Mitch Green

Eaten By God

In lights we are visible to the darker
sectors of a silhouetted branch of
man. Whirling rifts of smoke,
bail in bold grey like clouded chalk.
Pale masculinity mulled over in sequence
of the suspicious novelty blown up before
his beak and crooked cock; the white
denim love affair.

Unmarked boulevards gored bare a
valley of victims. The channeling
chasm led us here ahead of our
triangular transgressions barking badly.
Escorting the figure of smoke to waft
out, like spider on wire.

Spear the clout of wind to stalk the tender
variables of whining women spilling out
of open windows, manholes, and the mouth
of Osiris.

He who cannot be beat,
must be eaten by God. 

J.J. Campbell

the poet took over

twenty-five years
since one chapter
of my life faded
into the next one

the pay was better
but the hours fucking
sucked

a few too many nights
closing down bars
instead of clocking
in and eventually
the poet took over

now the creep is
hoping his winning
lottery ticket gets
pulled one of these
nights

pacing a small
room

broken down
television

and endless amounts
of shit scribbled on
page after page

this is what happens
when the smart kid
decides he doesn’t
want to make money
for someone else

David Estringel

little deaths

We implode—
explode—
in raptures
of liquid light
that set the skin
to sizzle on the spit
like slow-cooked meat,
pulled apart
in greedy clutches,
peeling
skin from skin,
limb from limb,
sinew from bone
until all is gone,
fallen away
in shreds
and trickles.
Tongues prodding,
hungrily,
for the taste of coppery bliss
of chewed lips,
these beautiful bodies—
diminished
heartbeats and exhales
of viscera and vasculature
with eyelids, aflutter—
fade
into black, into white—
dick-teasing,
mind-fucking
strobes of abstract consciousness.
hand-in-hand,
together,
we die
little deaths,
again…
again…
and again—
every morning, a resurrection.

Maté Jarai

Chomping

I’ve got holes in my skin
where feathers used to be
mind full of wisdom
full of verse
but she’s been cursed
it was a witch on a volcano top:
Gypsy warlock, new-age mage.
No coins, no water, just plastic
like all the other body parts
chowed down by ocean worms
microscopic danger-like premonitions
chewed up body parts and chipped faces
no lips and noses, eyes and ears,
holes, crevices, craggy forms,
plugged up feather holes
filled with a million dead rabbits
from a million false-bottom
top hats as only the ancient
chuckle onwards and clap
in sweet oblivious ignorance.

John Tustin

The Wolves Are at The Door

The wolves are at the door
I can hear them howl
Scratching at the floor
Mouths are sharp and foul

In here all alone
Just a skeleton in skin
Mere flesh upon the bone
I know they’re getting in

I’ll miss my loving daughter
And my understanding son
Thinking as I’m slaughtered
That the predators have won

No more will I hold you near
Your love dissolving hate
I shed my clothes, I shed my fear
And just accept my fate

The wolves have breached the barricades
The shit has hit the fan
My eyes are blood, all feeling fades
Turns out I’m just a man

Cee Martinez

it’s common sense to swallow

I took three spells and split them with roses
spit take the outtake from this it reveals
the pains in the way I strain to avoid
the ideas that might make
your sperm take root

first swallow

the common sense that tastes
of salt and self sacrifice

money shot

the sticky and dry you rinse
at a sink and blink
to the moment
you didn’t let it in your ass

that pass was the slip into quim
and the moment you’re praying
for a nuclear arsenal
to erase any traces
of him

Mitch Green

Arson Doves

Perplexed to prolapse the bargain of beast.
Haven coerced by gloom of grey spit.
Shadow the sheen veins of aroma to frighten.

The damsel underneath cold coal shivers.
qualm the gills of goading heresy.
Be it a boy to wander the passage of the passenger.

Anatomical wonder.
Bed wetting worry.
Just as the anthill billows; the
lips of love swallows.

Jab beauty hideously to
unravel diamonds.
and give birth to dead doves
in arson fields.

Anthony Dirk Ray

Waiting Room

in the crowded room
waiting on the second
nerve pill to kick in
surrounded by
young and old
black and white
men and women

I don’t think the old black women
are here for a vasectomy
it is a gender fluid world now
so I could be wrong

maybe they have trouble peeing
what if their occupation
was that of a degrading dominatrix
specializing in water sports
the inability to pass urine
would be affecting their income
and livelihood

it could be a tax write off

 

Richard Faircloth

She’s a Lot Better Than Me…

… and I knew that.
christ!
so why did I climb into the ring with her?
really?!
and why is the bar always jumping
when you’re getting your ass whupped, gloves off,
“… the hell were you thinking?”
by the sexiest woman?
“don’t you ever think?
not deeply enough…
“god damn you!”
that’s a righteous right hook…
“you are such a…”
and a stinging jab…
“I should cut your…”
below the belt, but the ref doesn’t call it,
just pours me another shot
“… can’t believe…”
that smells like guilt,
“… back of my truck – my truck… ”
and tastes like eighty-proof stupidity,
“… my own fucking sister??!

(also known as my boss’s wife…)

my corner man slaps another beer on the bar,
trying to stanch those cuts, but
ass-hole!”
the bell rings too soon,
“fucking pig!
and the next punch
“mother-fucking liar!”
really connects.
god, she’s beautiful.
she telegraphs the next combination,
but I’m too proud to duck:

fuck
(full wind-up bitch-slap)
you!!

and the fight’s over –
I hit the floor,
she hits the door,
and the crowd goes wild.