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By Phillip Ledford

Today I wrote two poems.
Thought about masturbating
but even that has lost its luster
in times like these.

I ate 5 day old pizza from the fridge.
Accidentally broke my last beer on the floor
and stood in its cold aftermath.

Patricia called and wanted to come over.
I told her not to.
She’s a nymphomaniac.
And much like masturbating
nymphos too have lost their luster
in times like these.

Actually, on second thought, I think I’ll call Patricia back.

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By Philip Ledford

i’ve been sending a lot of submissions out by email since i got my new computer.

i can hear all the poems at the typewriter saying ‘damn it, he’s using that computer again!’

‘he’s forgotten us again!”

‘forsaken! we’ve been forsaken!”

i even heard one say ‘screw him, all he writes is shit.’

so now i peck out all my poems on my typewriter first.

and type them into the computer later.

all my poems are much happier this way.

even the ones i compress into jagged balls and jump shoot into the trashcan smile the whole way to the can.

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By Philip Ledford

It was like listening to Brahms in a rain storm.
A bitch mother of a rain storm.
The worst one ever witnessed.

His sharp progression of chords grabbed at my throat
demanding an end to my life.
I wanted my life to end.

He jumped and danced around the small bar room fingering his guitar
like a mad man with 134 fingers.
All 134 of them gnawing at the strings with unpredictable rhythm.

The noise didn’t make any sense and neither did his lyrics.
Lucky for me the microphone volume was far too low to hear
the absurdness that spilled from his mouth.

The audience of drunk bar patrons and teenagers with their angst stood their jerking their heads to the chaotic movements while I silently prayed for an end to the painful noise.

And then abruptly a liquored pink angel fell from the sky.
Face first.
Her cocktail glass shattered when it hit the floor, silencing everything

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