Peter Magliocco

Mexican Beer

You know nothing matters
But you, the muse who comes and goes leaving me
Thinking about your song & dance performances.
The way your voice quavered
Above the sidewalk sounds,
Or how your fashionably booted feet drummed
Footsteps of doom in my jaded being.
You are the Shade time can’t erase,
The karma chameleon who assumes
Whatever guise or form necessary
To affect me in some way.
At the supermarket as we shopped
The tacky cashier-bitch who totaled-up our groceries
Kept calling me Doll Baby; you didn’t care,
Though her patronizing pissed me off.
Then when we got to my apartment
To drink bad beer I asked you to sing
Like Madonna, to swirl about
In your sexy new Victoria’s Secret outfit
That cost too much, but you insisted
It made you stand out from the crowd.
I asked you to dance and go down on me
& you did all that, your blonde hair
Uncurling with sweat & your body
Swaying through a painful territory,

But Madonna wasn’t there.
Or any Victoria’s Secret model.
Only that damn outfit scattered
In colorful disarray, its thong
A purple-spotted rag
Tied around your throat
So the muse would never
Live to tell.

Eventually you fooled me again, coming
Back to say, “You know nothing really matters,”
Ghost-like,
Wondering where the worm was
At the bottom of the tequila bottle
I couldn’t believe
One of us had killed
The other – with love
(or love    hate    perverted)

 

From: The Underground Movie Poems

Donna Dallas

Evil is on the loose my friend

The world is on fire dear
come sit next to me and let’s
watch it burn
have no sympathy
we can at least
walk through flames
let the fire
scorch our soles
we deserve this burning baptism

lament over our sins
dredge up our treachery
as they roll out the war
in a stampede of hate

I want us to hole in
save food and water
build a bunker
there’s this noose
that attached itself to my neck
at birth
in case of emergency pull
this ripcord
straight to hell

who’s judging anyhow?
martyrs and militias
wrecking groups
the hostiles
the sign above our door says
‘Doom is in the bedroom’
a malingerer
sucks every breath

you don’t know about this do you?
run down the street in droves
I am afraid
not for me ever
but for my children
because when I nestled them
in my nook
and thanked God every day
for their little lives
I did not foresee
humanity unraveling
us back into the dark ages
as if every life does not matter
as if original sin could only affect
certain souls

but honey I tell you
there’s a pyre and I want to run
straight into it
if it would save my children
from this
I would gladly burn myself
to ash

Dennis Villelmi

Sweet Jesus Sausage

The Man born of the Child who always sat at the back
Of the classroom;
Never an astute, but I learned to read, write, and sharpen my knife
Well enough to cut my way through both womb and city into
The state of Forever.

Picture me in the Camp of Beasts.
I, and any given Night don’t get along.
Is your canine sleep more important than my lion’s weeping?
I’m on fire!
It’s a Catholic conflagration and I’m down on my knees
To Lucifer to put it out.

The Doll unwrapped on December 25 is alive!
Soon disfigured by the nuclear family dog and left
In the winter-stunted grass it grows now with a
Butchered prostitute’s soul calling the chewed plastic home.

The Doll puts the questions to God:
‘In what kind of carcass shall I sew myself up anew?
Where in this town is the shop in which you’ll sell me cheap
Again since You can’t by Grace grant me the Grave?’

-Magdalene ‘s Meats-
There the Jesus Sausage is made.
Whether its apostles or civil worms, they all rejoice.
Sweet Jesus!  By each bite we can walk on water, or wine.
Gravity is in the hands of the Damned.

Dave Cullern

Mr Almost

I’ll give up the fags
This evening

The booze in a couple
Of days

Start writing that novel
A week Tuesday, gives me time to buy
A new pen
A new desk
A new chair

I’ll go running in my new running shoes
Next week
Do press ups and sit ups
And squats

I’ll even take the leap
And find a therapist, talk about
Starting fresh, that’s what my problem is,
Probably the week after that

I’ll cook vegetables for my dinner from
The third of next month,
Watch calories from then on,
I’ll probably only have a few a day
After that,
Be skinny by the end of the year

I gave up the class A’s
Yesterday
And I’ve done really well with that

So I think I’m ready to test
The limitations of my ageing body
In multiple ways
Starting first thing next month

I’ll get to doing yoga, magick, meditation
All that eastern stuff
But not until I’ve got all of
This other shit out of the way

I’m not a fucking
Miracle man.

Jacob Ian DeCoursey

Lines Intersecting as Seen from a Bus Stop

It’s 9 am
I’m waiting

A gray February overcast
tints the bus stop
and all surrounding things

Buildings lurch
through frozen sun
between statuesque
pedestrians while
the wind turns
a girl’s hair sideways

That same fucking sedan
beeps three times
while speeding past as
the pavements burst again
with cold pigeons like steam

A man and woman press through
and the woman is screaming

She hurls a whiskey bottle
at his head and
the bottle shatters
against the street

A truck blares its horn
and rolls over the glass

always is such a short time
when we live so long,
sings a distant ambulance

I cover my ears as
the 35 arrives

The doors slide open
and nobody is driving and
the windows are crowded
with demons

 

John Gartland

Freelance

Heavier than any back-pack,
dude, the centrifugal darkness,
of three million murders.
That place has an awesome negative field,
and so does every trash-choked,
blood-soaked kilometre to the Thai border.
The highway bus stops have a bench
of the desperate and dangerous,
and more choking than the stench
of those unspeakable latrines is
the crocodile breath of Marxists,
and embedded Party reptiles,
gorged on graft and carrion,
still slithering among the corpses
stealing all the scenes.

In Phnom Penh you know
the jungle never really left.
A torture vortex, with tourists.
I swore I’d never go back.
And now this invitation
from Cadre Number One,
to edit his self-vindicating fiction.
The ultimate progressive scoop,
one last hubristic loop-the-loop.
And
charismatic journo skills
can sometimes prove the gift
that kills.

Joseph Farley

Hard Candy

After the 200 dollars
had been used up
in his arms,
and after she had
rinsed off, wiped him
clean, helped him
put his clothes
back on, asked
for a bigger tip,
she guided him
by the hand
to the door,
paused at the bar,
scooped up a fistful
of hard candy,
shoved it into
his hand, filled
his pockets to overflowing.

“You come back,”
she said. “You ask
for Mimi.”

He left laden
with treasure,
too much for him,
enough to share
with his children
when they ran out
to greet him,
enough for
the neighbors’ kids,
enough to fill
a dish for guests.
All day suckers
that lingered
on his tongue:
mint, orange, lime.

He went back.
He asked for Mimi.

Daniel S. Irwin

The Reason I Do The Shit I Do

The real reason I do the shit I do
Don’t have nothin’ to do with reason.
I ain’t no Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
The political science geek swore
That Karl and Gracho were not brothers.
He’s just another puckin’ liar like
That Nazi cop with radar up his ass.
My bad, I might have made a good Nazi.
Maybe not….
I ain’t much into blind obedience
And racial purity is just hype bullshit
Proven by the variety of pussy I’ve enjoyed.
Some of the free thinkin’est people
Are those dedicated winos hangin’ out
Down behind the train station.
When they get juiced up,
They spout words of wisdom
Mumbled from toothless mouths
Talkin’ in riddles like ancient oracles.
“Father bless,” I say to the
Sanctified priest.
“Fuck off,” his reply.

Damion Hamilton

All the Asses

On my feed
Tits and ass
Bored and hurting
Scrolling through my phone
On Saturday

Wishing time would slow
Against the coming
Of next week
So I think of tits and asses
And they come
Through my phone
All the tits and ass
Of Instagram

Brown tits, white tits,
Yellow tits, green tits
All the tits and asses
Skinny asses, fat asses
Firm asses, soft asses
Ass that make a man
Be like woah

I remember way back when
Asses weren’t so popular
Now so many women
Show them off for the camera
At home and out in public
Even at the gym
Lifting weights in pursuit
Of better asses

So many asses
With attached smiling faces
This must be what I want
Cos it’s all that’s in my feed
My excitement grows
And grows with each new pic

One ass
Two ass
100 asses
1,000 asses

All the Asses

And all the breasts as well
Big breasts, small breasts
Firm breasts, soft breasts
Heavy breasts on older women
I remember one with breasts
Down to her knees

Two breasts
Four breasts
400 breasts
4,000 breasts

All those goddamn titties
All those pairs of breasts
And that’s on top of
All the asses

Did I forget the legs
So many varied legs
Thin legs, thick legs
Long legs, short legs
Black legs, white legs
All those different legs
Like woah

Donna Dallas

Death Collective

Line my coffin with
the butter-yellow Austrians
from our beach cottage
bedroom with
that cathedral ceiling we loved
to stare up into
forever
Pull some Venetian prisms
off the hundred year old
chandelier that flickered sun-holes
onto us from the window and make
earrings out of them for me please
You can lay me into a mahogany casket
with my black Chanel
the one we bought
on Place Vendome
in the midst of a rain so heavy
it was God upon us
Slip my Louboutins on feet
hard as stone
bend the toes so my arch is angled to the shape
of that divine heel
don’t put a ton of makeup on me
I don’t want to look garish
at the wake and scare away
the handful of viewers goggling
over my long and broken body
Burn me after
light me up
howl at the fire
I smolder and catapult up the shaft
in a whirlwind of smoke and ash
Finger through the soot
to find a nail
or a piece of a tooth
perhaps a bit of hair
save it
love it
it was me you bastard

 

Originally published in Literary Orphans