELEBRATE MY FRIENDS, PEOPLE I KNEW OR HEARD OF, AT LEAST ONCE, AND THEN THEY DIED OR WILL DIE AND I WANNA BE PREPARED:

“For your information gangsta poetry in this country isn’t Bukowski’s invention, it’s mine. I’ve been making this kind of stuff since 1970 give or take. And, it has nothing to do with Bukowski’s style or subject matter. Bukowski was the pornagrapher of pussy and a damned good one at that. I’m the pornographer of violence.”
-TODD MOORE-(www.m-etropolis.com/wordpress)

stop sucking on Todd Moore's Dead dick

ode to the bullet-wielding
gangster
dillinger dogma
poems I don't get
but ur take of them
is worse
or ur take of him is worse
I guess
I never knew him
or you
but feeling fully qualified
to pass judgement
in poetic form

I find it
sickening
pathetic
and sucking his dead dick
well,
it's just in bad taste
(end poem)

the corpse of Tim Murray

still has reddish hair
and wears glasses
like heaven in a cup
smells like pumpkins
and whip cream
don't judge me for
sniffing his sweater vest
i'm lost on the highway
between Popesville
and Agnostica
Broncho John
is weeping




when you're gone

let there be hamsters for all
and depends undergarments
just in case
may there be poetry grenades
sloshing around the room
til we're all sloshing
to that private tune
that drives Danny's Big Banana
I have never sent a poem that rhymes
to anyone else that matters
and when you're gone
I still won't tell
that one secret
but I can't speak for that
guy sleeping/not sleeping
on the chaise lounge
he
will probably tell

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold II. of III.

this bored housewife

plots death by poison on odd days
mornings only
when the kids are gone
and the crock pot's set to high

cuts the hair from your head during the full moon
binds it with duct tape to a piece of ham
while the street is dark
and the dirt is warm

handles
rather than controls
the desire for witch-inspired zombie sex

urgharghblah

this bored housewife
has a recipe book
that's time-locked
with a tequila switch

she's just waiting
waiting
waiting
til she can't anymore


Epic

my epic poem is a list of groceries
sorted by things I can buy
generic and not
the hero is a box of Pop-Tarts
because let's face it
nobody else can get the filling right
you get the picture?

next to my bed is
the stepford wives
ear plugs
and a basket of lubes, lotions
and creams
for not having sex
for not looking younger
for not healing
the hole in my head

Note to the Better Half

I miss the smell of mass deviation
of latino santa sweat
and artie's chronic n gun oil
I miss the pulse of drunk transit at 3am
black hookers in white wigs
and white pimps in purple satin
I miss the homeless junkies
and the rest stop houses
with sound systems
too big to fit
and fuckers too drunk to shoot, not fuck
I miss the rain that flooded my car
the stink that followed
and the body parts that washed up

yes, I miss being in love
on the run
and even pawning my only diamond
someday soon they'll be a note void of tears
and dinners in the icebox
that freeze a lot better than I do.

Simply Brutal Series featuring: Michele McDannold I of III.

Cash Business

Don’t send it
the waxing poetic
is a stick fuck
if I imagined in colors it would be
black and blackblue
if it had feelers, velvet
and punk renditions of showtunes
it’s true that I paint it up to avoid reality
and it’s ugly like that
I suppose that’s the point
in the end
everyone pays for truth


Trick

We were loaded...
skimmin’ down Morton Ave.
at 4 am,
searching for the end of the fog
where the neon light calls
Takhomasak

you had a counter seat,
cup o’ Joe,
the crumbled-up bag at your feet.
laughin’ through your story
drop of coffee in your `stache.

“... so he pulls up and says
he’s got a bag of canned food for a date.
Ain’t that shit funny?
Check it out! I ain’t kiddin’.”

Juicy brown spit flying on pocket amusement.
(Flo caught it on her uniform sleeve, mortified)

A split-second, maybe a full-tick–
a moment between those two
like the liquid in the torpedo shaped plug in lights
blob o blob, floating, suspended.
Realization squirming up uncomfortable mechanisms
of fate blown anguish.
Curtains up. Omega!

I wasn’t sure who to feel sorry for.

disclosure

doesn't it just suck shit that I am not cool. I am not the idea of your black death suck. there is no breathing demon blood in vain. and, well we don't sell happiness here either. got out of that business long ago, but I do believe in magic and since I can find peace in that joy; silly will do. I think I'll be alright.