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Archive for November, 2012

Pipe Dreams

By Chance Cordwainer

kick the can

a sweaty Elvis Presley
in plush silver paisley
gyrates his aging hips
frog hopping head first
legs bent at right angles
muffling firetruck exhaust
with the bark of retarded Dalmatians
reverberating off the can
putting down the blaze
that had threatened to engulf
the entire gulf region
Midlands Bible belt buckle
proudly cinched about his waist

He had no fiddle to be sure
he was found face down
at the bottom of the pool
singing his life away
to the last of his fans
that sat enthralled
listening intently
at the other end of the pipe
straining to feel for him
liked he’d done for them
when it was just them
with a hand of lathered soap
mumbling hymns to God

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Birds of Paradise

By Donal Mahoney

As you move toward the door
to open it so I may leave
I notice how your Levis cage

the anacondas of your thighs.
One more move like that, I say,
and I’ll toss my briefcase to the floor

and bring you yipping to the couch
and kiss your breasts until they rise
like startled Birds of Paradise.

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By Justin Wade Thompson

we dug out baloney
from the black heroin carpet stains
& baked
in a fry pan, cool mayonnaise
with clam hands & tobacco seeds

watching the tiny tits of this Texas tattooed woman
screaming claims to gunshot victims
stiff in their locket boxes

still resonating somewhere
in the brain

clinging to something
in the night, between the knees, between the beaten shoe laces, cow tongues,
type writers & waxed machines

I threw a pinch of salt behind my back
pressed for luck
& tossed what was left into my medicine bag.

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That’s My Bag

By Eddie Lahti

Affixed in a slightly rolled state,
only as gravity hangs it,
we call that end bottom,
but the backing,
with its sticky adhesion,
a custom hole cut,
to fit the modified,
end tucked
and puckered,
starfish kiss,
blows odoriferous,
sputters and spits,
at first,
surgical mucous,
then a browness,
slippery oozing
post deliciousness,
excrement and ferment,
defecation deposits.
There is a clear side,
window, which won’t hide,
the contents
aren’t divine,
under my shirt
away from
sunshine,
I don’t keep eyes
that pry from
the slippery pinkish,
candy red,
scallop squishy,
stoma head,
I flaunt what I’ve got,
not camera shy,
I’ll get shot,
lenses bend
the lit end,
and I’ll send
pics to
my friends.
The inside is real smelly,
but the side that touches
my belly
has a fabric
slip
so it can drift
across my skin
comfort to soothe
the discomfort within.

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Lady Curves

By Kristina England

Grandma says eggplant’s got grace,
Ain’t nothing prettier than lady hips,
a figure with some real body to it.

She cuts up the uncooked fruit,
dips each thin, round slice into
egg batter, and fries them up.

I eagerly bite into my first piece,
pause, and scrunch up my nose,
then push aside the dinner plate.

Grandpa smiles and nods at me,
Yup, tastes just like damn cigarettes.
It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

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Every Man Is An Island

By Ian Mullins

I wish I had that disease
whose name I can’t remember
where the sufferer looks in the mirror
but can’t recognise himself.

Yes, I know how a mirror works,
but something must be wrong
with the light, perhaps it’s picked up
some alien infection
during its journey from the sun.
Perhaps someone else
is wearing the face biology assigned me;
I might meet me on the street
and kiss myself on the cheek,
pick me up in a bar and fuck myself
crazy.

But the best thing
would be to wander like a word
with no meaning. If anyone challenged me
with a face they said was mine
I’d tell him I have no face, I have no name;
I’m not alive as you are
alive, chasing yourself down the street
as though you’ve dropped your wallet,

but no matter how fast you run
you’ll never catch yourself up.
Call this a disease? I call it being free.

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Numerals on a Spree

By Ben Naga

8, 10 and 6 got drunk again last night
And you know how it is after a few

8 stumbled, fell over and lay there prostrate
As if paying overawed homage to Infinity

10, as usual, got rather too full of herself
And declared loudly, “I am the Digital Goddess”

6 stayed silent and simply sat there, crestfallen
Embarrassed to have turned into a limp flaccid 9

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