“Chuck Liddell, The Ostrich, and The Rape Room”

our supervisor
got a bird nose,
long neck and big fat butt
that juts
out
when she walks

we call her “The Ostrich”
but never to her face

The Ostrich carries clipboards
and deducts salaries

we poke our heads up from cubicles
like gophers, whenever she makes the rounds
her appearances always causing instant silence

every day
she seemingly appears from thin air
you never see her coming

but when she does
she'll often pull people into a backroom

usually those who go there never return
but if they do
they look like zombies
pale, with dead eyes

we call it the rape room
no one really knows what happens back there

one day The Ostrich
went up to this new employee
maybe to bring him to the rape room

this guy was scary looking
fucking scary looking
looked kinda like Chuck Liddell
so we called him “Chuck Liddell”
but never to his face

motherfucker had a mohawk,
piercings and tattoos everywhere
always sat alone during breaks
looked like he just got out of prison

The Ostrich said something to him
and he calmly peered around the room
stood up and wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve

the entire office was totally transfixed
fucking transfixed
and the already soft volume on the floor faded
like someone'd turned down a TV

I imagined Chuck Liddell
throwing a right cross
connecting squarely
on The Ostrich's big ass bird nose
and her big ass bird nose flying right off her face
and the bitch crumbling to the floor
and hovering on hands and knees,
searching for it
like Mike Tyson vs Buster Douglas
circa 1990

but Chuck Liddell didn't throw a punch
instead he reached into his pocket
and I thought for a second
he's gonna whip out a gun
and shoot everyone

but actually
he broke out a box of tic tacs
and gave one to The Ostrich
and smiled
flashing his rotted teeth
and sat back down

the entire room stayed quiet
everyone looking around at each other
perplexed

and the janitor
an old skinny black guy
who was emptying out a wastebasket
near Chuck Liddell's desk
stopped for a second
and looked over at me
with bloodshot eyes
and he looked over at Chuck Liddell
and then looked over at The Ostrich
and he just chuckled a bit, shook his head,
and went back to work

Foreigners sleeping on the street in China

"A Powerful and Moving Tale" by Tony Bryer

I don’t know what’s wrong with people who call a meeting for 4:00 on a Friday afternoon, but that’s exactly what Ross Fravell did. Furthermore, he gave us only a few hours notice, sending the meeting notice at 1:00 p.m. The meeting was to launch a new project, the KCX Telemetrix. Sounded like exciting stuff, huh? I mean, how much can one person yawn in the course of an hour? I didn’t know, either, but I was about to find out.

So now it’s four o’clock, right? And I saunter into the meeting room. Everybody’s already there. Great. There’s nowhere left to sit, either, except at the head of the table where everyone can stare at me. Wonderful. I plop my ass down into the chair and settle in for a long, looooong meeting. Long because it’s Friday afternoon and I want to get the hell out of there. It’s bad enough I have to work tomorrow, but having a four o’clock meeting is just rubbing salt into my raw wound.

I glanced around the table to see who all was there. There were test engineers, program managers, sourcing associates, line engineers, and even an agent from Corporate Travel who was probably in the wrong meeting, but she was pretty hot so no one minded at all. I was the sole quality representative so I steeled myself for a barrage of stupid questions and pined for the moment I could flee out the door to make a beeline to the nearest liquor store.

Ross cleared his throat. “Uh…” he said. A meeting that starts off with “uh” is bound to be a real corker, as my dad would say. “I’m sorry for the short notice,” Ross began.

“Yeah!” someone interjected. “You should be sorry for the time!”

Everyone laughed and Ross had the decency to turn red.

“I’m sorry for the short notice, and for the time,” Ross said and everyone laughed again.

I realized I was missing out on a corporate bonding moment and so I laughed, too. “HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!” I guffawed. Everyone looked at me. The hot chick from Corporate Travel looked frightened. I smiled at her. She averted her eyes and fumbled at her Covey planner.

And that’s when I noticed I could see her booby. The second button of her blouse had come undone and so it was gapping open. I could see it all. She wasn’t even wearing a bra. Her breast was long and pointed. The nipple was a dark plum color, as large and long as my thumb, thick and pendulous and dripping with a clear fluid. I licked my lips.

Ross cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “I just wanted to cover a few things before we go home.” I tuned him out. He probably wouldn’t need any input from me for another ten minutes or more. This gave me ample time to admire the travel chick’s booby and to play a few erotic fantasies in my head.

My Dockers were just starting to feel tight in the crotch when I realized everyone was laughing again. Not wanting to appear to have been daydreaming, I laughed too. “HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!” I screamed. Ross jumped and the travel chick cringed.

One of the program managers was scandalized. “Tony…” he began, and that’s when my face exploded.

I felt these huge chitinous mandibles explode out of my jaw. It felt like a pair of arms depending from my chin. I could actually see them before me, two grasping pinching lobster-like mandibles snapping open and shut in front of me, ready to rend and tear and bite and chew. It felt wonderful. I remember thinking if sex could only be this good, I’d never get out of bed.

Ross fell out of his chair. The travel chick screamed. “Everybody stay calm,” I said. Or rather, that’s what I tried to say. What actually came out of my… my… Well, it wasn’t exactly a mouth. I don’t know what it was. It was a maw, I guess. There’s really no other way to describe it. So what actually came out of my maw was a thick buzzing sound, like a six-foot cicada on a drowsy August day.

Pandemonium erupted. You’ve all heard that phrase before. “Pandemonium erupted.” Until you’ve experienced it for yourself, you have no idea what pandemonium really is. Papers flew into the air. Chairs fell over. Bodies thumped to the carpet. People scrambled to get out of the room. I think someone farted. I stood from my chair. “Stop!” I shouted. Or rather, that’s what I tried to shout. Again, what came from my gaping maw was that thick buzzing sound.

Pandemonium continued to erupt. I’d had enough. I strode to the door and kicked it shut. “No one’s leaving here until I’m satisfied you can all keep a secret,” I said. Or rather, that’s what I tried to say. Fuck ‘em if they can’t understand me.

Ross cowered before me. “What are you going to do to us, Tony?” he asked, his hands clasped to his chest like a penitent begging shriving.

“I’m not going to do anything,” I tried to say and everyone screamed. The test engineer rushed me, a sourcing associate close behind. I stepped aside and a remarkable thing happened. My head snapped forward and my mandibles grabbed the engineer by his head. A quick jerk of my neck and the test engineer’s head crushed between my mandibles like a grape. My maw snapped open and the engineer’s brain disappeared down my throat with barely a gasp. The sensation was stupendous. Waves of pleasure washed over my body. My first orgasm was not even noteworthy compared to the cataclysm rocking the core of my being. I wanted more.

I snatched the sourcing associate by the neck and squeezed. A thick syrup washed down my throat. Goddamn, if ever anything better existed in Creation, a loving God kept it to Himself. The next few moments blended together in a frenzy of blurred color and waves of incredible pleasure wracking me to my toes.

When next I regained my senses, the room was empty. Not even a stray drop of blood had marred the expanse of sensibly colored carpet. My belly strained against my belt. My God, if I’d ever gorged myself more fully, I surely couldn’t remember it. I stifled a burp. The edges of my maw felt rough against the back of my hand. I grasped around my face. My mandibles were gone. Whatever forces had made them appear had subsequently made them disappear.

Ross’s laptop gaped open on the table. I sat at his chair and opened his e-mail account. Opening a new e-mail message, I typed, “Hey, everybody. Ross here. Seeing as how it’s Friday afternoon, I’m knocking off early. The meeting I had scheduled at 4:00 is postponed. Everybody have a great weekend, except Tony who has to work tomorrow! Ha ha, Ross.”

I clicked on “Send” and ran out of the room. I don’t know how this will play out. All I can do is thank God no one saw me running down the hall.


Tony Byrer drives a truck for a living. He lives in southern Indiana with his wife, three cats, and a dog. You can find him on facebook.

Prostrating outside the Jokhang Temple

Prayer Flags in Tibet

On the streets of Lhasa

I WAS YOUNG and NEEDED MONEY and FOR A FEW BUCKS I LET STRANGERS FINGER MY BUTT

"I WAS YOUNG and NEEDED MONEY and
FOR A FEW BUCKS I LET STRANGERS FINGER MY BUTT" by Doc Sigerson

The late eighties fell on me hard. After being fired from a gas station job for assaulting a customer, I scrounged for odd jobs to supplement the unemployment benefits, preferably those jobs in which the compensation would be “unreported”. To get by, I sold books culled from my own library, and I did get a part-time gig working for a retired rare book dealer who needed a dog’s body as he was limited in mobility, but the gig petered out when he started paying me in books instead of cash. I endured a one day affair as a walking chocolate chip cookie which involved a huge foam costume and handing out coupons for a free sample. A direct mail advertising venture failed to pan out. Then I saw an ad in the local alternative weekly newspaper for a medical school that needed nude models. They offered $15 per hour, which hitherto had been more than I had ever been paid. Hoping that they would work with any and all body types, I sent them a letter.

The Bastyr College, later to become Bastyr University, offered a four year course in naturopathic medicine. They hired a half dozen guys, five who worked frequently as artist’s models for life drawing classes at the nearby University of Washington - and me. Our purpose was to teach second year medical students to perform the male pelvic exam, mostly by being the body upon which they could take some practice pokes. We had a three hour orientation class followed by an physical examination where a doctor showed two guys at a time what a proper exam would feel like. He put extra pressure on my prostate gland so that I would be certain, unequivocally certain, mortally certain, through the fucking roof certain, that I would know exactly when the student’s forefinger would be pressing through the rectal wall upon my gland and not taking the spelunker’s tour. On the day of the live labs we sat in on the anatomy class with the students and found out that not every med student is the sharpest knife in the drawer, judging by some of the questions they asked.

I was concerned about the size of the audience I would entertain with my debut. The worst case scenario would have me standing mother naked on the stage of a vast lecture hall, seats filled to capacity with what passed for college students, the professor a white-haired man of advanced years welding a long tallywhacker of a pointer, intoning, “and this (thwack!) is the male genitalia!” Sure, I have had the usual young man’s share of exposure. The years spent in the public school system where communal showers are the norm for both gym classes and after school sports were spent without mishap, except for one hapless classmate who became aroused in the locker room surrounded by naked boys thereby becoming an object lesson for those uncertain of their own orientation. Interestingly, he is now a member of the so-called Tea Party, though I am not asserting a cause-and-effect relationship. In the army I was spared the notorious, and by then obsolete, “short arm inspection” whereby soldiers fell into formation on the parade ground wearing only boots and a raincoat which would be flung open when the medical officer passed by as he sought signs of dreaded venereal disease. The induction center, however, was the scene for a mass examination of fifty-or-so young men foolish enough to enlist. We queued up in two parallel lines facing each other, wearing nothing but skivvies and socks. On command, one line did an about face, while the doctor in center aisle went down the other line. Each recruit dropped his drawers while the doctor checked for hernia. Then that line did an about face, the doctor retracing his steps, checking this time for hemorrhoids as the recruits bent over, cheeks spread. The doctor repeated the procedure for the second line and all along no one’s privy parts were exposed to the gaze of his fellow recruits. What’s crazy, in retrospect, is that at no time did the doctor wear gloves as he examined all those privates of the soon-to-be privates.

In those years between 1977 and 1989 the world learned of A.I.D.S. and its halfwit brother, H.I.V. Gloves, either latex or vinyl, became paramount to the safe conduct of medical procedures and examinations. Gloving, de-gloving, and even double gloving were drummed into the heads of these students, becoming their mantra as they divided up into groups of four or five, each group led by an instructor or a proctor, that is, a savvy senior classman. The live labs were held in the school’s practicing clinic, not a classroom, and each of us models were assigned a real exam room.

There I stood in the unheated room - a thin hospital gown, white guy pale shins and black socks -when a group of four entered. Included in that first group was Native American girl from Eastern Washington, the part of the state which remains extremely rural and agro-centric. An inordinate amount of time she dwelt upon my testicles and sac. She lingered. The room grew quiet. When the instructor hinted that she should move on, the girl said that this was her first time examining male genitals other than her experience growing up on a cattle ranch where she assisted her father and brothers castrating the bulls every year. I happen to be a taurus, I said.

Next up was a doe-eyed laddie who rolled my penis between his thumb and finger as though he were appraising a fat postprandial cigar and assumed such an air of the true connoisseur that I was forced to suppress a shudder, turned my eyes to the clock above the door and I set my mind to digging up a childhood memory of when as a boy scout I had sculpted and slept in an snow cave in one of the several gigantic glaciers on Mount Rainier during the coldest winter night of the year. I repeated to myself the bank robber’s advice to stay calm and no one gets hurt. Also I kept my gaze fixed on the clock as the young man seemed eager to make what I shall charitably call “inappropriate” eye contact.

The second year there was a new mom in the group who was nursing her newborn baby quite openly with her full breast exposed and right in front of me as I was being examined. While this was not exactly an erotic situation, anytime I start getting my buttons pushed there is sure to be a reaction. No noticeable twitching, let alone a full blown raging hard-on, but I did start leaking. Ah, dear me. The instructor told the class that a clear discharge was common but a discolored discharge would be cause for concern. Not just my body, but my bodily functions were now on view and a subject fit for group discussion. Ah, dear me. Then the new-age-in-your-face mommy half-joked that her lab report would be pasted into the child’s baby book as the her first pelvic exam, the very first step on the child’s future medical career. The tike was asleep, blissfully oblivious and made not a sound - not a gurgle, not a burp, not a tiny baby fart. The baby and I were both there, but only one of us had been marked for life.

In the third year I encountered the Wesley Crusher of Alternative Medicine, a young overly earnest baby-faced fellow who couldn’t wait to jump into the captain’s chair and take command. Part of the male pelvic exam is checking the inguinal canal for signs of hernia. This is done by using a finger to trace back the spermatic cord from the testicle and invaginating, that is, turning inside out, the scrotum until the finger reaches a triangular shaped opening in the corner of the groin. This is the inguinal canal whence the testicle descended during puberty. A finger is placed over the opening, the patient is asked to turn his head and cough. The coughing causes the diaphragm to put pressure on the bowel and if there is a hernia, that is, a break or breach in the bowel wall, then quite often the hernia can be detected by the finger as the bowel pushes out through the canal. If the doctor’s finger is small enough, and most female doctors have petite fingers, then the finger can actually intrude up into the inguinal canal which is a more reliable check. Believe me, that is a feeling quite unlike any other. So Ensign Crusher thinks he feels the bowel protruding on my right side and jumps into a spiel as to how I should proceed in naturopothic treatment and how he would be willing to see me in clinic and .... The instructor cut him short, reminding him that I have my own medical plan and that there is no naturopathic treatment for hernia. After the class, the instructor checked me herself and confirmed that I probably had a right inguinal hernia and that I should consult a surgeon.

I did this job every May for three years and I had continued even after I was employed full time and no longer needed the money because I felt that helping to train doctors to detect cancer was a worthwhile and important pursuit. After the third year, the school gave up the program because of the expense and instead the students practiced on each other. For a few years thereafter, I included the job title “Teaching Assistant at a Medical School” on my resume and I even tried to impress young ladies by telling them that I had taught medical students to perform pelvic exams.

The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry - by Frankie Metro

Crisis Chronicles Press is pleased to announce the publication of Frankie Metro's The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry, a 42-page chapbook including several illustrations by the author. Published 6 June 2012, The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry is now available for $7 (includes postage) from Crisis Chronicles Press, 420 Cleveland Street, Elyria, Ohio 44035.

Frankie Metro might fuck goats and transsexual Korean karaoke singers, but he also writes some cool shit. Support this motherfucker and buy (or steal) his book.

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.

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.