J.J. Campbell

apologizing for the mess

 
i’ve always pictured
my death as a rainy
night at home alone
 
beethoven on the
old stereo
 
the ninth symphony
on repeat
 
bottles on the floor
 
a shotgun in the corner
 
and i would be in
the bathroom, crying
 
the only thing in my head
would be my father calling
me a failure when i was
seven years old
 
and how i never could
prove him wrong
 
i’d finally write the
perfect goodbye
 
apologizing for the mess
 
and wondering why i was
never good enough for
anyone to love
 
and somewhere around
the ode to joy
 
my brains are on the walls
 
slowly trickling down
 
like tears

Mick Rose

Hump Day

Suckin’ my unlit Winston, I swerved the Buick longside the curb, on the corner of Grape and Vine. And fought to squelch a yawn. Twelve-hour-grinds three days straight dancin’ the graveyard shift, and my weary old ass shoulda been crashed, in my otherwise empty studio.

But Slim Grady owed me money. Accordin’ to his ex, Slim had slunk off like a skunk five nights earlier—to shack up with some ho out here in the Red Light zone.

I almost stepped in dog shit climbin’ out the Buick. While the dank, rank air that greeted me smelled like Godzilla’s ass. Graffiti choked the chipped brick buildings—all the doors and first-floor windows barred with metal gates. Shards of broken glass—in every color of a Skittles rainbow crunched beneath my boots: the gutter strewn with cans … needles, bottles, bloated condoms—and chunks of rotting puke. Not a single red light anywhere. Looked like a cockroach zone to me.

If his ex was right, and she wasn’t slingin’ bull to protect her man, Slim lived half-way down this block on my side of the walk. This time in the mornin’, most of the human roaches had holed themselves away, and wouldn’t scurry out till nightfall. But closing in on Grady’s squat, I spied a piece of tail, leanin’ against a shit-box Civic, idlin’ at the curb. New to the streets for sure; she still had all her curves. Since drugs had yet to waste her … smooth coffee skin still gleamed as sweet as melted caramel. And jeans not yoga pants: bonus points for me. By the time I reached them, the Civic sputtered off.

“Can you bloody believe that?”

“Believe bloody what exactly?”

“Guy wanted me to blow him for a measly twenty bucks. What is he fucking nuts? I gotta get me thirty for the likes a that.”

“Well, today’s already Wednesday, doll. Dude’s probably low on cash. Most folks don’t get paid till Friday rolls around again.”

“Hell, you’re probably right. But if he wanted me to blow him, he shoulda thought a that before blowin’ all his cash.”

She amped her smile a thousand watts: “How ‘bout you, baby? You got any money?”

Greed filled her drug-starved eyes when I reached inside my pocket—

Her mood sinkin’ like the Titanic when I flashed a badge instead. “I get paid on Fridays, too, doll.”

Gotta give her credit. She rebounded like Dennis Rodman in his NBA prime—ampin’ that smile brighter than all the marquee lights in my little corner of China Town. “Why didn’t you say so, baby. Five-O’s always free.”

I cupped her elbow in my palm, steered her toward the Buick. Kept her pressed against my side: in case she thought of boltin’. My boots and her silver stilettos grindin’ those Skittle rainbows.

“Best news I’ve heard all week, doll. Let’s get this Hump Day party started. We can launch with fucky-sucky.”

I bought that badge in a fucking dollar store. Best money I’ve ever spent.

damion snow

foreplay

hey baby did you bring the lube
i said and she cums in through the front door
with a walmart bag with condoms and
lube and she is wearing sunglassesyes i bought the fucking lube

i opened the bag
but couldn’t find any produce

baby did you get any carrots

she’s wearing a trench coat
and she ignores my questions
i follow her into the living room

why didn’t you get any celery sticks baby

she stops and turns towards me

what about ass play baby, what
are we supposed to do now
i really wanted you to put
one of those japanese eggplants
in my hiney again

she unbuttons her trench coat
and duct taped to the inside is
bushels and bushels of bananas

a fruit bush for my fruit boy
she says

oh wow baby you’re the best I say
and then she gives me a banana split

Alex S. Johnson

Bring Me the Head of F.W. Murnau

Anton Shreck peered through the sliding glass door that led to the patio and the outdoor heated pool, checking on the girls.

They were well-secured and squirming, and their sounds of muffled protest pleased him. He supposed on reflection that their frogties and pimp goggles were a bit over the top, but the visual gave him a hard-on and focused his powers.

Soon the juices would trickle together into the steaming blue soup, the girls tumbling into the mix in a fleshy fireworks display of sizzle, crackle and pop. And then…

He smiled, and the universe seemed to smile with him. Then it frowned, studied the situation, did some quick calculations and smiled again. Alternatively, the black acid had begun to kick in, because the moon was dripping gore that slid down the white tile matrix surrounding the pool, crawled up naked thighs and planted its crimson fingers inside the girls, one by one.

A scent of iodine and sulphuric acid bloomed in the night air. The stars were in alignment, the lines of transgression had been cross-hatched into the mother of all sigils, and the patient work of long hours in the basement lab was finally yielding fruit.

Shreck closed the door and entered the den. Much was left to be done before the ceremony proper could commence.

Specifically, he now had to face what was left of the head of German Expressionist filmmaker F.W. Murnau. After its removal from the family plot in Stahnsdorf, the head’s bumpy ride to a mansion in the Hollywood Hills had been the stuff of splatter-driven screwball comedy. Sometime actress and full-time clown whore Missy Crampton had smuggled the head between her thighs, passing off the odd crotch-bulge to TSA agents as a cancerous growth. “I don’t really like to talk about it,” she said later in a press conference.

While obviously Crampton’s flatter-than-flat belly had suffered no metastatic drama, the withering glare she gave the TSA agents focused media attention on the treatment they’d accorded the waif-like starlet, famed for her roles in such films as Ivanna Fock andHeadbanger Grrrrlz. The agents were handcuffed and taken to the same cramped room in the LAX terminal where they themselves had interrogated countless passengers. They were then brutally worked over by drag queen whores and turned over to a succession of stressed-out dock workers from Long Beach.

The actress played a central role in the ceremony, the most important role of her career. Because of her close proximity to the head while in transit, Crampton’s legendary thighs had “soaked up death jizz,” according to Shreck’s narcissistic cabal, led by a floating doppelganger of occult filmmaker Kenneth Anger.

It was this very same “death jizz” that Shreck hoped would reanimate Murnau’s head once it had been grafted onto the Philip K. Dick robot.

There was a long story there as well, but Shreck had no time for such folderol. He raised his left hand—nightmare shrapnel—and a winch squealed on the roof, plunging Murnau’s head through the lurid colors of the skylight in a hybridized homage to Frankenstein and Suspiria. A black leather bondage harness held the moldering head in place as it descended, raining its desiccated skin flakes to the floor, gleaming white bathroom tile that sloped upwards to create a ramp down which slid esoteric skater-bois who had wandered in at the last possible second.

“Attention, ahem.” Shreck cleared his throat and spat a fat wad of phlegm oton his hermaphroditic henchthing, Wendy. “On my instructions, the pool girls will be rendered and the Murnau-Dickbot graft shall commence.”

“But what if there are complications?” mewled Wendy, in a voice that closely resembled Peter Lorre’s. “Remember the last time we…”

“Silence, bitch!”

“I love your dominance,” simpered Wendy, crawling off to its corner to watch and masturbate itself into a puddle of ambiguous fluids.

Shreck blew Wendy a kiss.

The body of the Philip K. Dick robot was lashed to an antique electric chair.

“And a one and a two…”

Murnau’s head continued its journey from the skylight until it sat squarely on the shoulders of Robo-Dick.

Outside, Missy Crampton was the first to hit the water, a boiling broth that instantly sent thousands of watts through her nubile ass. Her flesh bubbled and blackened.

“I’ll get you, Mister Shreck,” she screamed, “And your troglodyte bearcub, too!”

A surge of electricity spiked, and the mansion was plunged in darkness, intermittently rippled with strobes of oversaturated red and blue light that played over the final fusion of German Expressionism with proto-Cyberpunk.

But something had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

No sooner had the knit taken, cubic inches of synthetic nerve bundling joined with dead organic matter than the head began to swivel, accelerating speed until it tore from Robo-Dick’s body and flew through the air. Skeletal jaws hurled the curse Crampton had secreted within Murnau’s head—her terrible revenge against Shreck’s duplicity.

A bolt of blue flame blasted forth from Murnau’s mouth, cocooning Shreck’s body in fire. He thrashed about and clawed at his melting features, calling out for help that never came. Reduced to a junk heap of bone and metal, Shreck crumpled to the ground and lay there, wafts of white ash slowly rising from his mangled form.

Shreck’s cabal, composed mainly of bored necrophiles, dabblers in the occult arts, and dropouts from UCLA film school, regarded the scene with detachment and began their exodus from the mansion.

“Shit is weak,” said one of the dropouts. “I liked it better when it was Andy Warhol’s head and Burroughs’ body.”

“That was pretty cool,” said a skater-boi.

Desultory bro-bumps were exchanged.

“Hey, what was that noise?”

“What happened?”

They looked back, startled, as a procession of waterlogged actresses, charred beyond recognition, came pouring out of the pool. Their eyes blank discs, their intention homicidal.

“Time for some hipsters to die the death!” roared Crampton. “Let’s get ‘em, girls!”

Marco Guaglione: MG Curves

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I was born in April 1985 in Roma, Italy. I always had a great passion for comics and illustrations and since I was a child, I tried to follow the style of my favorite artists.

After I completed my studies in Electronic & Telecommunication in 2006, I started to draw my first digital pin ups. After a few months, I got my first collaboration with clients and agencies and I had the opportunity to develop my skills as an illustrator.

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After a few years and a constant sense of dissatisfaction, I decided to quit the world of digital art and return to my first love… THE PENCILS. A few years later, after tons of sketches and failures, I can say I mastered this technique.

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I am working on my first art book, here you can find a selection of my best work, from pencil illustration sketches and my colored pin ups, where I blend my traditional and digital skills. 

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For more art, you can find and support Marco on:

Instagram
Twitter
&
Patreon!

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Bradford Middleton

A Miracle on Marine Parade

The walk to work is often a horrible thing
As it always goes the same way, always to the
Same space but now not for much longer, three
More weeks and I’m gone for good.  But
Today was different as I left early to grab a coffee;
A caffeine blast to help me out of my stoned
Stupour and get me through six long hours of
Friday night hell.  The weed had me feeling all
Kinds of funny though as I walked out onto
Marine Parade and saw no traffic so took off
To check out the beach side of the street.  It
Was then she appeared, off in the near-distance
But enough suggested to make me pick up my
Pace.  Ahead my eyes on storks by this point she
Stopped and, clearly forgetting, the shortest of
Short skirts I’d seen in a very long time was all
Between her and a public exhibitionism charge as
She leant down to adjust her trainers and suddenly
There it was, a miracle on Marine Parade, a gorgeous
Pert arse encased in only a golden pair of the
Laciest panties and I suddenly realised that today
May just be a good day indeed.

Of course ten minutes into my shift at work any
Thought of that was dispelled as the first hen party
Laid seige to our wine fridge, clearing shelves of
Prosecco for their final blast of the single free life.

AMERICAN INC

“The Battle Hymn of the Revolution”

Music by AMERICAN INC
Lyrics/Guitar/Vocals: Scott Laudati
Guitar/Trumpet: Myles Vlachos
Bass: Brain Weakly
Drums: Travis Scelia

Starring: Sebastien Giles D’Stair
and Carlyle Edwards

Director-of-Photography: Paul VanBrocklin
Edited by Emanuella Scott

Produced by Denver Gregories and Lisette Goines

Written and Directed by Pablo D’Stair

 

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http://americanincmusic.bandcamp.com

http://www.facebook.com/americanincmusic

http://www.instagram.com/scottlaudati

Casey Renee Kiser

Running Joke

The day I split,
the audience didn’t notice.
I’ve mastered becoming invisible.

I crouched way down
into a cobwebbed corner of my mind.
I pictured her face and

I fucking did it. I split
in two.

We can still picture her face
if we try real hard
but it doesn’t make us sad or anxious anymore.

We just let the laugh track play.
It gets louder. And louder
and she runs faster because she’s not sure

what the fuck’s in
my hand.

Scott Simmons

That Damn Heartless Bitch

“Show me that you can steal my heart”
She told me in a soft delicate voice.

So I did just that.

I cut out it out, grilled it, and I ate it.
Although to be honest the texture was rubbery
And the taste was frankly subpar at best.

Did I really kill her?

Fuck Yes I did!

Am I really guilty though?

Nope!

She really should have been far more clear on her instructions.

Oh well women can’t live with them can’t live without them.

Then again I suppose she didn’t live with me too long.