Category: Poetry

Joshua Jordan

Girlie Games

Games are my thing
I could go all night
Yesterday, lube and beads
Today, its handcuffs and keys,
What do you think,
want to bite?
I must warn you though
If you fail to meet my needs
There are consequences
You definetly will not like
Okay then, get ready to play
here are my rules
They are really quite simple:

Keep your eyes on me
As I spread myself wide
Watch my pussy dripping wet,
isn’t it gleaming?
My hand descends
As I separate the folds
Sticky juices are inviting you in
See my fingers that work with skill
I play myself
As if a priceless violin
Jerk it, come on jerk it you fuck!
Then just before, stop yourself from spilling
And then stick it right in

How long can you hold yourself back
Once my cunt swallows your dick?
Wait first for my explosion
If you want any chance at satisfaction

Play my game, play with me
Can you be a man and not cum
Until told?
While I tighten on you and lock you in
You attempt to hold it back
You don’t want to be like a teen
Your body wants to betray you
As I game you so wickedly
Your torture makes me high
So I cheat just a little
It’s like you are meditating
As if you are trying to sustain
When suddenly a finger pierces
your ass, sliding up to your surprise
My nail finds your button
massaging you to a frenzy
I laugh, oh how I shriek
As I watch your face betrayed
It’s so far beyond priceless!
You cannot hold back now
Your seed will scatter wide
But as you prepare to shoot
My foot pushes you back
And out of me
just before you can complete
I watch in delight as you spill
Not inside of me as you planned
But just there on the sheets
To bad for you, it doesn’t feel nearly as good
When you cum on a mattress instead
of my insides
What a disappointment
You are no man

As you sit there humiliated
Crying in silent grief

Don’t fret little baby
Here’s my consolation
Shove my soaking panties
In your mouth, taste what you couldn’t receive
Then slip them on you girlie girl
Your journey towards becoming a pussy
Is now complete
remember, love, remember
I warned you at the start
Games have rules
and you already knew
That in my bed
I like to play
And my amusements end
The way I desire
In this case
With you losing
Your most precious
masculinity

 

Bogdan Dragos

you cannot kill a poet

young people,

they think nobody has the
same thoughts as them
they take great pride in some made up
originality

as if really nobody ever thought up
scenarios of themselves descending
some rope from some helicopter and
dropping in the middle of enemy forces and
starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an shit
and killing all the bad guys while not
taking one bullet
One man army

or there’s those other thoughts
of being simply the greatest at some
sport and being admired and envied for it

also, the thoughts of sex in all its forms

the thoughts of mindless violence

of saving the day

of being somewhere else and doing something else

all kinds of thoughts
and all the minds who think them label them as original

but they’re not original

they’re every young person’s thoughts

and me,
I also have thoughts I consider original

I think of how it is to be old
pretty much every damn day
I think of me being old and dried up and weak
and waiting for death

it’s not a very pleasant thought
especially for someone in their twenties
but it’s my way of labeling my thoughts original

maybe in some wheel chair
with a nurse pushing me from behind no kids
no family
no fortune
no achievements
a life wasted
death watching from above
mockingly

and myself looking up at it
smiling
Motherfucker, you think you got me
but little do you know that
while I was able, while I was more lively than
a rotting carrot
I defied you by ripping apart pieces of me
that will stick with the world
long after I’m gone

Oh, they might not be great pieces or even good ones
but behind they remain as you take me away

and all of them branded with my name
It’s through them that I am
immortal

and there’s nothing you can do about it

great, good or bad,
you cannot kill a poet

 

Kristopher William Locke

A DISGRACE ON DISPLAY

Sit / Let me hear you wheeze / Don’t blurt
words that mean diddly to me / Give me
the growl / Noises from within / What do
you reckon when you gaze this face? This
map of creases / A display of disgrace / If
I proclaimed that I wasn’t afraid to put my
hands in the dirt, to love until it hurts, would
you believe me? If I told you the reversed
was true, would you still hang around to see?
See, I’ve been wearing these tattered wears for
years / Countless times they have betrayed
me / Controlled by some ill-fated compass /
Moving up, south, right, west / It’s a dangerous
game to go with the brain instead of that silly
thing inside yr chest / And yes, I know / This
hat / It’s really not destined for me / But if
I can be him for a minute or two then surely
I can become closer to you / Don’t bother
trying to tally the rings rung under these two
tired eyes / I’m merely on memoir eight of
the promised nine lives / If only you weren’t
too slow to recognize / That these tales I
tell are only tall stories / A series renewal of
short white lies / Still, I am thankful / For yr
stupidity / And my simple histories / I hope
you shut up and lay down with me / Because
the coffee is weak / And so are the knees.

J.J. Campbell

this red death

if my pain is
supposed to
be a white ball
of healing light,

then what is this
red death i taste
upon my tongue

i gave up on god
when god gave
up on me

the fools will look
at me and wonder
while some sage
will stumble by,
drinking out of a
brown paper bag,
giving me the look
that he understands
completely

and the laughing
man will dance
in a thunderstorm
asking for the
lightning to strike
once again

tempt fate young
man

learn to play the
saxophone and
let that lonely tune
drift into the ether

soon a strange woman
will saunter into your
life and you’ll understand
pain, love and why lawyers
make so much damn money
on divorce cases

 

James Diaz

The Way We Breathe in The Night

“You’ll start looking for answers,
You’ll start looking where you hurt.” 

-Matthew Ryan

How many times I’ve felt that way too
my dear, like there is almost no crossing
the river this time around, not enough hope
to go into town with

These eyes burning from
who knows where I’ve been, to some glorious star
you once heard dreams were made on
when you were young, but you’re not exactly
that anymore, are you

Still listening to the sound
of the bullshit from down the hall?

Don’t you know that you don’t have to have built it
to take it apart, that voice that won’t let you forget—
the loud ache(rs) who lit into you like a heavy prize fighter
kicking in doors cause no one ever taught them how to love

Forgiveness isn’t that pretty, it’s no high-shelf stuff
Who can even reach it at this time of night,
who can help but try?

 

Johnny Scarlotti

Untitled 6/17/11

i operate the weight machine
at the gym
i watch the veins
come out of my arms

i am magnificent

i look at myself in the mirror
i lift my shirt
and see my ripped up abs
i smile real big

then the arms of the machine come to life
and i’m tackled to the ground
and all of my clothes get torn off
and the machine has sex with me
woah
a nice thick handlebar into my asshole

i breathe hard into the mirror
as it’s happening – i draw with my finger into the fog
HELP

ah
ah
ah
stop

and take pictures
then i post them on instagram
caption: help i’m being raped

then i’m being dragged out of the gym
by a group of meatheads
i’m told i am banned for life
and the police are coming
they say i’m in a lot of trouble

what the freaking heck!? i was the victim!!!
your machines are rapists!!!
they say it was the other way around
they got it all on camera

i’m being set up!!!
i escape their grips and outrun them
they are slow because their muscles are so large
i get in my car

two of them get into a car and try to follow
but i’ve seen Drive with Ryan Gosling like 10 times
i lose them easily

all my clothes were left at the gym in tatters
and i don’t have any in my car
just a couple mcdonald’s bags
and some tape
i make it work

i pull up to my apartment
as i’m walking up the steps
some kids across the street scream “freeeeaaaaaaak”

but nobody fucking disrespects me
and gets away with it

REEEEEEEE!!! i scream and charge

but my mcdonald’s bags fly off
and my dick and balls are flopping around
the kids shriek and flee
ahhhh my nuts
i gotta hold them so they stop banging against my legs

CHICKENS!!! i scream after them

i feel good
i won the fight!
real good
i sprint back home

my key isn’t working again
so i break in through a window again

my girlfriend’s on the couch, she gets up
runs and screams down the hallway
‘HE’S BACK, THE CREEP IS BACK!’

‘NO ROSE, IT’S ME!’ i scream after her
‘IT’S ME, JACK’

a door opens
i freeze
a man holding a shotgun
walks toward me
and blasts

***

From: It’s Getting Harder and Harder To Tell the Two of You Apart

 

Kristopher William Locke

INNER INQUIRIES

OPTION 1:

We discuss

fourth chakra primaries

Where the Maybes

meet the Possiblies

Greetings on the same side

of the—sand line—

Minus the me / hers / his

my / mines

Ideas clacking like hooves

at some bourboned derby

Halos of the ultimate spinning

like holy frisbees

Positivity streams

rushing through

the streets of our

inner cities

Sweetening the bitters with a litter of letters

peeling back the circused layers

Until all that is left are citrused sun-kissed pinky swears

OPTION 2:

I take a hammer to it all

Alan Catlin

The Other Side of Nowhere New York

She spent her time between
Long Island and Paradise and
he divided his between New York
and Never Never Land, their primary
functions in life: clubbing, texting,
doping and screwing, often all at
the same time, like performers in
a new kind of Wild Wild West Show
on the Lower East Side of a depleted
ozone layer in their brains curdling like
milk left in the sun so long the smell
was just this side of Johnny Rotten three
days dead and unattended, a rankness
that went unnoticed by everyone that
they came in contact with, all suffering,
as they were, from the same kind of disease
of inattention and excess, all claiming
to know the real story of what happened
with Syd and Nancy, how the body double
died and the happy couple escaped upstate
to do time in the foothills of the Adirondacks
and the Twilight Zone.

Gwil James Thomas

An Extinction Poem,
Written After Waking
Early One Morning

Buried beneath
dinosaur wishbones
and the rubble
of empires,
grains of sand
move through an
ancient hourglass,
as the sky
turns blood red,
fruit flies fuck on
the ceiling
of a sultry
motel room,
watching
humans
breed beneath
them
while muttering –
great that’s all 
the world needs 
another human,
realising that
those words
will be lost in time,
as will these words
and all our words.

Have a nice day – 
I’m going back 
to sleep.