Big Joke

If there were humor in violence,
he’d chuckle at the set-up,
crazed fingers roped around
that marble blade festooned
with the goatish grins
of fat-tongued Babylonian gods,
and the telling would have
him in spittle-splashed stitches,
the hand jerked back.
like pulling on an invisible bow,
blade rising above his head
in tittering expectation,
mouth pulling hard against
a stiletto-toothed grin,
and the punch-line would
shatter his violent calm
to such an explosive degree
he’d be rolling on the floor
in a zephyr of flesh and bone,
writhing beside her,
move for move, note for gargled note,
swimming in the laughter
of her blood.

River House Blues,
By Mendes Biondo
49 pages

A carousel of surreal characters flowing along a river of souls. Lovers, hunters, gamblers, and even lady death herself all make an appearance in this powerful new book of poems from Mendes Biondo.

Mendes is the Mount Vesuvius of poetry, the lava burning every page, smouldering with honesty and sex and dreams and characters from the Wild West. The smoke of humour and insight permeate throughout this chapbook. Mendes Biondo is a poet of flames and every stroke of his pen scorches, delights and sometimes shocks the imagination but always snares the reader’s attention. A poet whose reputation continues to grow.

—John D Robinson, Holy&intoxicated Publications

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cartoonist

Dad was fat all his life
Obese
He couldn’t do a lot of things.
Walk without special help
Bathe
Climb stairs
Sit in a normal chair
Drive a normal car
Sleep in a normal bed
And say “I love you, son.”

To draw those words out
of his dad he became a cartoonist,
but that also failed.

And now that his father
was dead,
collapsed face down
on the kitchen floor,
blood seeping out of a head wound,
he struggled to turn him over
on his back
and dipped his finger in the blood
and drew a speech bubble
next to his father’s head
and wrote in it the famous words.

Finally.
“I love you too, dad.”

Never Getting to Pensacola

I left work one evening
and stopped to get gas.
while I was pumping gas,
I observed a man wearing
a fedora, leather jacket,
and pajama pants trying to
get a ride by hitchhiking.
I saw what looked like a
puppy on his shoulder.
then I noticed the red cone,
beak, and feathers.

I thought, this fucker
will never get a ride
with a goddamned live
chicken on his shoulder.
I lost sight of him

and walked inside to
buy an espresso beverage.
upon exiting,
I heard a voice say,
“hey my man, can I
put gas in your truck?
I’m trying to get close
to Pensacola.”
I’m sure he noticed the 5
on my tag denoting that
I lived across the bay
in that general direction.
I looked at the man.
I looked up at his chicken,
then back at him and said,
“I’m sorry, I’m not going that way.”
then,
I got in my truck
and went that way.

Could Have Been

Everything looks nicer
from the outside,
doesn’t it?
Coloured pillows
and layers of blankets,
warmer than it really is.

Inside, underneath
things are covered
in who we could
have been.

Everything looks pretty
from the outside,
doesn’t it?
Coloured lips
and layers of friendship,
colder than it could
have been.

She tells me this is dirty:
the lack of space, the way I taste,
the clothes we forgot to wash
while trying to wash
away our sins.

There’s never enough time
or length between
the last mistake
and that’s why
you sleep next to me
and not with me
anymore.

No Place To Be, By Tohm Bakelas
Holy&Intoxicated Publications

Treading within the shadows of suburban tarmac, into a vanishing point that disappears upon each realisation that, there is No Place To Be. Tohm Bakelas finds a strange and confusing state between hope and isolation, where optimism decays in the perception of itself as a driving force to survive. A perception that is ever-present in our dead-end society.

— Lucy Wilkinson: editor/publisher of Death of Workers Whilst Building Skyscrapers Press

$5:00 / £5:00 / €5:00

Sales and inquiries:
johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

Bakelas finds the poems hiding in the quotidian, either skinning them alive to get to their core – or by picking them up and cradling them with a distinct tenderness. Although he maintains a strong voice when he hands these poems over to us, Bakelas does so in a way that takes a step back – allowing us to truly examine something and in turn even ourselves. No Place To Be acts as a taster menu for anyone not yet familiar with Bakelas work, or a much needed fix for anyone that’s been left craving for more.

— Gwil James Thomas: poet, writer, and inept musician.

Pussy

some men will do
almost anything
for a fine piece of pussy.

some men like legs,
and would crawl through
shit stained barbed wire
if given the chance.
just to gaze at long legs
and shapely calves in
high heels.

other men like ass,
I am one of those men.
I like my asses round and
sculpted and jiggly when
spanked. I like something
to grab and keep grabbing.
now I wouldn’t get in the
ring with Canelo for 12
rounds just for a great ass,
but I would and do other
small things like
make slick jokes and
cook dinner once in a while
or wash the dishes etc.

now some men they like
a big jiggly pair of tits.
bouncing pillows,
pink nipples,
cleavage.
and these men may be
the most hungry,
they would sniff n lick a
homeless fellas balls
to cop a feel,
or shove a hedgehog
up their ass
just to have one breast
in their mouth
let alone two.

there are many other
things men like about
women’s bodies. their
faces, stomach, feet,
eyes, lips.

and some men let the
pursuit of women consume
their lives. some men
have a thirst that is
unquenchable and they
go through women like
Messi dribbling through
the lines.

all in all. it’s an elemental
tangle. two bodies, two hearts
one cock, 3 major holes to
insert into.

endless bodies. countless
women. boundless
opportunity.

it’s all quite a rush
to be honest
to talk about
to think about
to do.

criminal, an occupation

a discreet kiss
on a sunday
morning

a cup of coffee
paper at your
feet

two birds battling
the wind outside
the window

enjoy the quiet

chaos is only a
few hours away

and once that
first drop of
sweat races
down your
back

you’ll always
be looking for
whatever is
chasing you

Questions

did you see the star die inside
when the vein crushed
and there was nowhere to push?
did you make a wish?
did you hear the applause
of the dripping blood?
Did you know that suicide
is a work of art,
an expression of resistance,
and your tragic ending
was the begining of mine?
Did you know that when we fucked
I felt every bone shake and shiver
and I wanted to tear off your skin
to see how your insides work?
I am not sure if you really existed
or if you’re just a fantasy
of my induced deliriums,
but why couldn’t you come save me
from the things you put me on,
the needles,
the pipes,
the plastic bags,
the bloody steering wheels,
rusty razors and stolen cars?
Wasn’t it love?
Will I ever be brave enough
for freedom