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.

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 1)

The rain hadn't let up for days, and I tried to make out the road as best I could from behind my rapidly moving windshield wipers. I’d come from America, Miami, having relocated there, after having lived a couple years in the UK, and now was currently on my way up to Glasgow, from Bristol, to visit a few former colleagues. En route to Glasgow, I'd decided to stop by Manchester to see a couple friends, who were putting on some sort of an arts show at a local pub.

When I found the pub, thanks to my rental car’s GPS, there was only one (rather tight) parking space available nearby. Trying to squeeze into it, I bashed into a hot pink Smart Car that was covered in flowery stickers and peace signs. Stopping and exiting my half-parked car, stepping into the furiously wet elements, I noticed barely a scratch on my rental but did spot a nasty gash to the Smart Car’s tiny hood.

I thought about leaving a note, but paper wouldn't hold up too well in the pissing rain, so instead I took down the license plate, on my phone, and decided to get in touch with the owner later. First, though, I abandoned my failed parking spot and ventured down another block or two, soon discovering a much better and more spacious alternative.

Trudging through the rain, I made my way into the pub, which was full of smoke. Making my way through the packed crowd, way past fire marshal capacity, I found my friends sitting at a small table up front.

Hipsters, whacko artists, eccentrics, whatever you want to call them, they were decked out accordingly for the occasion. One wore a Scooby Doo costume, and the other wore a plaid mini-skirt, Dallas Cowboys cheerleader half-shirt, go-go boots, and tall WW1 type military top hat, with multi-colored feathers at its apex.

Both wore monocles, were sipping pints of Guinness, and were slamming down shots of Ukrainian vodka, while making catcalls at a sluggishly moving, 50ish burlesque dancer, who was awkwardly gyrating to a Justin Bieber song. The dancer’s large eyeglasses, frumpy figure, and granny panties were none too appealing.

Fortunately, though, she exited stage left soon enough, right as I started throwing down shots with Scooby. The crowd gave the dancer a tepid but polite applause, and onto the stage, through a cloud of smoke, mystically appeared a slightly overweight, however quite alluring woman, very tall, around 6'8, and maybe of age 37 or so.

She had ghostly pale white skin, and large breasts, I mean shockingly large (though not saggy) breasts that tested the laws of gravity in the tight fitting black low-cut blouse she wore. Her matching black microscopic miniskirt only extended to the very top of her juicy, pleasantly plump thighs.

It took me a second to notice, likely because of how entranced I was by her breasts and thighs, that she was strangely wearing only one high heeled black pump, and I also became aware of the fact that her flesh colored stockings had many, many runs and rips. Almost as if her legs had been attacked by an angry cat.

Scanning her body upwards, I discovered her clumpy, jet black hair was extremely disheveled, sort of like a dead, really furry cat was tied to her head. (Like maybe she'd killed the cat that attacked her legs and turned it into a hat or wig.)

Possibly more disturbing was that one of her eyes appeared much bigger than the other and her makeup was running, mascara tearing down her cheeks, lipstick jutting way too far past the corners of her mouth.

This freakish creature seemed to slowly hover like a ghost, through the nicotine mist, up to the microphone stand. She swatted away the smoke around her, made a hacking sound, and then launched into a bizarre, hushed voice, metaphorical poem about the moon. Every so often she'd pause and do these little weird swaying dances which involved an unhealthy amount of arm movement. At the end of her poem, she made an orgasm, moaning sort of noise, threw her lone shoe into the audience, stormed off stage, and ran into the men's bathroom of the pub.

Looking around, a fraction the crowd's audience appeared aghast, but a quiet stream of applause gradually built up into a raucous standing ovation. People in the crowd yelled out “brilliant!” and “encore!” and my friend Scooby broke into tears, saying she'd never been so moved. A couple people fainted.

The next act involved a tall bald man in overalls and pink flip flops, and a midget, in a Spiderman costume, sitting on a stool, quoting Shakespeare, while the tall bald man rotated between doing jumping jacks, casting voodoo spells on politicians, and making farting noises with his armpits. Their act didn't seem to be in unison, and the crowd wasn't paying much attention to them, except for cursing and booing every so often a politician's name was mentioned.

Scooby and I had resumed our shot slamming, when, from behind me, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the weird poet lady. Turning around, all I saw was her leaning over me, her tits hanging like two melons off a tree. They jiggled like jello as she breathed.

Before I could say anything, she pulled up a chair, sat down, picked up my remaining beer, chugged it down in one gulp, and threw the empty glass to the floor, shattering it. Then she looked me straight in the eyes for about a minute, staring at me in complete silence. As I cycled through possible salutations, she drew herself closer to my face and muttered between clenched teeth, in a thick Northern English accent, “Come back to my flat and shag me rotten.”

Pantifesto's Public Service Announcement: Stay Away from this Movie

when he was
a little boy,
he used to dress up in his sister's
black goth
dresses and high
heels.

he dyed her barbie dolls'
hair black...

when he was
a little older,
he dressed her in dominatrix'
gear.

he grew out of that
phase soon after...

when he turned her
barbie dream house
into a brothel,
he charged his imaginary
friends extra monopoly money,
to play the "bunny game" with
barbie's younger,

> developed

sister:
skipper.

transvestic disassociation featuring karl koweski

Surinam

Nam hit the factory like a payload of napalm
setting libidos aflame and scorching
the jungle of conflicted marriages
with the incendiary heat
of sexual fantasy.

Nam emerged from the office citadel,
the clean lineoleum oasis
populated with computers and polo shirts
where men with machine grease on their hands
were disavowed and unallowed inside.

Nam collected paperwork from the shop floor
her hair black as the smoke of burning tires
denim tight as a falcon's hood
eyes alive with the hope of rescue
as she moved with the speed of shadow.

Nam fell in love with a working man
his sinewy arms leopard spotted with chrome
ambivalent eyes always distrustful
entering a battle of wills
with no measure of victory available.

Nam destroys every man eventually
succumbing to sexual battery
emotional confusion, financial chaos
an armageddon of broken promises
the best time of their lives.


dishrag pathos

only a poet can make
death seem poetic

only a bad poet
can transform
a dead internet mistress
into an immortal muse

wringing
dishrag pathos
from dirty cyber laundry
awaiting
applause
from lonely facebook identities
and Skype pussy

whispering
second hand platitudes
from the maw of obscurity

he claims originality
offering only
superficial nullity
skindeep nihilism
and
unintentional
parody

his mouth is
a bukkake
of better writers'
poetic ejaculations

he wipes his lips
on the small press
dishrag
and demands
you call it
genuis

The Mayans Can Eat A Dick Poetry Series featuring: April Michelle Bratten

My Landlord and the Devil


My landlord looms over the phone-line
like a Shakespearean villain.

As he cackles into my ear,
I imagine he drinks from a jeweled chalice,
and summers in Ibizia where the waters are warm.

He demands more money
from my already depleted bank account.

I'm sorry, I tell him, I am sorry.

I would probably apologize to George W. himself.

Now, with minus signs all around me
and the breath of history growling down my back,
I take to the winter highway.

The devil follows behind me in a pink Winnebago,
tweaking his 'stache and dialing up whores.

He glides over the ice like a pro.

I enter my work building with the swollen body
of a woman who once knew better.

My bra strings barely adjust.

The sun cracks overhead and births a foul moon.
A rare thumping vibrates the room.

I rumble the floors as I maneuver my heavy body
to the window and peek out.

The devil and my landlord lounge on the hood
of the pink Winnebago,
sharing a joint and cranking Metallica.

I wave to them with the naivety of a baby.


Intimacy

In my dream
a zombie tried to have sex with me
on the kitchen floor.

It was all teeth,
crumbs,
rotting limbs,
awkwardness,
and piles of useless flesh.

I woke to find not much had changed
since I went to bed.

The shit still falls from the sky even in reality,
even in the day light.

The afternoon unloads itself
like a horny teenager
deep
into the crevices and holes of my backyard.

The sun is unimportant,
insignificant.

I still walk the rooms like a coward,
a dead person,

sniffing out the meat.

Your organs only become intimate,
useful,

when they sever and separate
from the body.

Happy Joe

I was a mixture of cracked yellow brick
and severed limbs,
paint and crashed fences, femur and scapula,

raw meat.
We would take to the floor of abandoned apartment buildings,
touch hair, and play
with bottles of glue and motor oil,
beer cans and salt water.

I was 19.

I knew everything about vodka and the shoulders of boys.

You liked that.

The first time you came on my tits
your eyes parted like blue birds
leaving the ground.

Tell me what you want.
Your balls pressed my thigh.

I wanted more.

The snow fell in the trees like hammers,
waiting to ice us down.

Now you are married.
Now you go hunting and play with your dogs.

I bet your hands are still the same.

I bet you taste exactly the same.

The Meth Lab Family Friendly Christmas Special (it's about Jesus & your grandparents) featuring: Brian Fugget

Grotesque Finger Puppets

I am the pastor
of grotesque
finger puppets
irresistible groans
& slimy white things
that crash into the windshield
of your Toyota Highlander
during a roadtrip

i am the flaw
in your grandma's linoleum
that vaguely
resembles
the lifeless foreskin
of a circumcised elf

i am the bed sores
& golden showers
that dictate
the law of gravity
in your
gastro-intestinal
tract

i am the
5’ 7” muscle bound
steroid freak
whose hairy asshole
comes equipped
with abnormally advanced
teleportation devices
that rival that
of Captain Kirk’s
USS Enterprise

and if you
rub me the wrong way
i will zap
a set of
permanent
skid marks
straight into
your Fruit-of-the-Looms
that are harder to wipe
than a chalkboard
marred with
magic marker and spray paint

but alas,
all of this could be avoided
if someone was just willing
to finger my puppet.




AT THE NURSING HOME


Rumor has it,
Mrs. Lapaglia
from room 102
has been ostracized
from the recreation hall
for calling false bingos,
& Dickie Kaplan,
that deaf-mute fella
from room 302
who spends every day
splayed on the floor
imitating the gestures
of inanimate objects,
used to be a mime,
& old Louise
from room 252
is accusing
the orderlies
of trying
to impregnate her
with sperm tainted enemas,
& Mr. Padgit,
the retired
drill instructor
from room 182
thinks his neck brace
is a clerical collar,
so he wanders
the halls
like a faith healer,
slapping the forehead
of every resident
he encounters.

Refrigerated whispers perpetuate the revolution

two dozen tongues
are shackled
to a lisp.

all correspondence
freezes
as

a deafening
sibilance
drenches the
carpet
&

8 lbs of headache
sinks into
a vat of
boiling
pancake batter.

the army
will eat good
tonight

even though
the mimes
refuse to
negotiate.




DOOMSDAY CULTS & SKINNY CARAMEL LATTES


6:37 p.m.
the café reeks
of dead matches
& stale cigarettes;
my mouth tastes
like a salmonella sandwich
& all i got is a cold cup of coffee
& yesterday’s paper.

a bible study group
congregates at the next table,
there is at least a dozen of them,
young, tattooed & pierced
sipping on skinny caramel lattes
& cappuccinos; their heads nod
in unison to a chorus of “AMENS”
while their eyes blaze
with pent-up holy-fire
begging to be released.

they join hands & engage in
a round of prayer
that gradually disintegrates
into conspiratorial whispers
stifled giggles
suspicious glances
& i am seized
by a sudden paranoia
& my imagination runs amok:
‘are they a doomsday cult?’
‘are they planting the seeds of
a terrorist crusade for god?’

there is a tension in the air
as one of them points
at a maroon chevy
in the parking lot
& mutters something
about the offensive ‘DARWIN’
bumper sticker & how the owner
is going to burn in hell
& then there is a round
of hideous snickers, amens,
& hallelujahs.

i get nervous & want to leave
but i am too afraid
because that is my maroon chevy
& i don’t want to become the 1st casualty
of their holy war.

DARWINIAN NUNS & THE EMBRYO ORPHANAGE

Atheists
disguised
as scientists
are breeding
Darwinian nuns
in the embryo orphanage
while every night
somewhere
in the world
a remarkable 2.7 million
kamikaze moths
perish
as a result
of dive bombing
porch lights
& contrary to popular belief
9 out of 10
laboratory monkeys
prefer to copulate
missionary style
& an astonishing 35%
of all proctologists
moonlight
as puppeteers
& an even more astonishing
73% of all puppeteers
moonlight
as proctologists.

Ocean Beach Bathroom Observations by: Pantifesto's Porntastic Phunhouse/FM

Ocean Beach. San Diego, CA, Amerika: 10:00am
* * * * * * * *

The Subjects are deposited at the corner of Newport and Cable Street, after dropping acid 10,000 feet in the air over the Chihuahua desert a couple of hours earlier... Voltaire St. is somewhere in the close vicinity. All signs point to east of their location, but they're holding onto gravity by the grains of sand on the sidewalk and the shifty eyes of encroaching pelicans, who only want the weed.

The first stop is the bathroom and the epiphany afterwards, proceeds as follows:

"I'm usually apalled by the amount of filth in there. Today, there is ample toilet paper in the stalls because it's early in the morning and all the street people ain't washed with the entirety of the pink soap in the dispenser yet."

When they finally make it to the beach itself, Subject A writes something down about the woman closest to Subject B's proximity:

Lady in a pink
skirt with your
cat at the beach your
cat on a leash
don't want no
bath in the
ladies room at
the lifeguard station

Subject B is amused by the anecdote, hysterically amused in fact, but is distracted somewhat by a full bladder and the violet reflection emitting from the sun, or the waves, or the sand, or Subject B's photoreceptor cells, which Subject B is convinced have betrayed Subject B in every sense of the word.


Subject B talks about the early 90's hit: The Wizard, starring Fred Savage, Christian Slater, and some autistic kid who never made it farther than "California...California." because that's all the little shit ever talked about...

Subject B can hold it no longer, and treks off to the Lifeguard Station, feeling like a saturated Rimbaud with one leg. Subject B releases.

Meanwhile, Subject A has become fascinated with the catwoman, the cat's bathing rituals and the cat frolicking aimlessly in the sand dunes, AS FAR AS ITS LEASH WILL ALLOW. Catwoman, has turned on her i-pod, wears no headphones, and dances with the cat, AS FAR AS ITS LEASH WILL ALLOW.

The monologue goes accordingly:

Lady with your
cat on the leash
with your chunky
ass in a
yellow sunset bikini

I ain't tryin to
hear no Korn
song right now
put your pink
skirt back
on & quit tryin
to sing it to
me silently.


Subject B returns from Lifeguard Station after crying profusely at the urinal and urinating for what seemed like 2 years, but in all actuality was only 20 minutes.

Subject B relates the experience to Subject A, via telepathy, hand gestures and simultaneous verbal communication techniques. The technique is not lost upon Subject A, who has become incredibly attuned to the little revelations one experiences when frequenting the semi-sanitary bathroom stalls. Subject B saw no such thing. Subject B, peed into a hole in the wall with a bowl of water at his feet. Subject B thinks of Henry Miller's recollections on French Urinals in The Black Spring, specifically A Saturday Afternoon:

Subject B thinks of his own life:

"with intense blues and luminous greens, the life of sin and grace and repentance, a life of high yellows and golden browns, of winestained robes and salmon-colored streams"
(H.M.)

"So I finish up, and I turn around and this guy has obviously been standing behind me for the entire 20 minutes, and I got tears staining my cheeks, which I feel like everyone can see even with these sunglasses on. So I go to the sink to wash my hands and there's no soap, or the soap dispenser has evaporated. I don't know, but I'm standing there, my hands are already under the faucet, the place is crowded with tweekers or what I perceive are tweekers, and the only thing I can think to do is sprinkle my eyes with penis water, and split real quick... For a moment, I almost screamed out: You've left me no choice San Diego! You drove me to this!"

Subject A is equally amused by Subject B's bathroom anecdote, which has peaked Subject A's interest once more.

Subject A makes off for the Lifeguard Station, and Subject B wonders if she really has to go that much or is it more or less for the experience and the observations...Subject A admits to nothing, for the moment, but later confides that yes, Subject A did have a full bladder, but Subject A was mesmerized by her previous findings and felt compelled to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak.

The relevance of the evidence was uncanny and well documented:

"Looks like someone shit on the wall in there. The Lifeguards go in and throw cat litter where it had dribbled down...I feel like Dexter, examining the blood splatter pattern of a mutilated corpse...Somebody drew an arrow pointing to the mess and asked: Does it take a real concentrated effort to shit like that on the wall?"

The mystery is never solved. The catwoman has disappeared. The waves have finally broken back, the surfers are leaving and the orange juice is completely gone.

Subject B asks Subject A:

"You down for some fish tacos?"

All signs point to yes...emphatically so.

The acid is still pulsing through their bloodstreams when they get back on the plane, a mere 4 hours later. Albuquerque is colder than usual, as they make their final descent before landing...