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Archive for the ‘M.P. Powers’ Category

Spam King

By M.P. Powers

And then there was Jack Rhodes, twobit academic
slash pseudoeditor, sweating
over some lousy sestina
he was seeking so stealthily to slide
in your inbox.

He’d been prancing the carpeting
of his lower Charlotte lovepad, hands rummaging
in the subaquatic realms
of his fathomless trouserpockets. “…a zag up an’ a zig
down, and I be fittin to do
jiggies
whens I shoves out muh soord….” (Ulysses Jenkins)

And you know he’d read somewhere
something about the always unsung Concrete
Poets, and was considering
smashing his Dan Fogelberg record collection and heading up a Mom
Jeans
Movement, or dancing all over his neighbor’s orchid bed.

And there are some
who say he’d been spotted huffing nitrous and sleeping beneath
a Karaoke machine in the dumpster
area of a Peoria Olive
Garden. “I oughta svot you in de face
mit diz pissmop!” shouted Myron Pantwarski, former
door-to-door boner
pill salesman, fired recently for his strongarm
tactics. And I think it goes without
saying Rasputin fed on raw oysters, and Queen
Zingua had a harem
of men and would pick one to make love to all night, then have him
murdered in the morning.

And you wonder if Simon Perchik
really is keeping the bodies of those three Chilean
tax accountants on ice in his basement. “Why
don’t you and I step
out into the clean air? I’ve got a fifth of Cutty Sark stashed here, see?
Right beneath my long and flowing
broadcloth.”

Jack draws a bootyfool
snotrag
from the depths, dabs gently his pate
and cheeks and Frenchtickler
mustache. Puts a few finishing brushstrokes on his simply
“vaanderfool”
sestina
and shoots it off to a fellow alphadork
editor
who he’d recently nominated Personage
of the Millennium.

And a week later it comes…

“Hi all, I hope you’re doing well. Fall is making its tentative
arrival in NC. No joke, I think Charlotte
has become officially subtropical.
In other news, my latest sestina, entitled ‘On the Verge
of Alchemy’ was just accepted…” and so forth…

“Take care,
and all my best…” and so on… and such and such… Jack
Rhodes. p.s.
To remove yourself
from our list (and consequently trash your chances of ever appearing
in my jerky
fucking magazine), click here.

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Bringing It

By M.P. Powers

Allow me to introduce myself (in the third person). R.P. Chezwik is
a Pushcart Nominee and celebrated SlamPoet
of the in-yer-face variety. He has been published worldwide
(courtesy of the web), in such places as “The Dryhumping
Chronicles of Larry King,” “NAMBLA Review,” and is currently
a featured poet
at the fledgling blogzine “Angry Ernie & His Four Flabworshiping
Yes-men Take Minneapolis.”

Now touring parts Cheboygan
with a licentious troop of Ukrainian squaredancers, Chezwik recently
spent four weeks riding the rails,
sitting higgledypiggledy with three barrel stiffs plus one
Coach Jawrower and a gravedigger named Slick Fulwood,
the six of them in glad rags
listening to a hallelujah peddler before hopping off in Winnemucca
to score a spot of armpit
detergent, and then the carsalesman who sidelined
as a stage prop (in another life) telling him, “You have to be qualified
to drive a Ferrari.”
“Qualified? I’m paying cash! What do you want a bag of money?”
“Step into my office.”

Dung Press will be publishing Chezwik’s first poetry collection
entitled “Pedro
Restoreth My Soul.” Threehundredfortyeight sonnets & haikus based
on particleboard bathroom partitions
and his recent arrest and imprisonment
for disguising himself
as a jockstrap in a YMCA hamper,
this superb work combines classically trained vision
with impassioned restraint. “I really liked the one about punching
the old lady in the gut,” said Salvatore St. Pierre-Louis,
an Italian-Haitian Mona Vie
salesman/maggot farmer living in Upper Saskatchewan.

“And what about the night we hogtied your old uncle Al in the living room
and pawned off all those stupid antique
coins of his?” asked Emile Annus, who plays a bit part
in the rhyming couplet
“Who Cares About That Guy?”

This unique collection is due for an October 2011
release. In the meantime, Chezwik will be appearing on/off
(as himself)
in bowling alleys, boiler rooms, unsuspecting food courts
& public parks

with the horniest group of squaredancers
you never saw.

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snuffed

By M.P. Powers

I.

POLITICS is an urchin clad in a gorilla suit
standing in traffic
advertising that place up the street
that doesn’t even
exist.

II.

CONVERSATION OVERHEARD WHILE SPRAYING THE URINALS
OF THE ETERNAL BARROOM:

Al: “I just have a problem with people who are so adamant about saving the life of a two week young fetus (which is basically almost a tadpole), but don’t give a shit about a twentyyearold vet who is maimed for life, or the family of any dead soldier… don’t give a shit… yet the same fuckers have the gall to traipse around in camouflage hunter’s garb, because they think there’s nothing wrong with murdering animals (or wounding them for life) because it’s a socalled known fact animals have neither feelings nor souls…”

Don: “I know, I hate Christians.

Al: “I was actually talking about republicans.

Don: “There’s a difference?

Al: “There’s republicans who aren’t Christians, but it’s hardly ever the reverse.

Don: Well the Christians are the worst of the bunch. I mean, the Born Agains. As if being born twice is sufficient (for continued spiritual growth).

Al: “I call ’em born again phonies…hypocrites. Introduce me to one who isn’t and we’ll talk.

Don: “Forget the hypocrite thing. They’re sociopaths. They just know how to hide their monstrous souls well. With them, everything’s about them & feeding the goat within. Don’t be misguided.

Al: “I won’t…”

III.

AS THE HOMOPHOBIC EVANGELIST CLUBS A BABY
SEAL

WITH HIS BIBLE, HAVING MISTAKEN HIM

FOR A SCIENTIST…

“Ergo bibamus.”

(yessum)

PASTOR CAUGHT IN SACK WITH LAWYER,
ASKS FOR
BOY.

IV.

“It’s just the way it works, Mate…”

Civilization
is an old maid in a soiled smock
playing
a french horn while trying to balance her slippered feet
on an
upsidedown canoe.

“Nothing new.”

And everyone knows this much
is true: RELIGION
AND STATE,
like mutt-n-jeff, dong and ding, dosey doe, they never will stop sharing opposite ends of the same
wangalanga

dildo.”

V.

BEWARE OF THE GOD
of the hellfire variety, the god who insinuates himself
in war, vengeance, fortune, lust and
luck.

BEWARE OF THE GOD
OF GUNRIGHTS, GAYWRONGS AND RIGHTEOUSNESS.

BEWARE OF THE GOD
of lovers
whose unlove is the envy
of everyone.

Beware the false gods, while the real one, THE GOD WITHIN,
the god of you-and-me-and-me-and-you
melts
like a cheap Mexican
candle.

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Swan Song #1132

By M.P. Powers

fuck the singing, say it with blood…
make it a mindscream… I’m sick of all these
windpajamming pansy poesy
motherfucks…
they can all suck my left and wrong nut…

FUCK the dance, gimme john wayne squatting
on the can,
and a knifeedged stain in your shorts. gimme
a shot of jameson’s goddamit… gimme reality
stark and pure…
I want poems with hangnailsbunionspopculturereferences
in them. gimme midget-tossing, whores
hawking french
ticklers and the cop
in the rearview with a billyclub that moonlights
as a dildo…

fuck the song, DOWN with the dance…
keats, shakespeare, rimbaud was nutn but a swishy
type… pound can go pound
sandburg. gimme BLOOD! gimme bukowski!
loud and STINKING! gimme that fuckin typer!

I’ll show you how it’s DONE… Show you how you SHOVE
the KUM in the QUAT and the twat
in your face. I’ve been at this game
three whole years.
published 711 poems in 332 sunken
cyberzines…

I keep the line clean… I keep it dark
and just a little dirty and mean…
know what I mean? I mean I’m sick of the BULLSHIT…
the assmunching mfa workshop billymotherfuckincollins
jerklecirk.

ya hear me?

I’m sick of the scene that’s been dominating
me. this JOYGIDDY honest to goodness soulsucking
PARLORPUKE…

here, tell ya what, you can have this goddamned
typer. and the
jameson’s shot. the shit gives me
heartburn.

what I’m saying is I’m quitting.

quitting?

hell, I QUIT. I just ain’t CUT for this CRAP… ya
hear me? I’m, like, OUT.
Au revoir!
see ya in cancun, peepaw…
I never liked poetry in the first place…
it’s a FAGGOT’s game…

are you a faggot?

well,

are you?

signed,
richard cheese
xoxo
(smallpress “presence” 2007-
2010)

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