J.J. Campbell

drowning sorrows

boredom is always
a concern for me
too much time on 
my hands leads to 
endless thoughts
of death
drowning sorrows 
in liquor
and dreams of pissing 
on my father’s grave
i remember when 
my imagination
still had a sense 
of wonder
of course, i had 
money and drugs 
during those days
now i have neither
soon, i feel like they 
will be taking me 
behind the old 
and we all know 
what happens

Hank Kirton

Pictures of Lela

They finally found Lela at the cemetery. Her body at least. They’d been searching for her ever since she disappeared three days before. It took the police three whole days to find her and they didn’t even find her. A couple of doom-laden teenage girls discovered her. They were hanging around the graveyard taking pictures of antique tombstones, dressed in black, smoking thin cigarettes and they came upon Lela. They weren’t expecting to find dead people on top of the ground.

They looked at the body for several stunned, silent minutes and then began to greedily take pictures. They both posed with the corpse.

“Okay, look up at me. Big smile.”

“She’s starting to smell.”

“Hey, if she’s gone all rigor mortis maybe we can pose her. Like a Barbie.”

“I don’t really want to touch her.”

“Yeah, me either.”

And then they came to their senses and called the cops. They had seen stories on the news about Lela, the latest missing blond chick, and figured they’d gain local fame for finding her.

Poor Lela had a clear plastic bag over her head but when they completed the autopsy they learned that she’d died as a result of too much fentanyl. The plastic bag suggested foul play but wasn’t the cause of death. A precaution maybe? Overkill? They also found traces of semen in her deceased vagina.

The two teens, Cassie and Maggie, were questioned but they had airtight alibis. They were both working at Max’s Candle Stand when Lela met her fate and had the timecards to prove it. Besides, they couldn’t have been responsible because semen. They were dismissed as suspects. Cassie and Maggie were relieved of course, but thrilled to have been briefly suspected of murder. They both felt the experience gave them some kind of morbid credibility. Of course they were pissed that the cops had confiscated their beautiful pictures of Lela. They got a stern lecture and were told they were lucky that the police decided not to charge them with tampering with evidence.

“Homicide is not a laughing matter,” they were told.

They both had to restrain themselves from rolling their eyes.

Lela had died at the tender age of twenty-four. She had lived with her grandparents and worked as a physical therapist. Her grandfather, Roscoe (62) was also questioned as a person of interest because he had a history of violence and access to fentanyl (he had cancer in his knees and used fentanyl patches for pain) but since he was bound to a wheelchair, he was quickly omitted as a suspect.

“You got me all wrong, fellas, I ain’t violent. I just used to get drunk and beat my wife. Because of my bad legs I can’t even do that no more.”

“Domestic abuse is not a laughing matter,” he was told.

Eventually, they determined that Lela had committed suicide, choosing the cemetery as some kind of black ironic statement. Those who knew Lela were shocked and puzzled:

“She was an upbeat, people-person.”

“She was so cheerful and could light up a room. A real people-person.”

“She was a people-person. Nobody ever saw an anguished side of her.”

“It’s tragic whenever you lose a people-person.”

There was a tiny local radio station (WZIP) in town and the morning DJ, who went by the moniker of Lizard P. (nee William Zecker) was notorious around town as a womanizer and heavy drug user. He bragged about his sordid exploits on the air. He was the little town’s own shock-jock/morning-zoo type celebrity. He was fifty-two years old and wore a brown, curly wig and gold medallions.

Acting on a hunch, police sampled his DNA. When the results returned from the lab, they found it matched the semen from the crime scene. They brought him in for questioning:

“Yeah, we had sex together. But it was totally sensual.”

“I’ve never even seen fentanyl let alone kill somebody with it.”

“You guys want me to confess to something I didn’t even do! At least accuse me of something I did do! That I could understand!”

Eventually they had to release him due to lack of evidence. He went on the air, called the cops “pigs” and threatened a lawsuit. Most of the folks who listened to his show thought he was guilty and his ratings plummeted.

Eventually, Lela’s death was officially ruled a suicide and the case was closed.

Zeke Vorte (38) lived one town over, in Headly. He lived alone, enjoyed sports and opioids, and got away with murder. Again.


From Everything Dissolves

Matthew Licht

The Swinging Bikers

Geezer wanted my wife, I wanted his. So there was no problem, except our wives weren’t interested.

Wait, that came out wrong. Our wives were interested in sex, but not swapping.

They didn’t give any reasons when we asked why not.

We routinely got nude and had sex in front of each other. We even got married together. But whenever we suggested mixing things up a bit, the ladies acted like we’d hurt their feelings.

Geezer and I discussed the situation at Mother’s, a roadhouse.

“We either find some new old ladies,” I said. “Or sneak out with some looser ones.”

“Forget that. Lurleen once saw me glance at another woman, and I didn’t care for the look in her eye. Foolin’ around leads to lawyers, and lawyers lead to the loss of our hogs in the divorce battle. We have to convince the girls that swapping’s cool.”


“Maybe I have the answer.”

“Far out. What is it?”


“C’mon. That’s like vitamin D, for those two.”

“The Satan’s Scamps bro who sold it to me said it’s special stuff. He did mention there might possibly be side-effects.”

“We’ll worry about side-effects afterwards.”


Next evening, we rode up Crested Skull Hill. We entered the cave that made the left eye-socket and threw down our stuff.

A full moon shone on spent condoms, empty bottles and roaches from parties past.

“Big treat tonight,” Geezer said, as he smoothed out an old blanket on the cave floor.

“Whatcha talkin’ about, Geezer?” My wife Babette sounded suspicious.

“It’s uh, hard to explain.” he said.

Lurleen, Geezer’s wife, said, firmly, “No needles.”

“Calm down,” Geezer said. “This is a special occasion.”

“Oh yeah?” Babette sounded even more suspicious. “What special occasion is that?”

“The anniversary of when I realized Lurleen was the only one for me.”

“Is that true, honey?” Moonlight glinted off a tear in Lurleen’s eye.

“Naturally, my love.”

“Aw, ain’t that sweet,” Babette said, unconvincingly.

The pop of beer bottles seemd to reassure her. Clink, clank, clunk, we drunk to true love, and then the ladies took their pills.

Geezer and I must’ve stared.

“Hey! What’s going on?” Babette said. “How come you guys aren’t…”

The stuff kicked in fast. Babette licked her chops and lunged for Geezer. He giggled as my wife tore down his pants.

Lurleen fell to her knees. I felt like crying.

Life was different. The world had changed. Heaven was real.

Spent, I hugged Lurleen tight. “That was great,” I said.

“You aren’t done yet, clown.”


“I need more.” Her voice was deep, hoarse. Purple searchlights shot from her eyes.

“Gimme a minute to recover. Let’s smoke a joint or something.”

Lurleen punched me in the face, hard, twice.

She shone her lavender eye-beams across the cave floor. “Hey Babs, has my hubby got anything left?”

Geezer had his mouth full. He was playing for time.

“Are you joking?” My wife pushed him away.

“In that case, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Let’s go.”

“But girls,” Geezer sounded meek. “Just a…”

Babette smacked him. His head spun. He fell down and lay still.

“Get the keys to their bikes,” Babette said.

“You can’t handle that heavy old hog. Please…”

The world went black. Life was painful. The ladies riffled through our leathers, then a pair of motorcycles rode off into the night.


Geezer helped me up after what seemed like a long, long time. He was shaking, bad.  “Can you believe it?”

“I was there, wasn’t I?”

“Well, we got what we wanted, didn’t we?”

“Right. Now how’re we gonna get home?”

”Walk, I guess.”


Two Death Jesters gave us a lift on the main road. Riding behind some greasy slob gave me a new perspective on Babette’s existence. I resolved to be a better man, and buy her her own bike.

The guy shouted over the wind. “You guys headed to the gang bang?”

What gang bang?”

“At Mother’s. Couple chicks gone completely crazy.”

“Oh. Far out.”

There were many bikes parked out in front of Mother’s, and more headed in from all directions. Whoops and hollers split the air. My ‘48 Knucklehead was crashed into a garbage dumpster. Geezer’s Indian was ploughed into a car parked out front.

We pushed our way inside. Bikers swarmed like a cloud of leather flies around our wives, who were having the time of their lives. There was nothing to do but wait in line and watch.

“Uh, look man, that’s my old lady there,” I said to the dude ahead. “Mind if I cut in front of you?”

“No way, bro.”

Geezer tapped my shoulder. “That stuff has to wear off sometime.”

As soon as it was our turn, it did.

“Help! Rape! Somebody call the cops!”

The guy behind us said, “Oh yeah, I’m a cop.”

The guy standing next to him said, “Me too.”

Everyone else scattered. The cops clobbered us with their billy clubs, and snapped on the cuffs. A paddy wagon came. Tires squealed, sirens wailed.

Did our wives press charges? You bet your ass they did, bro.

damion snow


i can show up at your address
with a mask and duct tape
probably a crowbar to break in
and for my killing tool
i’d use my hands
but i don’t want to choke you

if i were gonna kill you i’d want
it to be that personal and that violent
but not so abrupt and
i’d like to be more raw

maybe i could stick my hands in your mouth
gripping both sets of teeth
and just push.

push with all my might till your jaw
separates and the skin tears
leaving your neck exposed
blood gushing everywhere

then i’d grab the tongue and pull
and pull until it snapped out

maybe explore the rest of your organs
i mean, the blood loss you’ve suffered
by this point your dead
but the rest of this isn’t about
shock factor or sexual release
it’s about exploration

a sense of wonder
to hold an appendix sack
in your palm.

all these little cogs
we’re comprised of

so very sensitive

and then i’ll put it all back together again
into a big mountain of pure carnage

i’m not an engineer
so i take many liberties
in this stage of conduct

and this
is the painting i made for us

David J. Thompson

Part Of The Show

I’ve always been afraid of clowns,
coulrophobia, I guess they call it.
In fact, I remember the first time
I saw a clown up close in person,
I wet my pants. Unfortunately,
this happened just yesterday
at a backyard birthday party
for my friends’ grandson.
When the rent-a-clown tried
to give me a comic hug, I lost
control of my bladder in fear.
The little kids all noticed and started
to laugh hysterically; they thought 
it was part of the show. I started
them singing Happy Birthday,
covered my darkened crotch
with my baseball cap, and walked
hurriedly to my car, thankful
it was only piss that the goddamn clown
scared out of me. It could have been
a whole lot worse.

Daniel de Culla


People you are looking for
The land of salvation
Well fucked up you got it
Although you raise your eyes to the sun

Not the Covid vaccine
Nor any other vaccine
Will conquer Death
Since the land that I promise
Flows fire and lava
Even if you plant your skin in it

Your thirst for life
Drink in springs of gall
And with each step that you advance
Battered you will rest
In my cold hugs

This is your inheritance
Of dust or ash on the head
Or in my land meek
Being your Word and verb
The cold darkness

Judson Michael Agla


My head was pounding like pistons from a giant antiquated machine; gears grinding, metal on metal. I was sitting on the shitter attempting to exhume whatever ill-advised mass I had consumed the night before. I was all cramped up from the exertion, and I just couldn’t launch this unwanted guest out of me and into the bowl. I was trapped; bent over in the fetal position, experiencing the most horrific of torchers, I kept squeezing and my guts kept cramping. Then the moment finally came when I could feel this titan move its way towards the exit; I could feel its massive girth, and I knew I didn’t possess an adequately sized orifice that this monstrosity would require, FUCK! 

The crowning was the worst; I was sure that it was splitting my goddamn ass apart, the pain was unbearable and I screamed at the top of my lungs “KILL ME NOW GODDAMN IT”, and in that moment feeling like I was shitting shards of glass, I did want to die. Release came shortly after as this creature of doom gained momentum from its weight and came blasting out with the velocity of a fucking rocket; it splashed down into the bowl causing a tsunami in its wake, soaking my ass and everything within a two foot radius around the bowl. 

I fell off the throne onto the dirty wet floor with a feeling of relief that I never thought possible; I think I could have slept right there if it wasn’t for the hammers still vibrating in my skull, yes, the ebbs and flows of last night’s debauchery began to evidence themselves once again after that demon shit finally left me. I had to take a look before flushing; had to see this abominable ass-splitting freak of nature that had almost destroyed me. FUCK ME! I’d never seen such a dark ominous mass of evil ever before; what in all living fuck did I consume? Aside from the insane viscous mash of processed shit, there was evidence of things one could not fully transform through the miles of highways of the human intestine; there were indiscernible pieces of fucking metal and plastic, half dissolved cigarette butts, there was even a fucking memory stick, fully intact, and little square black buttons from some keyboard, JESUS FUCK! What the fuck happened last night? Did I eat a fucking computer? I had to lay there covered in shit-water and writhing in pain; any move would bring on a dizziness that would start up a perpetual retching that could go on for hours, and I couldn’t fucking handle any more wretched fuckery or I’d surely die right then and there. 

So I laid there, cold and wet, holding my knees to my chest, head pounding with blood and shit still seeping out of my ass, a perfect time for reflection, a perfect time to assess my lifestyle and the misadventures that evolved from it, but there wasn’t anything new; I’d been living on this insane edge for far too long now, there was no change in my future. If there was, it would have happened already. I was too old to change; the damage was done, I couldn’t leave the world of the weird, my good decision-making skills dissipated into smoke and flames long ago. There was no straightening up and fighting back the demons still inside; boredom and legalities stunk like fuck to me, I wanted the paranormal, the dark voodoo fuckery type magic, I wanted to walk with the dead, wanted to fuck the dead, wanted to see how far I could take my mental illness, see how bat-shit crazy I could get. I wanted to feel a raven’s talon as it sunk into my shoulder, ripping my flesh with a frozen sense of fiery pain. I wanted to pull the night shift on the Rivers Styx; give the boatman a break, and maybe learn something nautical for a change. 

Kiki Von Kristmass

Failed Aesthetic

Dave was asleep on the studio floor in a nest of soiled porn mags and empty lager cans. His face lay drooling into the polystyrene box of a half eaten kebab.

His brain was yet unaware of the hangover awaiting it caused from a heavy night of absinthe and 7up cocktails. 

A sickly smell emanated from one of the corners of the studio where a pile of vomit had been lazily mopped up with someone’s still life studies.

The door of the studio creaked open.

It was Mike. The only other person Dave shared a studio with. 

There had been others but they had soon requested a transfer on the grounds of 

the duos intolerable ‘loutish’ behaviour.

They were quite the double act having already earned a reputation as enfant terribles and it was only the second week of term. 

Mike and Dave had decided in the pub one evening to become artists. Not because of a sudden flash of inspiration or a desire for self-expression but because of a post they had just seen online.

It concerned a female artist who knitted jumpers for child refugees from wool she had stuck up her vagina beforehand. Some of the jumpers were even embellished with splatters of menstrual blood.

Of course these jumpers were not given to the refugee children. 

The piece was intended as more of a catalyst for debate as opposed to a direct aid donation. No, the jumpers were in fact brought by art collectors for several thousands pounds a piece. 

“Seven grand for a jumper smeared with fanny blood!” Mike exclaimed over his pint of lager. “It would take me half a year to make that!”

The next day they got a book on contemporary art from the library and proceeded to laugh their way through the entire thing.

Colourful dots, unmade beds and childish scribbles. It was without a doubt the greatest con of the 21st century, and they wanted in. 

Though they didn’t have an academic qualification between them they managed to get into the prestigious Slagg School of Art by merit of  a promising portfolio alone. 

Dave submitted a film entitled I like England and England Likes Me. It consisted of filming himself for three days while he laid about on his couch smoking weed, eating kebabs, and wanking whilst in the company of a Staffordshire bull terrier.

It was a directly inspired by Joseph Beuy’s 1974 performance I Like America and America Likes Me, although the Beuy’s original had far less wanking in it.

The tutors viewing the work considered it a highly sophisticated and ironic comment on the original. Though they couldn’t quite agree on what exactly the comment was, it was no doubt something very clever to do with Beuy’s penchant for self-mythologising and its modern equivalent seen in the creation of idealised avataristic selves on social media.

Mike went for the minimalist angle. By taking a series of photographs of piles of breeze blocks on a building site he had been labouring on during the summer. 

The tutors were sceptical at first, but then someone suggested the photos must be in reference to Carl Andre’s 1966 work Equivalent VIII, whose controversial acquisition by the Tate in the 1970’s had provoked nationwide ridicule and had brought into question the very value of modern art itself.

One of the faculty suggested that by reverting the positioning of the work from the white walled gallery space of the original to the more proletariat setting of the common building site he was creating a tension between two discourses, an encounter which subverted both of them. 

Their admission into the Slagg School of Art was also helped by the fact that they were both working class and hadregional accents. This alone fulfilled the art schools diversity quota for that year.

Now that they had successfully blagged their way into art school they planned to spend the next three years pissing their grants up the wall while banging their way through an endless line of eager and willing art fanny.

“Oi” Mike shouted

Dave opened a bleary eye to see Mike standing above him armed with a water pistol.

He squirted it into his face. Dave sat up sputtering, there was a foul but familiar taste.

“Bastard!” he shouted. It was unmistakably piss. 

Dave jumped up and swung for him but he deftly dodged the clumsy swipe and gave Dave another squirt in the face before dashing out of the room.

He ran down the stairwell and into the one of the 3rd years studios on the ground floor.

Dave was close behind.

As he swung the door open Mike was lying in wait firing another shot of warm piss straight into his eyes.

Dave charged blindly at him tackling him to the ground, they fell back knocking over an easel and landed in a mess of oil paint and turpentine.

There was a scream. 

“What are you doing! You’re behaving like hooligans! This is an artists studio not one of your common building sites!”

It was Genevieve. A notoriously stuck up 3rd year. Her shrill upper-class voice cutting through the air.

They stood up, red faced from their scolding and helped to righten her easel.

She screamed again. A tube of red oil paint had burst and had leaked paint all over the surface of the canvas.

“My painting! You’ve ruined it!” 

Dave hurriedly fumbled with a rag trying to wipe off the paint but only proceeded to smear red across the entire thing. 

She burst into tears.

Dave and Mike looked helplessly at each other. 

She sat back on her stool. Staring in horror at the ruined canvas.

“I’ve been working on that thing for weeks!” she said “I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a decent shagging in ages, not that I ever get one. My boyfriend may be 9th in the line to the throne but he’s hung like a sea horse and can’t seem to get that harder than an over cooked baby carrot”

She dried her eyes and looked up at them.

“Maybe I could do with something a bit…rougher” she said her eyes falling on the large bulge in Mikes joggers.

They looked at one another.

Genevieve may have been an up stuck up toff but she was also a quality piece of art gash with a cracking set of knockers!

“You two can make it up to me by taking it in turns to eat out my cunt”

Mike jumped to work and within seconds had whipped down her jodhpurs and had her toff art twat in his mouth.

Dave’s large hands fumbled clumsily with the tiny buttons of her paint smeared smock.  She grew impatient and ripped it open for him revealing her large milky white breasts. Taking one in his hand he suckled at the pink nipple, taking it between his teeth and nibbling at it. She moaned as Mike lapped eagerly at her cunt while Dave gnawed away on her tits.

After a few minutes they swapped places, Mike manning the nipples as Dave got to work on her slit.

He reached onto her desk and pulled down a handful of bushes. He worked the thick handle of a palette knife into her pussy while he rubbed her clit with the soft hairs of a Winsor & Newton No. 7 sable, which was also good for fine line work in watercolours and acrylics.

He juicy twat was now so wet it was dripping onto the paint splattered studio floor where it had begun to form a puddle.

“I want some of that filthy oik cock!” she said after several orgasms. She pushed them off and on her knees. Unzipping them in turn and pulling out their meat. 

Mikes penis was long and thin, pale white with a shiny red helmet in contrast Dave’s was short but thick, dark brown and crowned with a purple helm. They nodded in approval at what each of them were packing.

She gave them each a quick blow job before bending over the stool. She grabbed Mikes buttocks and pulled him towards her. She licked his balls while she worked his shaft with her hand. 

Dave went behind. Gobbing on her twat and getting it ready for a pounding.

“Yeah, give me that filthy common cock! You proletarian piece of shit!” she said looking back at him.

She was so tight it took him a while to slide it in. The tip of his helmet stretched open her beef curtains before it slowlyentered her depths.

She gasped as she felt her shores widen.

“Call me a whore!” she demanded.

“Whore!” he said

“No, no, with a dropped h!”

“’ore” he repeated slamming it up her 

“Talk dirty to me, tell me something…common!”

He thought for a moment.

“I sometimes dip oven chips into hummus”

She wailed like a banshee as she orgasmed.

“More…more” she pleaded.

“I mix absinthe with seven up…”

She came again, even harder.

“I pronounce the German artist and influential member of the Bauhaus School Paul Klee’s second name Klee instead of Klay”

Her pussy tightened gripping his rod as she shot off several simultaneous orgasms at once. Warm art slag cum trickled down her legs, like the clear juices from when a roast chicken is safely cooked.

She now took Mikes cock into her mouth. Working the entire shaft down her oesophagus as expertly as a sword swallower. 

As he fucked her mouth he squirted the piss filled water pistol into her face. 

“Fub my arf!” she said gagging on the cock thrusting in and out of her mouth.

Dave pulled his cock out of her wet twat, his purple helmet glistening with pussy juice. Spreading open her pale ass cheeks he looked down at her tight little arsehole. 

He tried to stuff his helmet into the hole but it wouldn’t go. He was far too big and she was way too tight. His guess was that she had never had anything up there before. Or if she had it had been so insignificant that it hadn’t loosened it up for anyone else. All the girls Dave had ever arse banged from back home had had gaping purple sphincters from years of taking it up the shitter from an early age.

He looked around and finding a bottle of linseed oil he poured some on her tiny hole while he oiled up his shaft.

Grabbing her shoulders he forced himself in.

She let out a shriek and surging forwards she eclipsed the entirety of Mikes long dong down her throat so his balls were squashed against her chin. She gagged and pulled back to avoid suffocating, leaving a string of slimey mucus trailing from her mouth to his nut sack.

As she retreated back she impaled herself onto Dave’s thick cock forcing it half way up her guts which pushed her forwards again onto the cock rammed halfway down her gullet. She slid between these two extremes, being stretched and gagged at either end.

She really was caught between a rock and a hard place!

Dave looked at her painting. He tried to make out what was underneath the smear of red.

“So, what’s your work about?” he asked.

“The failed aesthetic in painting” she said taking the cock into her cheek so she could speak.

“So, deliberately shit painting?” 

“mm hmm” she mumbled her mouth full of sausage once again. 

“That’s really clever” he said “I wish I’d thought of that”

She mumbled a few words which the lamen wouldn’t of been able to decipher. Luckily Dave was an expert in translating gagging-on-cock into English. He took the words to mean: “Get back to work!”

He returned his attention to the job at hand and the vice like sphincter gripping his cock.

Her anus was the tightest thing he’d ever been inside. It was so tight he imagined himself pulling out to see his knob transformed into solid diamond by the extreme pressure of her sphincter. 

He wondered how much that would sell for.

Damien Hirst’s 2007 diamond encrusted skull sculpture For the Love of God had sold for $100, 000, 000. 

Imagine all the lager, porn mags and kebabs I could buy with that! He thought to himself.

The idea of a priceless shit smeared diamond phallus was enough to send him into orgasm.

“Shit, I’m going to cum!”

“Do it on my painting!” Genevieve screamed.

He pulled out just in time, the tip of his cock smeared in steamy hot shit.

He emptied his balls all over the painting and then scraping the shit from his cock he applied it to the canvas with a palette knife. 

After a few more violent thrusts Mike also pulled out and made his contribution to the work. 

For good measure he also squirted the remainder of the piss onto the canvas.

The dark umber hues of the excrement complimented the lighter tones of the almost lemon yellow urine. While the semen had mixed in with the red oil paint to create a subtle range of mid toned pinks.

They stood with their arms around each other looking admiringly at the canvas.

“Wow” said Mike who wasn’t much of an admirer of that abstract painting bollocks but this one he really dug.

“It’s…wonderful!” Genevieve agreed.

At the graduation show that year, a famous wife beating art collector acquired the work for several thousand pounds.

A few days later Dave and Mike found a gift wrapped bottle of vintage Pernod Et Fils absinthe in their studio. 

The promptly downed the bottle in pint glasses with 7up and went into town where they banged a couple of local fisherman’s wives under the jetty.

David Boski


“Slap my pussy,” she said,
as I kneeled above her, 
staring down at her naked body.
I happily obliged her request
and later on, as I was about to fall asleep
I thought of all the other men out there.
men who made more money than me
men who had better jobs
and better cars
men who had wives
and men who owned homes
men who were nicer than me 
smarter than me
funnier than me
better looking than me
tall men, short men, fat men, thin men,
muscular men who loved working out.
all kinds of men from all over the world
who went to bed that night
without having slapped a pussy…
and I felt good 
and momentarily 
everything seemed all right.

Brian Rosenberger


I miss the dude who drank a pint of Jim Bean
on summer weekends at the beach,
not by himself necessarily.
He had friends, was willing to share, 
and rose like Lazarus from the sand,
fresh from the grave, with no place to go.
Life was easier then. Less demands.
Less expectations. 

I miss the dude who loved comic books,
wrestling, horror movies, and Heavy Metal,
the glory days of VHS and CDs.
When you could smoke in clubs and restaurants, 
when kids went to school and the worst
they had to deal with were bullies, 
instead of being target practice.

This dude drives 45 minutes to work
and at least 45 minutes back.
He hates his job, tolerates his co-workers,
and barely survives his daily drive
without inflicting physical violence
on his fellow commuters.
God knows he thinks about it often enough,
but his road rage remains internalized. 

This dude spends his time analyzing stocks,
worrying about the cost of being a homeowner –
dead trees to be cut down, house to be painted,
the fridge dying a slow death,
etc, etc, fucking etc. 

This dude scrolls through the tits and asses
on Instagram instead of fucking his wife.
He masturbates when he can maintain an erection.
He blames it on his high blood pressure
and means to reduce salt, get more exercise,
switch to red wine instead of bourbon,
and finally see a damn doctor.

This dude…
He sucks.