Mendes Biondo

The Charlatan Song for The Great Burlesque

c’mon you fool
get into this circus
I know you want it
I know you’re waiting
to see saggy tits
swinging from a martini glass
demons dancing all round
a rock’n’roll song
played by green men
with shining bellies

we love gonzos
their eyes are like velvet gloves
for the curves of our dancers
they follow dunes of skin
gonzos you are the blessed folk

c’mon you fool
you’re drunk
you’re made
you’re sweating delicious
you’re bloody horny
we got all kinds of
lollipops of lust

young girls
thin and smooth
old men in tuxedos
jazzing all night long
mature women
giving you the pulp of life

don’t be shy
this the holy fruit
it’s not a sin at all
short is time of this show
so open your eyes
drink in the pot
of our lovely witches

sabbath are for oldies
we shake the earth
on a wooden stage
it’s burlesque baby
and I’m here to say

c’mon you fool
get in and enjoy

Niklas Stephenson

Speed Junkie’s Carousel

the sun comes up
as I fall deep down into the rabbit hole
of drunken stupor
at the crossroads of my soul.
Let me sleep, devil!
I’ll take a ride on
the speed junkie’s carousel
behind closed eyelids
and wait for
the hellhounds to start chasing
me through the day
towards my misery
and the next drinks
with the devil patiently waiting.

Alan Catlin

She had fuck

the world tattooed
in scrolled lettering
on her neck, foxy
lady on her exposed
left shoulder, sexy
in bold gold CAPS
within her gold hoop
earrings. I wondered
what else she had
written on her body
no one could see
through her form
fitting shift & how
much it would cost
to find out

John Grey


a dragonfly
in sticky strands
of web

a spider
slithering down
to investigate

I rate this
just below
my victim
in a back alley

but well above
screaming obscenities
at some stranger
in the street

Randall Rogers

At My Foundation’s Weakest Point

there are dimensions
design flaws
cerebral pathways
traveled recklessly
tripping in youth
thoughts thunk
freaking myself out
My heart! Help!
I don’t want to jump
I don’t want to have to die!

Aqeel Parvez

balloon animals and puppet shows

my cock is a giant inflatable
balloon animal. hot and pissing,
squealing all over the world.
all the dead presidents and
generals ride it like a surfboard
right into a burning 9/11 tower
inferno. hell they tongue it
all the way down, squeal with
pleasure and moan, while my piss
only serves to enrage the fire.
all the leaders are in there Kim Jong,
Trump, May, Corbyn, all the politicians
and all the bum brained cunts
who follow them.
stinking burning flesh and skin
yes the political right and
the political left burn burn burn,
oh it feels so goood.

Ian Copestick

Won’t You Come?

Won’t you come with me, knock on the door
See the other side of the ouija board
See what’s on the other side of death
What happens after our final breath

What happens when the darkness arrives
Once we’ve finished with our lives
Are we reborn, reincarnated
Or is it all gone, just wasted

Just to rot under the ground
Hope I get another go round
Knowing all that I know now
In another life somehow

But of course, that will never be
Things never go that way for me
I’d return as an amoeba, just one cell
And it would serve me right as well

David Boski

A Piece of Paper

I walked into the apartment
and she looked at me steaming,
holding up a piece of paper
and said: “what the fuck is this?”
“I don’t know, what is it?” I replied
genuinely confused. “David, you wrote
a poem about your fucking ex!” she
shouted. “I don’t know, did I?”
I asked as I reached for the paper.

“Oh, this is old, who cares, and why
the fuck did you read it to begin with?”
I said. “I needed to use a notepad, and
I found it, and you’re writing poems about
having sex with your fucking ex” she said
as her eyes began watering and she became
even more hysterical. “Who gives a shit?
it’s not even flattering; I talk about how bad
the sex was, who gives a fuck!” I said raising
my voice, growing frustrated with her theatrics.

Eventually after some more shouting, back and
forth, about a poem I had forgotten, we made peace.
I crumpled up the paper and I told her I wouldn’t write
anymore poems about any of my exes, and that’s exactly
who she is now too; so, I guess I lied.

Niklas Stephenson

Going for a swim in puke

Swimming in my own pool of puke reminded me of masturbation
because her throwing up on me was love.
Why else did she do it?
That’s what she said: “It’s love, baby!”
and I wanted to drink the entire universe
and puke all over the stars,
the earth and drink puke to puke it out all over
my ecstatic body
and then smoke a cigarette of puke
because I love them.
And her.
And you.
And myself.

Robin Ray

What a Difference Fool Comma Makes

I’ll blow up, America.
Seasons of posturing kaput.
Obscurity eradicated from my
dictionary, name carved on
sidewalks, Wikipedia entry in
braille. Television regular.
Pepsodent-whitened smile on
the cover of People magazine.

I’ll blow up America.
FBI on my trail like hellhounds,
hands trembling, throat too full
to swallow. Shackles, interrogations,
Public Enemy No. 1. Hangman
salivating like a hyena at the gallows.
May get unwanted kudos from ISIS,
won’t ever witness a sunrise again.

I killed, Eleanor Rigby.
No more living in a dream.
Standing room only, rafter-
quaking encores, tinnitus-inducing.
applause. Temporarily blinded
by eager flashbulbs. Management
pleased. Contract renewed for a
fortnight. Finally, headliner.

I killed Eleanor Rigby.
The Beatles, particularly un-pleased.
An icon erased. Friends, family.
public, disappointed. Constabulary
reigned me in, fed me swill when
generous, changed my name to
Solitary Con, where I’ll spend the
rest of my forfeited life.

I ate, my love.
Rice pilaf Caribbean style, even
microwaved, Michelin-level cuisine.
Thoughtful, her remembering me,
she, suddenly called to work. Sun
won’t set on her generosity. That
tune she hears? No fantasy. Just
me singing her praises.

I ate my love.
Recipe on loan from the head chef
at Le Bistro Borneo. Should have
marinated longer, still gamey.
Fricasseed next time? Maybe paired
with chianti. Goes best with red meat.
Hannibal would know. He was my
guest for dinner.