Tim Ashworth

Show Business

red carpets lit with flash bulbs,
strapless Stella McCartneys,
champagne flutes sipping adulation
stretched limousines
private planes
saggy white gorillas in 10 thousand dollar suits.
executive fantasies of painful submission:
movie careers hung on meat hooks
beaten, sliced,
sold in penthouses;
worn like cheap thongs and thigh high boots,
Call me daddy bitch
it’s all bright lights
and blow jobs baby
his hairy gut slapping bubble butts
as bee sting lips deep throat rich meat
totting up costs of fame
entertain us, they
moan at the girl
with green eyes, as she
writes receipts
for herself

Audrey El-Osta

Gaze

I see you,
staring at my tits.
So fascinated.
Nothing has changed
since last you looked.
It’s always when I wear
a dress
made for a smaller chest
that I notice it, your eyes
burrow in.
I spill over,
warm water in a tub.

Do you wonder
how deep you need to dive,
how wide you need to spread me
open by
the ribcage to find my heart?

You have far to go
through my bare, naked armour

into me.

Ben Newell

you could be ted bundy

I’m outside the bar,
trying to summon a cab
with my device,
but the cabbie says
he’s not in the area,
so I click off
and, fairly drunk, approach
a pair of college girls
sitting on the
curb—

“I’ll give you forty dollars
if you give me a ride home.”

They laugh
and one of them
says, “I thought you were going
to pay us to make out.”

“That’s not a bad idea,”
I say.

They ultimately
decline: “You look like a nice guy
but for all we know
you could be Ted Bundy.”

And they’re right;
I could be Ted Bundy,
perhaps I’m a late bloomer—

Walking away
without sharing my obsession
with all things Ted,
that I’ve read every book
worth reading,
studied the man and
his crimes,

know the story up
and down and am
actually somewhat
of an authority.

Hell, I even write poems
about Ted,
some of which have been
published in small underground
zines.

No,
I don’t say a word about
any of this
before moseying off
to call a different cab,
feeling less like Ted
than ever,
disgusted by my utter lack
of charm and charisma.

He wouldn’t have taken no
for an answer,
not in this parking lot
and certainly not later
when he removed his
mask.

A.R. Braun

Mind Fuck

What was before
The universe was created?
Was God alone?
Exasperated?

Before the universe
There was nothing
My mind can’t take it
There had to have been something!

Our small brains
Can’t comprehend
The beginning
Any more than the end

God was alone
In an all-dark zone
Losing his mind
Before there was light

Now his piggies
We get fucked with
Raped and insane
Then done away with!

God’s a writer
And we’re protagonists
The book’s hell-on-earth
All around us: antagonists!

The epilogue’s Hell
After many spells
On our heads
From Satanists

Luke Kuzmish

Stephanie

I looked for you
in empty cigarette packs
your brand or not
packs on the sidewalks
dropped, forgotten, or littered

I looked for you
in round faces of blondes
pumping $5 of gas
wearing boxy glasses
in methadone morning

just the same
I looked for you on line
at the clinic
where you might give
strangers a ride
because your robust
rust belt heart
always bleeds a little

I looked for you
in the passing cars
sleek and black
bumping tunes
reminds you
of your dead friend’s
funeral

I looked for you
in sweat dreams
in bad days
in loaded nights
in all the right places
to find the wrong things

R.J. Roberts

Massive Retard Dong

Mrs. Awaited the next thrust, laying on her back in the bed as the massive strange dick rammed deeper into her.

“Choo-choo!” he said as he thrust.

“Aw yeah! FUCK yeah!” Mrs. responded.

“I’mma choo-choo in’a tunnel!” he said.

“You’re goddamn right you are!” Mrs. said as she grunted in ecstasy.

Had she been paying attention to anything but the fourteen inches of idiotic dong slamming into her, she might have heard her husband’s car pull in the garage, the front door slam shut, the footsteps coming up the stairs, the out loud complaint of, “You didn’t sweep today either, huh, you lazy bitch?” and the turning of her bedroom doorknob.

(Note from author, at this point while writing the story I received a phone call from a crying person informing me that my grandfather just died. I immediately continued writing this)

The door opened, and in walked Mr. in his sweat stained suit and tie. He stood, looking at the googly eyed, drooling imbecile that was mounted on top of his wife. They both blinked as they looked at each other.

“I’mma choo-choo!” ‘tardy said.

Mr. stared at him in disbelief, then looked down to his wife.

“Um, yeah….he’s a choo-choo. Hi hon.” she said and gave him a meek, guilty half smile.

Mr. blinked once more, then in a flurry of motion he jumped onto the bed, swinging a wild flailing punch into train boy’s left eye, then a knee to his chest, knocking him off his wife, off the bed, and onto the floor. Mr. jumped on top of him, sinking his knees into choo-choo boy’s shoulders, pinning his arms down, as he unloaded a tornado of punches into his dopey face.

Now bloody, still smiling, Mr. grabbed train boy by the neck, pulling him up as he stood, shaking him so that his oversized retarded head rattled like a bobble head. “What do you got to say now, motherfucker?” Mr. growled as he squeezed tighter.

“Ugh…” train boy grunted in pain. “Choo…choo…” he struggled to say, as his blood dripped out of his mouth.

“Oh yeah? Well can trains fly, huh asswipe?” Mr. growled in fury, as he dragged the boy over to the bedroom window, flung it open and tossed the poor ‘tard out.

“choo…CHOO!” Mr. and Mrs. heard him scream as he flew downwards, followed by a wet and boney splat as his head collided with the concrete driveway, cracking open and scattering what scant brains he had.

Mr. turned and glared at his wife with accusing, furious eyes.

“So…how was work?” Mrs. asked, sheepishly smiling.

“You fucking…” Mr. growled, shaking his head in fury. “…How could you?”

“Aw, come on hon, I mean…I just met him at the park, and he liked talking about petting zoos and coloring books and I thought that was sweet,” she said.

“Oh my god…” Mr. said, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.

“And it’s like, I saw that thing just bouncing around in his pants the whole time…and I dunno, I just couldn’t help myself!”

“What…what thing?” Mr.’s eyes snapped open.

“You didn’t see it? I mean, that fucking mong was packing at least fourteen inches, probably more!” she said, her eyes becoming wide and she held up her hands as if measuring a fish to give him a general idea of the size.

Really?” He said and blinked. He turned around and looked out the window, down at the body now laying in his driveway, the pool of blood forming around its crushed retarded head, and the prominent fourteen inch erection still strongly protruding from its crotch.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Yeah, I mean, sorry hon but I can’t just pass on something like that!” Mrs. said. “I mean, and I thought real hard about this too, but I don’t think it’s considered cheating if it’s with a retard!”

He pulled his head out of the window, reluctantly ripping his fascinated gaze from the magnificent retard dick in his driveway, and looked back to her. “Huh,” he grunted, mulling her reasoning over in his head.

“I mean, he was basically just a dick with a tiny little brain attached to it. Like, it’s not cheating if it’s with a dildo, and I bet you most dildos have a smarter brain working them than he had! So come on…don’t be mad!” she pleaded.

“What uh, what was all that about choo-choos?” he asked.

“Oh that, well that’s how I had to explain it to get any sort of a decent hump out of his dumb ass,” she said.

“Hmm,” Mr. grunted, as he looked back out the window at Dumbo’s giant erect dick which was finally starting to deflate as the blood drained out of his crushed head. “You think umm…umm…well….I guess it’s a shame he’s dead now cause like…” he said.

“Well, I mean, we could find another one, I did a little research online, most of them are supposed to have big retarded dorks like that,” she said. “Why, what are you thinking?”

“Umm, well, I was just like thinking….I dunno, I mean…it’s…it’s not gay if it’s with a retard, right?” he asked.

“Oh, no way! Totally not!” she said.

“And uh….we can kill the next one too, right?” he asked.

“Oh no problem, yeah! I mean I don’t think it’s even murder if it’s a retard either!”

“And uh…let’s get Chinese too,” he said.

“You want a Chinese retard?” she cocked her head in confusion and asked.

“No! Chinese food! How the hell do you expect to find a hung Chinese retard? You dumb bitch!” he said.

“See…now this is exactly what the therapist is always talking about. I’m working with you here, I’m negotiating, I’m actualizing your needs, and you are always downgrading my worth!” she started up with the dumb bullshit she learned in therapy.

“Ok whatever, shut up!” he cut her off. We’ll talk about it later, let’s just go fuck and kill another retard then get Chinese food, before it gets dark!”

“Ok hon,” she smiled. “Oh, you want to see if we can find one named Chu?”

He glared at her.

“Aw come on, that was funny! Ok screw it, let’s just get going,” she said and off they went. K, whatever, done, finit, enfin, I got to go to a goddamn nursing home and look at a dead old man now, later.

Red Focks

Squeaky v Clem

(Catskill New York, 1969)

(SQUEAKY)

She sees the masses fluttering around her, sharing one face, and just one brain. Charlie referred to the type as “untapped potential”. He could tap them, he would have tapped every last one of them. All of them here, in one place. This was supposed to be it! “This is where Charlie would have saved the world”, she thinks about the audacity of sending GOD to the penitentiary. Her enterally polygamous matrimonial king. His orders, delivered to her through neuropathic Morse Code.

Before her awakening, before meeting Charlie Squeaky would have been another body-in-the-face here. Just dancing and doing drugs without realizing that she was already a drug. Getting fucked in a Portopotty by two deaf Amish runaways, while Jimmi Hendrix plays the National Anthem on his electric guitar. Using words like “groovy” without the slightest bit of malice. But Squeaky met Charlie. He fed himself to her, and she consumed him. She would be his wife, and his other wives were her sisters. Her sisters brothers, were her brothers. She had a big close-knit family. When her brothers and sisters were murdering Sharon Tate and the ‘Anti-Christ’, Squeaky was giving Charlie a back rub/footjob hybrid, and taking short breaks to feed him grapes. When Charlie was apprehended, Squeaky Manson carved an ‘X’ into her forehead, and shaved every hair off her body. Squeaky could no longer touch Charlie, but she could always hear him; and she talked to him.

Squeaky is not here for the peace, the love, or the music. She is here to be an exterminator. This is not the summer of love; it’s the summer of the dead rat.

(CLEM)

He started taking LSD regularly in high school. After dropping out, Clem made a promise to himself that he would be a rockstar. Clem would sleep only once a week, spooning his guitar. He lived his life in a semi-coherent autopilot. Clem woke up one morning, and he was a part of a cult. He was an accessory to murder; and when he got arrested alongside Charlie, and is brothers and sisters, he knew where Shorty’s body was. Shorty’s body was buried at the Spahn Ranch, near Venice Beach. While coming down off a two-year acid binge in the slammer, Clem had the divine realization that he was not cut-out for prison. He ratted on everybody, for everything he could recall. They let him walk.

Clem immediately ghosted his parole officer, took a mouthful of LSD, and headed for the Catskill Mountains, in a vanful of vagabonds he met at the park. Clem thought that Woodstock would be the perfect reset-button for his soul. He would woo a female or two with his guitar-playing, and finally be recognized as a rockstar. “By day-three of the festie, everybody will be so in awe of my talent. Word will spread, and they’ll probably invite me up onto the main stage to open for The Who”, the spun-out space-case thought to himself”.

Clem approaches a group of five half naked flower girls covered in mud. He attempts to serenade them by strumming three out of tune chords in an off-tempo manor, and singing nonsensical lyrics he wrote about a turtle and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he ate once. Clem keeps his eyes closed while preforming, visualizing dancing pixies and dolphins spitting rainbows out of their blowholes. When he finishes his song and opens his eyes, the girls were gone.

(Clap! Clap! Clap!)

Clem turns around to see one female that he never wanted to see again. Squeaky is facetiously applauding Clem’s terrible song. Clem’s eyes open wide enough to tare a hole in his face, and he turns pale.

“Clem! Clem! Clem! Long time no see, baby brother. I’m surprised to see you here. Hmmmm, you know… shouldn’t you be in prison, Clem?”, Squeaky asks.

“Oh, Hey sister! Um, no. Nope. No! Prison? No, not me. They (uh) determined through (uh) legislation and shit that I was innocent”, Clem says, shaking in his tye-dye.

“Innocent? You? Ain’t that special.”, Squeaky says with a smile. Squeaky tells Clem that they’ve got some catching up to do, and to follow her to her car. Clem tries backing out, stating that he was just here for the music.

“Don’t even think about running away from me, Clem. Family’s everywhere, we are never alone”, Squeaky says sternly. Clem looks around and sees the one sinister face of Woodstock 69. Did Squeaky come alone? Clem sees assassins everywhere he looks. His paranoid bare feet follow behind Squeaky’s bellbottoms covering her bare feet. Two distinct sets of footprints in the mud. Nobody’s wearing any fucking shoes.

Squeaky coheres Clem into a stolen blue Punch Buggy and forces him to eat another 10-strip of LSD, without much resistance on that end. She drives off the dairy farm that hosted Woodstock, and up a twisty road, into the Catskill Mountains. Dusk is setting, and the pink and black skyline memorizes Clem, who is riding high, as it gets ever darker, and the Punch Buggy ascends. Squeaky lectures her brother about loyalty for the whole ride, until the car reaches an inconspicuous flat. She parks and removes a revolver from under her seat. Squeaky spins the chamber, locks it into place, and as Clem screams in terror, Squeaky puts the barrel against her own temple, and pulls the trigger… click

“God is disappointed in us, baby brother. He said that one of us betrayed him. He said it was one of us. One of us, baby brother. When God is upset with me, it makes me feel like garbage. Even when I did nothing wrong. It makes me want to kill everything! He told me that this is how he will know for sure who the traitor is… Your turn.”, Squeaky rants at Clem, while handing him the revolver.

Clem is now living in a cartoon world of melting darkness penetrated by satellite rainbows. He subconsciously follows orders, spinning the chamber and locking it in. If he pointed the gun at Squeaky, and pulled the trigger, he’d of had a one in six chance of blasting a bullet through her bald head, ditching the body right there and the car at the bottom of the mountain, and then hitch hiking back to Woodstock… But if he played Charlie’s game, he reckoned that he could prove to his sister that God was wrong. Then he reckoned that she’d have to except the possibility that maybe Clem is God. Then he reckoned he’d be jamming with The Beach Boys, have 100 wives, and then Clem would be the Son of Man. Clem sticks the barrel of the gun to his temple, and tells Squeaky that he’s always loved her.

(BANG!)

Squeaky tosses Clem’s carcass off a ledge, and deep into a canyon, where he was eaten by mountain lions, who ended up tripping balls and having a shared identity crisis. She drove back down the mountain, and returned to Woodstock, allowing Charlie to view all that untapped potential through her vicariously.

Six years later, Squeaky Manson pointed a gun at Gerald Ford, and attempted to assassinate him, wounding a secret service agent. She was paroled after serving only 34 years in prison.