David Estringel

Coffeehouse Romance

I see you,
alone,
reading Raymond Carver
at a table for two.
Straight, black hair—
lightly greased—
falling in your face.
You brush it away,
saving a page
with your right thumb,
I notice
the smoothness
of your hands,
the fullness
of your fingers.
Your eyes
are lost in ugly life—
I think they are brown.
The angles
and curves
of your face
sing
in their own silent poetry.
You turn a page.
I long
to dip my face
into your cupped hands
and drink in
the smell of you.
To taste the sweat of your palms.
To kiss the fingertips
that have touched
the sum of your parts.
You catch my eye
so I look away.
You keep reading.
I wonder—
for a moment—
what it’s like
to be that chair.
You close your book
and get up to leave.
Passing me by—
warm—
smelling
of faded cologne
and sweaty jeans,
I devour you
at every inhale.
You leave me,
unaware
that for a moment
you
were everything
that mattered—
my cathedral—
and with the ghosts of fingerprints
lingering upon my tongue.

 

(Originally published at Cajun Mutt Press)

Jack Henry

stuck in traffic at 530am on my way to work

traffic’s bad today
well, at least, worse than usual
i don’t like using the word worse in a poem
but this time
it fits

the usual traffic is a soul sucker
read in Time Magazine
your lifespan decreases a minute
for every minute you sit in traffic

locked in a metal box
all us lemmings queued up
inch by miserable fucking inch
we go

every day i almost die in traffic
the lunatic fringe surrounds me
maniacs race for every foot forward
brake lights flicker like sparklers on the Fourth of July
Death Race 2000 on speed

this morning
i pulled next to a young entrepreneur
in a new BMW
leaving 100-foot gaps between cars
i scream my profanities
but he just smiles languidly

his co-pilot performs fellatio at 530am
his head bobbing, up and down
i can’t imagine performing fellatio
at 530am in the morning
stuck in traffic

i’m not opposed to fellatio in a car
in traffic on a freeway
but at 530am i am pretty much
opposed
to everything

Ian Copestick

It’s Happening

It’s happening tonight in the local estate
It’s happening in the council houses
As people wobble home in an inebriated state
Fall asleep as they drop their trousers

The fog is licking at the windows
It’s sniffing at the doors
It’s sneaking through the keyholes
Bringing something not seen before

Escaped from hidden army base
Only a few miles out of town
Clean-up crew, to the scene they race
They’ve got to shut this fucker down.

In the estate, some people stir
Upon hearing an eerie growling
They see their loved ones covered in fur
Enjoying their disembowelling

Only a few houses could have been infected
At least, they hope that’s it
The inhabitants must be inspected
And dealt with as is seen fit

In the morning, the fog will be recovered
Several citizens  “removed ”
When their disappearance is discovered
The neighbours will simply be told, they moved.

Thumper Devotchka

Break

We take a break,
or more so,
you take a break
from me.
And I pretend
to be more patient
then I actually
will be.

We’re on a break,
and I feel pretty
broken up
about it.

Separate rooms,
separate minds,
and separate paths.

If I could date my twin,
I would,
but I wouldn’t really.
I’m an awful selfish thing,
and I’d need
a whole lot more
than she could give.

Give you back
all the pedestals
you’re always falling off of.
If only I’d have known better,
I could have helped
you down.

We’re on a break,
and my crown of thorns
is breaking.
I was certain
I was meant
to be a martyr,
and then you went
and died for
my sins.

Restart, begin.
Rewind the time
I once fucked/
was fucked
by him.

My headrush,
my head spins.
Ran out of papers,
outran my old skins.

Benjamin Blake

Explosions of Molten Rock and Teenage Flesh

Beer-soaked dreams
of topless girls
And dormant mountain tops
suddenly awakened

Ash drifted down
upon the old town streets
As we walked arm in arm
a newfound love
amidst impending cataclysm

But I take what I can get
In this doomed life

Josef Desade

Restless Thoughts, Lustful Somnambulism

Oh, to taste a thousand deaths upon bended knee,
Eyes wide; drowning within temptation’s sea,
Head lowered; bound by this devilry,
Tasting the bittersweet honey of debauchery,
Butterfly kisses; lash of the belt,
Euphoric tears; heavenly welts,
Rising and falling; a tide between spread legs,
Whispered pleas; for blissful sensation beg,
As the stage is set; the curtain drawn,
Flesh, the canvas, carnal desire is bestowed upon,
A shudder, a whimper; spent and sighing,
A little death; a ritual, purifying.

David Estringel

Blue Room

Nights
are hardest to bear,
alone,
atop these unwashed sheets
that smell of you and me,
still,
crinkled and heavy
with ghosts
of you and me—
our sweat and loving juices.
I am tethered
to flashes of smiles and kisses
that linger
beneath the sweetness
of heated exhales.
To smell your breath,
again,
and taste you
on the back of my tongue.
To pull you into me
by the small of your back
and sink
into the warmth of white musk–
a tangle of tongues, fingers, and limbs.
To have you—
know you—
again,
inside
and out
is all I want.
Need.
Laying here,
drowning
in us,
my legs brush against the cold
rustle of sheets
you left behind,
cutting the airlessness
of this room.
Rolling over,
I close my eyes
and sink my face into the depths
of your pillow,
escaping the void
that even silence’s ring has forgotten,
and take you
in,
drowning
in us,
this lover’s kaddish.
The scent of your hair—
blue fig and oranges—
and spit
are but pebbles on the gravestone.

 

(Originally published at Former People Journal)

Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

Adult Teenagers on DMT

Adult teenagers on DMT
are first dates where we fucked
fifteen minutes after speaking to the “entities,”
behind the gas station near the Olive Garden.
And later on we ate breadsticks with dilated eyes
like earth angels. In and out of both experiences, inhabiting the bone,
we were spaghetti jesters, crested like a crown. Then, after,
both of us pissed in an alcove near the subway
trying to get home, and we couldn’t be cool or carefree
but we could disassociate deliciously while
while the rolling tongues inside of our mouths
were bowling balls
like how teens used to actually bowl, like,
in the 1950s or something,
but you and I keep the bumpers down
so no matter what we’re always winners.