A Classic Reading @ the Paraclete Center w/ Pantifesto's Porntastic Phunhouse

Raid a morgue for poetry.

Have an orgy with
the Beats.

Be sure to invite
the little boys
for the ones
who are into that
sort of thing.

Methadone Modus w/ Steven Purkey

Gutter Cuddly

You see them hott foxes?

You see them standing there?
In their drrrty jeans and black Carhartts
Lookin' all gutter cuddly

With Misfits patches
Facial tattoos
Pierced libidos
The scum of the Earth!

You see them over there?
Standing on the street corner
Flying a sign that reads
"I promise I won't spend it on drugs."

She's got studs and spikes

Combat boots

Ripped Crass t-shirt

Ain't she hott?

Give up the thought

Give it up now

She'll never be yrs

She belongs to no one!


All you can do is spare a dollar

&

Appreciate the filthy art of the

Gutter Cuddly.

Post-May Day Massacre Meth w/ Karl Koweski

The Jabba The Hutt To My Bib Fortuna

Months breezed past without a publication. Though the writing continued unabated by the unliterary turn of my private life, I'd lost the drive to submit my work to small press venues. The cheap pop of seeing my name in the internet lights had diminished years ago and like an annoying girlfriend who fucks on demand, it just took a while to sever the relationship.

At the six month mark when I thought for sure I'd never have to read another shitty Facebook poem again, Engel phoned me. He was a smug ex-patriot writer and publisher of Grievous Mental Harm Press. He offered to publish a collection of my poetry a year ago. I accepted and emailed a manuscript. Since then he had emailed seven incarnations of his own manuscript of politically driven poetry asking for my own in depth critique. I tried but each time I dipped into his collection, I stopped at the same place, around the fifth line of the first poem. This didn't stop me from responding “it's good” after every analysis. I sensed my own poetry collection slipping further away from publication with every missive until we quit corresponding all together.

And now he was on the phone saying:

“I'd appreciate if you wouldn't go telling everyone that I only publish women writers who I'm trying to fuck.”

I'd been small press incommunicado for six months...

“You must be referring to Kara Catasrophsky, the woman you published who you were trying to fuck.”

“I wasn't trying to fuck her. I was trying to nurture her inner poetess. Besides it's a well known fact Kara only goes for men of color.”

“It became a well known fact after she met you and saw what you really look like. And how you breathe through your mouth like a retarded child.”

“Whatever the case may be, Hammer, I'd appreciate it if you didn't go around telling this to everybody in the small press.”

“Engel, you know who thinks you published Kara Catasrophsky cause you were trying to fuck her? Everybody who has ever bothered to read any of her poetry. I didn't have to say anything.”

“Well, then, have you read the latest rewrite of my collection: Amerika, Land of the Slave, Home of the Knave?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“Sure. Sure.”

Jesus, if only I could quit the small press a second time without having to get involved with it once more.

* * *

On the heels of this call, my cell phone chirped again. This time it was Francis the Sissy demanding to know “why are you trying to sabotage my career?”

“Sabotage what career? You're unemployed. You can't hold down a job longer than a week. You beg for money from people on the internet.”

“Sabotage my poetry career!”

“What poetry career?”

“Dude, I've been hearing you been saying shit about me behind my back to artists I respect in the small press. Making me look like a jackass and hurting my book sales.”

Francis the Sissy was a Poet. So much so that he actually took poetry seriously.

“Book sales...?”

Never did I think to hear these words pass from the lips of a Poet.

“I would expect this sort of backward dealings from Jacob Harding with his silly porkpie hat, bad teeth and rampaging ego. He's jealous of me.”

“Don't you wear a funny hat? And listen to Tom Waits?” I asked.

“I know where you're going with this. Enjoying the relaxing tunes of Tom Waits doesn't make me pretensious.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

“Well, you can stop knocking me down to build yourself up.”

“Where do you even hear this shit, Francis.”

“Someone who doesn't even write in the small press. That's how I know it's true.”

I mulled this over. Someone outside the small press who knew both The Sissy and The Hammer and likely Engel, the ex-patriot...

“Tara Quim.”

“No, that's not who,” he said quickly. “I don't even know who she is.”

“The weird woman with the massive meat beard who's been bombarding your Facebook with asinine comments and retorts.”

“Oh, her...” His voice quavered as it sometimes did when he attempted to beg money from virtual strangers.

“Yeah, her.” Every time his comment section crested thirty entries, he'd burst into a spontaneous round of masturbation. He loved her for her obsessive commenting.

The fact that she poached about two hundred of my closest internet acquaintances from the social network du jour led me to believe that if I chose to give a shit, I'd be spinning damage control well until the Mayans ended the world with one of their annoying self-fulfilling prophecies. She had the ability, and I just happened to give her the motivation about a week ago.

Tara was a train wreck forty freights long. I'd known her the length of two of those freights, though not in conjunction. The first took place seventeen years ago while we dabbled in college, and then, last year when we reconnected online.

* * *

The first time I only knew her in passing. Our circles of friends intersected here and there. I knew enough about her and her STDs by reputation. And like the herpes virus that kept her at arms length back in the day, she flared back up in my life suddenly, painfully. Messages like sores cropped up all over my Facebook page. She constantly harangued me with instant messages.

I still don't know why I showed her my cock on webcam. I do know why I showed it to all her friends. They were clean as far as I could tell and much better looking.

Something about my wanton immorality triggered a synapse in the reptilian recesses of her infected brain and her friendliness shifted into obsession. That was three days after initial Facebook contact. She began emailing pictures of all the places I had referenced in my short stories. I was ecstatic. Here was somebody who had actually taken the time to read what I had written. Perhaps, I reasoned, I could use this influence to get her to help me fuck her friends.

She came off highly resistant when I broached the subject again for the thousandth time on the phone.

“They don't want to fuck you,” she huffed.

“How do you mean? All of them?” I asked. “I'm the Polish Hammer. Of course, they want to fuck me. I'm the first Caucasian ever to master the Screaming Monkey kama sutra technique.”

“I'm available.”

“That's nice, but I've yet to include the Reclining Rhinoceros in my repetoire of sexual tricks.”

“That's not what you claim in your story 'Cellulite Delight'.”

“Fiction, baby! I never seduced an 800 lb Samoan woman. I'm not saying I can't. But it just didn't happen. I made it up.”

“Well, you can fuck me twice and call me Irish. That'd make a good story.”

“No, I can't. Hell no, I can't. I'll only ever be the Bib Fortuna to your Jabba the Hutt.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Star Wars...”

“Yeah, I know Star Wars. You saying I'm Jabba the Hutt? That I'm a fat ass?”

“Not at all. I”m merely saying our relationship is similar in a nonsexual mutually beneficial sort of way.”

“We're not gonna have sex?”

“Bib Fortuna and Jabba the Hutt never had sex.”

“I bet Bib Fortuna never showed Jabba his dick.”

“C'mon, Tara! You know I only go after married women. I've got six girlfriends right now. All married to fools.”

“You call me Jabba the Hutt, try to hook up with my friends none of whom are married, you'll probably write about me in your fan fiction to yourself... Does this sound right to you, Mr. Bib fucking Fortuna?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“I”m going to ruin you, asshole.”

I hadn't heard an asshole addressed in such a fashion since prison. And like that time, I kept quiet and pretended it wasn't happening.

I sat there, brooding over the Jabba the Hutt phone call of a week ago. So this is the game she was playing. Well, I could take it. My ruination in the small press began fifteen years ago the first time I submitted. The only way I could possibly redeem myself was to quit writing all together and take up chess. Yet every time I attempt to master the Sicilian Defense, a story idea falls in my lap.

Completely fictional, of course.

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 5)

I woke up the next morning with a headache and a sore ass. Next to me on the couch was the poetry bitch's daughter, still naked and still wearing the strap-on. Her big juicy tits stood to the sky, even as she slept. The sight of her, so young and innocent, yet so vile and perverse, wearing a pussy juice saturated strap-on (and probably having my shit on her hands) turned me on immensely. My morning wood stiffened significantly, and I reached over and lightly stroked her firm, slightly muscular abdominals.

She awoke quickly, but wasn't startled; instead, she smiled at me, and cupped her shit-covered hand over the back of my neck. I tried to climb atop her, but my ascent was interrupted by her strap-on nearly impaling my stomach. Pushing the instrument to the side, I mounted her and snaked my stiffy up into her moist young pussy.

It slipped in easy, into an extremely tight, warm opening, and we were sharing a deep, passion soaked French kiss until her mom burst through the window, smashing the glass and climbing into the flat, after maybe having come up the fire escape or rappelled up by a rope ladder or something, fuck knows. She was wearing an elegant evening dress, but I could tell she still had the strap-on on underneath it. She was also still barefoot.

When the crazy poetry bitch saw me on the couch fucking her daughter, she flew into a rage, screaming in banshee-like, incomprehensible sounds. She then began picking up books off the floor and throwing them at us, well, mostly at me.

Having a dictionary whack me in the head kinda killed my boner, and I withdrew my semi from her daughter's pussy, shielded myself with my arms and ran out of the apartment, naked, into the gray, chilly English morning.

The poetry bitch followed after me. She continued to throw books and whatever else she could, chasing me about two blocks, barefoot, her feet bleeding and tracking bloody footprints down the sidewalk. She only ceased her pursuit when she got too winded to keep running.

Peering over my shoulder as I ran, I could see her hunched over, gasping for air and reaching one arm out in my direction, making a clawing motion at me as I escaped and disappeared into the city street.

I kept running for about another block but stopped when I saw a familiar looking vehicle. It was my rental car. I could jump in it and escape the crazy poetry bitch and this entire fucking city and entire fucking country. I could go back home to Miami, where things are much more normal.

However, I realized I didn't have my car keys, wallet, or passport. All that shit was back at the poetry bitch's flat. And fuck, I'm gonna have a hell of a time showing up to the American consulate like this, asking for a new passport.

A group of young thuggish street types emerged from an alley nearby. Some were laughing, some were grimacing. One was mentioning something about the blood around my ass.

“Fucking hell! What happened to you?” asked one of them, a tall, bald headed kid, with blond eyebrows that had stylish slits. He bore a slight resemblance to the bald guy with the midget from last night's show. Maybe that was his dad. (Probably the bald guy, not the midget.)

“Listen, dudes, it's a long story...”

They just stood there staring at me, with puzzled expressions, almost like they expected me to tell them.

And for some reason I actually had the urge to recount the entire incident, in vivid detail, which I bet is what Dr. Phil would have done. But then a sudden idea hit me.

“Hey, any of you fellas got a screwdriver?”

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 4)

The crazy poetry bitch didn't answer and just kept raping me. I was quite surprised she had a daughter, considering everything.

The daughter stepped angrily through the piles of books and slammed the door to the bathroom. A minute later, she came out naked, also with a strap-on, and stepped up behind her mom, who was still raping me, and started fucking her mom wildly, slapping her on the ass, pulling her hair, and cursing at her in French.

Her mom, now being fucked, anally apparently, too, slowed down her raping momentum, and dropped her rifle to the floor. I took this as a cue to break free, which I did, and I limped over to the couch and tried to sit down but couldn't totally, since my asshurt had returned a bit upon breaking free of the strap-on. So instead I shifted my weight onto only one buttcheek and rested my left shoulder against the soft, velvet couch, which felt quite nice on my naked skin.

Watching this young chick pounding her mom from behind turned me on. It sort of reminded me of an online video I saw of two ladyboys fucking. For some reason it had really aroused me, although I did feel like a complete fag after watching it.

The scene presently unfolding in front of me again brought up those confused feelings and I looked down and noticed my cock was rock hard, which led me to wonder if it'd been hard throughout the entire anal raping. The possibility of that made me feel like far worse of a fag.

The more the mother/daughter team screamed out in pleasure as they fucked, the more hot I got, and before I knew it, I spit in my hand and started wanking like crazy as the poetry bitch's huge tits twirled in circles as her daughter banged away from behind.

Her daughter even started giving her mom a reach around, which I thought was polite, and the mom seemed to enjoy, though I didn't see much point to it all. Still, it was hot for some reason, and I got that tingling feeling one gets right before orgasm.

Hoisting myself up, I pointed my hard cock at the poetry bitch's twirling tits and tried to aim my load at her rapidly revolving nipples, but it was hard to hit them, almost felt like an arcade game. I got at least one of them, though, and spaffed a bit on her daughter's strap-on jerking hand, too.

Exhausted, a rush of vertigo overcame me, and I fell back into the couch and passed out.

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 3)

She pointed the hunting rifle at me and cried out, in an American, street pimp type voice, “Don’t move, you chickenshit, honky ass motherfucker!”

It was sort of weird being called a “chickenshit honky ass motherfucker” by another white person, but I was too freaked out by the gun she was pointing at me to really ponder this.

Prodding me up to my feet, with the icy tip of the rifle, she ordered me to turn around and place my hands on the edge of the couch.

It took a second to register, but soon enough, especially when she undid my jeans, I realized this crazy bitch was about to rape me.

Everybody, I'm sure, thinks about getting raped at some point. It's the worst fear of many women. But for most men, aside from maybe prison, the Catholic Church, Penn State, or the backwoods of Mississippi, we don't really think about that shit happening to us.

But here I was, pants around my ankles, gun to my head, soaking wet, drunk and high and staring down at a Dr. Phil book cover, about to take it in the ass from some crazy poetry bitch. It was the kind of moment that really leads one to serious introspection...

I guess she'd lubed it up, because it slid in my butt fast, the strap-on dildo. It didn't hurt as bad as I thought it would. Just felt like a big piece of shit going back into my ass rather than out. By and by, it wasn't nearly as awful I'd imagined, the few times I'd pictured getting assraped in a prison shower or accidentally wandering into a gay bar, drunk, wearing a kilt or something.

Speaking of prison shower rape, the scene in the film “American History X” totally fucking scared me, but this wasn't nearly that bad. It was a big breasted woman, after all, raping me, and not some heavily muscled, tattooed, white supremacist. Yeah, I'm sure it could have been a lot worse. As far as assrapings usually go, mine wasn't so bad, actually.

After about 20 seconds, my ass just went kinda numb. I pretty much stopped noticing the raping and focused my attention more on the quotes from Dr. Phil that adorned his book cover. I wondered what ole' Dr. Phil would say about this whole situation or how he might react to getting raped. I didn't think he'd like it very much. I also wondered what it'd be like getting raped by Dr. Phil. I think that definitely would be worse than this poetry bitch, or even the prison nazi.

The crazy poetry bitch seemed to be enjoying herself and was making strange monkey type sounds and every few minutes was yelling something about “gimmie that choon choon, you white bitch!”

Her chants were suddenly halted when I heard the front door to the flat open. Into the room walked a jaw droppingly beautiful girl in her late teens, around 18 or so. She looked exactly like the crazy poetry bitch, tall, monster tits and all, though much slimmer, and without the disheveled hair and messed up makeup. She did also have that one of her eyes looking bigger than the other thing, however.

“Oh, mum, not again!” The young girl screamed in apparent disdain at the evening's proceedings.

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 2)

I'd never been propositioned so directly before and had a hard time mustering words to respond to her request. Plus I was already a tad drunk by this point. Next thing I knew, though, she grabbed me by the arm and flung me out of my seat and dragged me out of the pub, into the pouring rain. As the door shut behind us, I could see Scooby and her cheerleader friend, laughing and pointing at me, in stitches at the whole situation.

“Think you might want to put on some shoes,” I pointed out, noting her bare feet sloshing through the dirty brown puddles lining the Manchester streets, as we made our way to who knows where.

“The ancient Macedonians didn't need shoes, did they?!” She snapped back at me. I didn't bother to mention that they probably at least had sandals or something.

She continued to pull me down the street, still by my arm, until we reached a hot pink Smart Car, which had a pretty good gash on its tiny hood.

“Grraahhh!!” she shrieked in a retard-like howl, upon witnessing the damage. She opened up the driver's side door for a split second and subsequently slammed it. Apparently she didn't bother to lock her doors. It was a Smart Car, after all. I guess if someone wanted to steal it, they could just pick it up and carry it away.

She then shoved me into the car and walked backwards, in a cricle around the car, keeping an eye on me and pointing at the sky the whole time. After yelling some curse words at a random pedestrian, she got inside the vehicle, pulled out a screwdriver from the glove compartment, jammed it into the ignition, and ground the engine to a start.

I was starting to think maybe she'd stolen the car, which she may have, but it also occurred to me she might not be the type of person who could handle the responsibility of carrying around a car key. Maybe the screwdriver was easier for her.

She peeled out and drove only a block up the street and parked the car in the middle of the sidewalk, knocking over a couple trash cans and scattering a few stray cats. Getting out of the car, she pulled me out, carjacker style, threw me over her shoulder and carried me up four flights of stairs, up to her flat, which wasn't locked, either.

Her flat was tiny. And I mean tiny. Only a small room with a kitchenette in the back. The once-white paint on the room's walls was moldy and peeling and the whole place reeked like an unhealthy concoction of sandalwood incense, Chinese food, and old shoes. Funny enough, though, it had an enormous red velvet couch, which practically took up the whole room.

The poetry lady flung me down on the couch, pointed at me, with an agitated expression, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Looking around her flat, I noticed there was a huge ball of hash on a coffee table adjacent to the couch, next to a large glass crackpipe, which was lying on the floor. Not wanting to let the hash go to waste, I picked up and packed a fat wad into the pipe, took a few hits, and was a bit shocked when I realized the floor was covered, practically flooded, with books, all types of books, from Agatha Christie, Chinese poetry (in Chinese), Kurt Vonnegut, even Dr. Phil. Guess I didn't figure her for that much of a reader.

A couple minutes later the poetry lady emerged completely naked. Except for a massive strap-on dildo and a long silver hunting rifle.