Fucked up stories and poetry from the gutter of the Internet!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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
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
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.
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