Brenton Booth

Last Call

In Downtown Los Angeles
I stayed in a cheap hotel.
The room was tiny and had 
one small window with a 
view of a brick wall.  The 
bed was hard and tap water 
made me feel ill. At about 9 
on my first night the phone 
rang, I thought it must have 
been the front desk compla-
ining about my visa credit
or something. “I need to see
you again Bruce,” a desperate
sounding voice said.
“He’s not here mate. I don’t 
even know who he is.”
“Don’t play games darling. I
need to see you.”
“Who are you?”
“I am coming up. I am coming
up now.”
“You have the wrong number
mate.”
“You fucker! I am coming up!
he screamed into the phone 
and hung up. It was my first 
night in Los Angeles and I 
didn’t know what to expect, 
but surely this was some sort 
of scam. I decided I’d be ready 
though. I stood next to the door 
waiting for it to be kicked in
and I’d pounce on whoever 
it was. The phone rang a few 
more times but I just ignored 
it. I stood by the door for nearly 
an hour then suddenly realized 
the real problem: he wasn’t 
trying to scam me—he was 
just lonely, which I understood 
perfectly. The phone rang again 
and I picked it up, put it on the 
bedside table and laid down on 
the bed. I could hear his voice 
coming through the receiver, it 
sounded like a whisper from 
where I was. Over the next few 
hours I listened to every tender 
word he said, pretending like 
him that I wasn’t alone.

George Gad Economou

one day here, one day gone

we were together for two weeks; she abandoned
her boyfriend of three years and came to
live with me, for they
shared an apartment and she couldn’t be
around him. we sat on the couch all day
and night long, guzzling
wine, listening to music, smoking (cigarettes and pot), inhaling
junk, and fucking. for two weeks,
this was our
schedule, our delightfully insane
routine. we couldn’t sleep, we just
passed out. exhaustion, lunacy,
madness. I wrote while she
snored on
the couch, used up by the blow, the hash, and the
fortified wine. she’d clamber up, have a fix, and
we’d fuck. one day, she glared at me, a gaze
full of somberness and solemnity. 
“you know,” she murmured, “I think I’ll
go back to him.” “alright,” I shrugged from
my desk chair, my glance glued to
the dancing lines. “don’t you
wanna know why?” 
“sure, okay. why?” “it was great, being
here with you, we had fun, it was awesome seeing
this side of life. I can’t do this any longer. I miss
him, and miss having a home.”
“okay, I understand,” I said before chugging
some wine. “do you?” she arched
an eyebrow. “yes,” I spun around to
offer her a faint smile. “I’m really sorry,
you know. I truly am.” “don’t be,
“there’s no reason.” “I still am.”
“okay.”
she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, blew
kisses on my neck. our lips touched, our
tongues danced, our bodies
became one. she got
dressed right
after a quick shower, tears welling
down her refulgent hazel eyes.
she left the apartment, probably
returned to her old boyfriend, to her
old familial ways. I’m still
in the same apartment, still haven’t found a
place to call home. I drink, snort blow,
smoke some hash. I’m deep inside
the fog and, sometimes, it does
feel like home.

Joseph Farley

Art

“The problem with art is that not everyone seems capable of appreciating it.”

Vogel listened to what the curator said. He nodded in agreement.

“It can’t all be pretty pictures,” he said.

“Or mere representations. A camera will always do better at that game,” said the curator.

“Or a 3D printer,” Vogel added.

“Yes, of course, for statuary,” said the curator. “And yet we still yearn for the simple, the organic. That is one of the reasons I appreciate what Udermeyer does. He and his imitators combine the natural, the simple, the organic and the theoretical. Their work can be both representational and complex and elusive.”

“I have seen many of Udermeyer’s pieces. He has done realistic portraits and busts, but also works that are more of a study of geometry.”

“He teaches us about life,” the curator said. “Both its beginning and end. He does it with shapes, smells and textures. We learn to overcome any initial feelings of disgust, any urge to regurgitate, and become aware of the intrinsic beauty to be found in the worst possible materials.”

“He certainly is remarkable,” Vogel said. “How many years did he spend training his bowels?”

“I read an interview in which Udermeyer stated it took him fifteen years to develop his technique.”

“Really? I heard it took him much longer.”

“Well, who is to really know?” the curator said. “He worked on his art for years without notice. He was nearly sixty before he had his first showing at a major gallery. “

Vogel thought about this before replying.

“There can be benefits to obscurity. It provides an artist with an opportunity to explore, develop and blossom without being poisoned by outside forces. They can stay on their own course, become something truly unique and new. Too many artists find the spotlight too soon. It happens much too early. I blame social media in part, and the curiosity people tend to have for anything new.”

“They do seem to have a brief moment before getting crushed by the critics or getting corrupted and turning into a machine that stamps out more or less the same thing over and over again.”

“Money and fame, ” Vogel said. “These are the gifts of the marketplace.”

“The marketplace giveth and the marketplace taketh away,” said the curator.

“Do they even get fifteen minutes anymore?”

“Come on. You know they all get more than fifteen minutes. It is after they have worn out their welcome that we wish they had wasted much less of our time.”

The two walked in silence viewing more of the exhibit. Vogel felt fortunate to have been allowed an early glimpse before the formal opening of the museum’s retrospective on Udermeyer’s work. It was on of the benefits of being a major benefactor of the museum and a well known collector of Udermeyer’s art. At the curator’s request, Vogel had loaned several statuettes and a few small canvases to the museum for the special exhibit. Vogel smiled whenever he came upon one of his loaned pieces during his private tour. He liked how the placards displayed his name prominently along with the name of the artist. Vogel had always loved art, but had never had much talent for it. This was his way to be part of the art world.

“I heard he experimented a lot with diet over the years,” Vogel said.

“From what I understand that is true. What he consumed depended on the piece he envisioned. For some he needed the color and texture supplied by carrots and corn. For others he needed to eat something else such as oatmeal or sardines.”

“It still amazes me what he was able to do with his ass. It had to have been very difficult. I tried to imitate him without success. All my attempts ended in a mess.”

“I must confess I was once tempted to try Udermeyer’s methods myself. It  did not end well. Udermeyer is several levels beyond the artists in the sixties who used to squirt paint into their anuses then squat over a canvas. I doubt anyone will ever be able match his success, let alone surpass him, using similar methods.”

“Udermeyer is one of a kind,” Vogel agreed. “A true master.”

“I am sure his version of the Mona Lisa would have impressed Da Vinci,” said the curator.

“Michelangelo would have appreciated his take on David,” said Vogel.

“Udermeyer proved in his middle period that he could compete with the old masters with canvas, murals, and large statues.”

“Yes,” said Vogel. “I still enjoy viewing Udermeyer’s works from that period. Still, I have always been more impressed by his more impressionistic, almost surrealistic work from his most recent period.”

“If we are talking about personal preferences,” the curator said. “I have always had a soft spot for some of his early works. Many are small, often no larger than the size of a palm, but what he does is revolutionary.”

“How could I disagree,” said Vogel. “Some of Udermeyer’s early works are rather spectacular when you think about it. I used to wonder how could he possibly form a perfect sphere like that, or a cylinder, or a cube? I know I could never contort my sphincter like he could.”

The curator nodded.

“Back then he was developing the building blocks that would help him later create much larger works.”

“You can see the future in his Statue of Liberty that is on loan from my collection,” said Vogel. “It is no more than seven inches tall, yet has so much detail.”

The curator smiled and shook his head. 

The curator said, “It is so hard to believe. Udermeyer insists it came out that way all in one shot.”

“It is remarkable what he was able to do.”

“It is unbelievable what he is still able to do now. Age ninety, a colon cancer survivor. He had a colostomy but somehow still manages to produce art from his stoma.”

Vogel laughed, “Yet some people still refer to his art as nothing but shit. I have heard people say that this entire Udermeyer exhibit is just a  pile of shit.” 

“What fools.”

“Philistines.”

“Yet they are right in a way,” said the curator. “It is all shit, at least in base substance.”

“Yes it is,” Vogel said. “But it is so much more than that. You could call it ethereal.”

“I could not agree with you more.”

Damon Hubbs

Modern Lovers

I’m a witchfinder general
you’re my witch
then we switch it up 
and you burn me at the stake
we’re modern lovers
nihilism 
and heartbreak,
you’re an It Girl
a Chloë Sevigny 
cherry red Doc Martens 
and auteur anarchy
a queen of the night
a deb of the year
a door girl at the Mudd Club 
who once cut Warhol’s hair,
we’re modern lovers 
demonology 
and Baudelaire,
you’re hotrod
softblow 
laudanum 
scuzz
and when you 
traded your spiked dog collar 
for a French bulldog
the devil swept us away
and accused us of heresy. 

Taryn Allan

Night Bus

The monitor-pulse of street lights
A rhythmic beat dragging us forwards
Intensive care for the chorus-less streets
Before they flatline into night

The old couple two seats in front
Faces like deflated carrier bags
Like adverts for oblivion
‘We should go away for a few days.’

I could go away for a lifetime, it wouldn’t be enough
A solitary drunk misses a stop he never had
He’ll keep going round forever
Same as the rest of us

From the window of the night bus
I see only myself
A pale, ghost-like image
The deteriorating signal of memory

Alan Catlin

Falling Down Drunk Sex Maniac

was her tribal name tribal nickname,
The Tribe being an aging biker gang
out of San Berdoo loosely affiliated
with the Hell’s Angels. It was the name
she adopted, or had bestowed on her, 
after a stretch on a locked-in ward,
necessitated by a week’s long orgy 
of bad acid, peyote buttons and 
a skag overdose that left her a mental
cripple for months until the flashbacks
abated, weighed down by so many
psychotropic drugs she could barely move.
“My festival name, before the bad stuff
came down, was Zephyr Breeze Free Love
Smoke of Many Dreams. 
Ever see the Woodstock movie?  
I’m the naked blonde wearing a necklace
of flowers covered in mud, tripping
her tits off to Santana.” 
“What happened to her?”
“Like I said, bad stuff happened.”
Bad stuff like and extra fifty pounds
of sagging flesh, formerly deep blue 
eyes washed out to eggshell powder 
blue, a dozen teeth dropping out
along with her cognitive abilities. 
Now she’s a novelty act: buy her 
a couple of drinks and see what happens. 
Nice they got out of jail, guys swore 
she’s the best ten bucks they ever spent.  

Casey Renee Kiser

Mirror Werk

I know Valentine’s is in February
but I’m still on that anti-valentine March
I just wanna drown in all this clarity-
Lie in a pile of ugly dolls with pure hearts

Maybe I’ll pour a drink and masturbate
again to Donnie Darko; Frank can cum too-
mirror werk, twice if it don’t get too late;
Glitter-heart confetti, feeling fine in blue

Fuck you and your fresh meat-dinner date
The table will be set so impressively
but she don’t know what’s on her plate
while I’ll be loving myself obsessively

and I’m fasting anyway

Jessie Spriggs

DAY 4 IN HELL 

the little fairies keep digging holes in my yard
and the sun is always setting but never leaves

i step outside on the porch and light my cigarette
and inhale, and inhale and inhell, and inhale
until it’s all gone

“dont you guys have someone else to bother?”

“you’re the favorite!”
the pink fairy says to me
in that annoying voice

the other fairies hoist their shovels in the air
and chant

“favorite boy! favorite boy!”

i go back inside
and watch some television
but every channel just shows the same movie
of some detective slowly realizing
that he’s the one committing all the murders

it’s my favorite movie ever
but i can’t remember how it ends

DAY 12 IN HELL

the fairies have started hunting the stray cats
in the neighborhood and burying them in my yard

i asked them to stop
but they tell me
it’s ok to break
the things that no one wanted

so they keep smashing the
kittens with the shovels
and i keep eating stale popcorn
and smoking and
everytime i run out
i just reach inside my coat pocket
and just like that

another pack of maralboro light 72’s
just like mother used to smoke

i’d hear these crooked caws coming
from the bathroom
and when i pushed open the creaky door
there’d she’d be
submerged in a bath of wine
just one hand dangling over the side
holding a cigarette

she’d raise her shriveled head
from her slumber
the crimson juices
sloshing over the sides of her shell
she’d say

“you think you’re so special, don’t you?”

no, mother

“that’s why you left me here to drown again, didn’t you?”

no, mother

“and now look at you. you’re just as ugly as me now, aren’t you?”

yes, mother

DAY 17 IN HELL

little sprouts have teased
their hungry fingers through
the mounds in the backyard

the fairies bring cute little
flower pot cans and water the mounds

“what the hell are you doing?”
i ask the pink one

“we’re growing tomatos”
she says, with a big ugly smile

“i hate tomatos”
i tell her

all the fairies stop their busy work
and chattering and hums
and stare at me

“we’re growing tomatos”
she says

“why?”
i ask

“because you said you loved them”
she says

“things change”
i say

so anyways i go back inside
and start making a tuna fish sandwhich
when the pink fairy hands me a tomato

“for your sandwhich”
she says

i cut the tomato into thick slabs
and each slice seems to satisfy the fairy

i slather the bread with mayo
and grab a pinch of flakey salt
to season the tomatos with
but she screeches

“though shall not! though shall not”

so i lick the salt off my fingers
and place the tomatos
on the sandwhich
and take a bite

“see? tomatos are your very favorite”
she says

i take another bite

“a big tomato for the big boy”
she says

i finish the sandwhich
in one big bite

“oh wow. so tasty right? because you love tomatos”
she says

“yea, i do actually”
i say

she giggles with glee
and then i notice
that her pink complexion
is really nice

almost like a tomato

DAY 49 IN HELL

a demon has come to check my progress

he sits in the recliner
that doesn’t recline
and writes down notes
as the silence rolls
like heads down a hill

*ahem*

“so jessie, do you know why i’m here?”
he asks

“i assume to shove archaic weapons in my ass. or maybe do that one thing with the rats and the bucket. you know what i’m talking about?”
i ask

“i have no idea what you’re talking about”
he says

“no worries then”
i say

he crosses his leg over the other
and puts his hands over the other
over his knee

“jessie…”
he says

“yea?”
i say

“where are your fairies?”
he asks


ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! ahhhhhhhhhhh!

uhuugk!

the blue fairy screams
as i slice into her
surprisingly thick belly
and let all the juice come out

it reminds me of my uncle
when he’d get stuck with me
because cps put mother back in rehab
and put me back with uncle

he’d slice the brandywine tomato
and he’d tell me you gotta take
out all the pulp

“that’s the guts of the tomato, nobody likes guts”
he said

we’d sit on his floral print couch
eating tomato sandwhiches
and we’d watch his favorite movie
about a detective who’s
trying to stop a serial killer
but to be honest
i can’t remember how it goes


“jessie, hello?”
the demon says

“hi”
i say

“where did your fairies go?”
he asks again

“they made tomatos”
i say

“jessie, did you eat all your fairies?”
he asks

“i did not eat all my fairies”
i say

“did you eat the pink one?”
he asks

“i might have tasted the pink one”
i say

DAY 86 IN HELL

i’ve been remodeling the house
for the past few weeks

i tried to talk the demons
into letting borrows some tools
to get the job done
but they keep trying to make
everything about
“emotional recovery” and
“rehabilitation”
so

sometimes you just gotta roll up the sleeves
and get it done yourself

i run as fast i can
thud….thud…thud..thud.thud.thud  thudthud!
i gain acceleration across the hardwood floor
and throw myself into the wall

i check my elbow and forearm
to see how many scabs i’ve opened up again
but it’s not so bad

i get up and start punching
and exposed 4×4 of pine

“boy”
the pink fairy calls to me

“oh hey there, what’s up?”
i ask

“that is not how”
she says

“you think so? i’m really enjoying myself though.”
i say

she just stares at me
with that wide eyed, petrified gaze she’s had
ever since i cut off her hand and ate it

“don’t worry i know what i’m doing”
i tell her

and it’s true
i used to work for my dad
when i dropped out of highschool

he had some rental properties
and even though we didn’t really know each other
he’d pay me to do some cleaning and painting

i thought this was the ground floor
of having a relationship with him
so i started asking about going over to his house
or maybe hanging out somewhere

but one day i was pulling weeds
at his property on jackson
when he rolled up in his tahoe

“hey jessie, i got your voicemails”
he shouts to me from the porch

“oh”
i say

“unfortunately, i’d like to keep things professional for now, ok?”
he shouts

“ok, dad”
i say

“so that means you can’t keep inviting me places, and you can’t keep calling me dad, ok?”
he shouts

“ok”
i say

“and i’ll go ahead and leave you ten dollars extra for all your hard work today. sound good champ?”
he shouts

“ok”
i say

later that night
i ate at my favorite restaurant
burger king
and had a whopper jr
and that whopper jr
was the worst whopper jr
i had ever had

i was so distraught
about having wasted the ten dollars
he gave me, on such a horrible meal
that i went back and asked for my money back
which they refused

so i pulled out uncles gun
and robber burger king
for the ten dollars
that my dad had given me
just to be nice

“boy”
pink fairy says

i push face off the floor
and have to really push
cause the dried up blood
has basically glued me to it

i feel some ripping as i push
and sit myself up against what’s
left of the wall

“this is for you”
she says

she hands me
a whopper jr

“eat it, please”
she says

“shut up you stupid bitch”
i scream

and i chase her down
and cut off her other hand
and eat that instead

MY LAST DAYS IN HELL

with all the walls knocked down
and the big black vortex swirling
in the backyard, i sit where the
living room used to be and just
take it all in

the pink fairy just watches me
with those unblinking eyes

“isn’t it beautiful”
i tell her

i sigh
get up
and walk over to the vortex

“boy, this is not how”
the pink fairy says

but i keep walking forward
the ripping and gurgling sounds
drowning everything else out

so close now i can feel my essence
slowly leaking away from me
and staring into the depth of the pit
it’s so frightening that the adrenaline
of it all becomes a fuel pushing me forward

“boy, do not”
the pink fairy yells

she stands just behind me

“it’s so intoxicating”
i tell her

“that is the bad thing, please do not”
the fairy yells

i look back into the pit
and reflect


my dad never bailed me out of jail
in fact, he didn’t take a single one of my calls

after a month in jail waiting for the trial
i wound up getting released
on the condition i complete
6 months of state provided counseling

i only made it to a single counseling session
and when i got home
uncle asks me how it went

“good”
i say

“hey, you wanna help me finish up dinner?”
he asks

he’s making burgers and tots
so i wash my hands and he has
me start prepping the gauc

“so what did you guys talk about?”
uncle asks

” my mom, i guess”
i say

“yea? what else?”
he asks

“and my dad.”
i say

“that fucking asshole. i knew i shouldn’t have let you get involved with him. i’m sorry kid”
he says

i cut the tomatos into small bits
to into the gauc

“well what else? did it help to get some things off your chest?”
uncle asks

“yea, it helped me put some things into perspective”
i say

“well hey, that’s something ain’t it? hey after you cut the onions could you go start the grill.”
he says

later that night
holding the chefs knive
uncle gave me for my 16th birthday
i start panicking

what if it could be different
what if it hurts
what if this is it

i remember what the therapist said
when i told her i was having suicidal thoughts
she said

“that’s the bad way to deal with your stressors”

oh
i guess it is, isn’t it

the pink fairy tries to hold my hand
with her little stubs

“favorite boy, listen”
she says

“everybody always says, there’s a better way”
i tell her

“but i’m not looking for better, i’m looking for the best”

tears swell in her eyes

“i’m sorry please, do not go boy”
she pleads

i kneel down
and wipe the tears from her face

“all the sorries in the world can’t change the way salt tastes”
i tell her

“what?”
she asks

“well, some things are the way they are. the sky is blue, hell is the worst, and i never should have existed.”
i tell her

“wrong, boy is wrong. we can try another way, please”
she says

“you want me to be happy?”
i ask her

she shakes her head yes

“you want me to fix myself?”
i ask her

“yes boy, that is the good thing”
she says

“well, that’s what i’ll do then”
i say

she smiles
like she used to
145 days ago

and thats when i kiss her goodbye
and run into the vortex

a portal
to someplace,
something better

Shane Allison

Scott Won’t Stop Talking about Farrio’s Dick

Scott talks about Farrios dick as if it’s launched a thousand ships. 
Going on about its thickness, the curve of it,
Yet when I showed him mine,
He gave me one his big Georgia smiles and said, that’s awesome man, good for you. 
As if I got an A on my science project or something.
Four months out of the closet and he’s already a size queen. 
Farrio does nothing for me,
Doesn’t move my dick like some men do. 
I was at one of Brandon’s after club sex parties
The first time I saw Farrio’s cock dressed in black briefs. 
Anthony and I were invited.
I think he just wanted to see Brandon’s dick in person
Outside of Snap chat videos. 
Luckily, I wasn’t that drunk
And Brandon and his boyfriend John, didn’t live
Too far from the bar. 
My only wish was to get John’s dick in my mouth,
To maybe push my face between the furry cheeks 
Of his Minnesota ass. 
Freeloader Anthony rang the doorbell. 
Some typical blonde boy answered.
I had seen him at the bar before. 
Some drag queen apprentice of Jessa’s I think.
Most were sitting outside on the back patio
With damn near nothing on as if they had done this before. 
John looked good enough to eat 
Walking around in his underwear, holding a bong. 
Such a cute cub with his thick, well-trimmed beard and Pizza-Hut belly.
He, Brandon and Farrio were the only three I knew by name. 
I had seen Brandon’s dick a few times at the local sex arcade
Being stuffed in someone’s mouth through a glory hole.
It’s pretty, but I never tasted it. 
I’m not much for sloppy seconds in a time of COVID 19.
But for Freeloader Anthony, Brandon’s dick was the kind that kept him up nights.
John’s ass was the sort that kept my mouth watering. 
Farrio went out back to join the other chicken cutlets.
We sat on the couch admiring the Eden of boys with their bulbous bulges.
Two men took things upstairs
While a couple of others began to play 
In a nearby room.
Things were going better than I expected 
Until I pulled out my phone to show a pic of my dick. 
That’s it!?! Some guy said, whom I had never seen before.
As if my dick is somehow detachable and comes with an assortment of sizes. 
I wasn’t much for partying after that and wanted to leave.  
It was late, and I was too drunk and sleepy 
For insults on what the good Lord gave me. 
Freeloader Anthony sat there staring stupidly anyway.
Come on, Anthony. Let’s go. They don’t want our fat asses.
It wasn’t the blowjobs under blue sky encounters I was used to, 
But at least I got this poem out of the experience.

Marc Normal

The Fly

Fish on the Ice Counter

my living eye
clear curious
found its dead eye
milky sad
its slack line mouth
slightly open
fins
little pieces
of cellophane
a fly wandered across its dry back,
and I said
sorry,
cousin.

Fly Life

Sticking to the wallpaper
washing its front legs
the fly looks like
it’s saying a prayer
but really it’s thinking
about a dead fish
it was recently standing on.

The Fat Man

The fat man lives
at the end of the universe
with his wife
and his diabetes
He squeezes his ass
into his chair
in front of his TV.
He sits there all day
every day.
That day he was sitting there
eyeing the fly
pitched on the peeling wallpaper.
He only got one good eye
so he was watching it with that.
The other stared ahead like a dead fish.
He hates that fly
He hates all flies.
They get on your food
when you aint looking
and
shit vomit piss
suck it all up
and trample over it with their dirty feet.
That’s what the TV told him.
That’s why he sits in his chair
sweating and cursing like a sultan
plastic fly swat in his hand
waiting
waiting for that fly.