Archive for February, 2013

By Ross Leese

you’ll find that as you
get older
your memory levels
sharply decrease–

you’ll read books
and convince yourself
you’re going over
the same sentence
over and over

you’ll read books
and convince yourself
you’re going over
the same sentence
over and over

you’ll wake up with piss
on your trousers one morning
with no idea
how it got

you’ll call people whatsisface
as a matter of daily

you’ll see yourself in a mirror
and think what the fuck
happened to

it won’t be
pretty of

but then at

it probably won’t
be for


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By Walter Ruhlmann

canis lupus
canis lazuli
lustful cannibal
lapis lazuli
cool cannabis
Carabosse caresses
crimson Carthaginian carafes
cobalt colour glasses
classes warfare
Smithsonian smashes
marshes and marches
molls and moles
miniatures and millennia
thunderstorm, ice-storm
ice-age and lineage
my heirs won’t be
I am not able to give
I am not fitted with
my ancestors
were hungry cannibals dressed in lapis lazuli glass clothes bred by canis lupus and fed by Carabosse’s cannabis cannelloni in the city of Carthage.

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Underground Lullaby

By Jason Braun

Steeped in turkey’s glaze,
L-tryptophan’s wax and wane,
mother covered me in
feathers, and father brought
a box of cobwebs to cool
the burning in my skin.
I roamed
the catacombs of Paris hunting
leeches, both of us nosing
around for something good to eat.

I followed the distant wheeze
of a squeezebox
to a man with gold coins in his eyes,
who dressed a little monkey
in a velvet schoolboy suit.
Hours later, I scalped the man
and sang: sleep little monkey,
don’t say a word.
Your new papa just bought
you a suit of solid fur.

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By Donal Mahoney

The others, of course,
are more rabid than he
but less apt to show it.
Whenever he strikes,
he never romps off.
He stands with the wrist
that he’s snatched
from the lady
tight in his teeth
as he waits with a smile
for the wagon.
He’s one of the few
wrist-snatchers still
on the streets of Chicago,
and he makes his rounds
in old tennies.
His technique is simple:
He dives for the purse hand,
gives it a whack, and severs
the wrist without slobber,
then stands like a Vatican Guard
with the wrist in his teeth
until he is certain
he has no pursuers.
At night in his dreams he sees
the women whose wrists
he has held in his teeth.
They stand at the bus stop
like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving
their stumps like flares.
He prays their screams
will bring to a frieze
the patrol cars glowing
in the middle of the street.

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Down and Not Proud

By Mather Schneider

I am beginning
to understand
how someone could drive his car
over an animal
on purpose,
rolling down the blacktop

at night,
how he could rev the engine
into a furry creature

wandering out in the cold
dark beauty of the earth
without favor

or expectation,
how seeing raw
fear in small

eyes could make
him smile,

twisted with need
to feel superior
to something, to anything, to fool

himself, to bend a life
against the will
of a tire,

when he is weak
and alone
and no one is


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By Ross Vassilev


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Big Sur

By Michael N. Thompson

The children of Frank Zappa
Litter Highway 199
Even though the 1970’s
Gracelessly departed
A thousand acid trips ago

Minor poets flock
Down to Big Sur
From a rose-colored city,
But backpacks bulging
With two dollar wine
Gives them a false confidence
That soon comes crashing down

Lesbian interns
In charge of archiving
Henry Miller’s pages
Arrive in tow
With misleading intentions,
But inflamed hormones
Only see what they want to see

A couple of clueless Lotharios
Fire off their best lines
To no avail
On a young ingénue
Who only has eyes
For innocent blood
And it’s obvious that Romeo
Is just a Shakespearean character

Running a riot
Between the bards
And bongo players
Only leads to fisticuffs
That park rangers
Tend to frown upon

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