"Listen; there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go."
-e. e. cummings
Fuck Art, Let's Dance
ISSUE #007 / SEPTEMBER 2014
IN THIS ISSUE:
POETRY
- Harry Baxter
- Alfonso Colasuonno
- Katie Hogan
- Vicki Iorio
- Ben Riddle
- Christina M. Sparks
- Jeremiah Walton
SHORT FICTION
- Tyler Watley
PHOTOGRAPHY / VISUAL
- Capt'n Lynn Thornton
ART
FEATURES
- Dancingdancingdancing!
- "No Shelter" by Ramshackle Glory
- "Wet Paint" by Carlos Williams
- "I've had a change in my understanding of how compassion arises through meditation" by Anonymous
N! NEWS
- Nostrovia[!]n Children
Fuck Art, Let's Dance
by Andriy Ivanchenko
THREE POEMS - CHRISTINA M. SPARKS
Christina M. Sparks is a recent graduate of Carlow University, where she studied poetry under Jan Beatty. She was awarded the 2012 Award for Excellence in Creative Writing, and was awarded the Marilyn P. Donnelly poetry award Honorable Mention. Christina has had work published in Chapter &Verse, a section in the City Paper online and in an anthology by Waid Books. She is currently earning her MFA in poetry from Pacific Lutheran University, where she participates in the Mount Rainier Writers Workshop.
Speedballin’ on K-pins & Ritalin
A ghost of a villanelle for
South Western Pennsylvania
South Western Pennsylvania
You said: you gotta crush it
between to credit cards going 75 down Route 8,
cut it smooth,
draw it out on your compact mirror,
roll your last dollar & snort that shit in 3 lines – one for the father, son & holy spirit.
You said: you gotta crush it
Lick the Devil’s share off the mirror.
You gotta let it roll over you, let it wash through your blood.
Cut it smooth.
Let the drip remind you of last summer – hush-hush wink-wink trips to the bathroom.
Remind you how to snort a line off a bar napkin.
You said: you gotta crush it
under strobe lights, when the drugs were free
& there was less desperation behind your eyes.
Cut it smooth.
You gotta crush it between two tablespoons,
cut it with the fumes in our gas lines,
draw it out on pink shut-off notices,
roll your last dollar & snort that.
between to credit cards going 75 down Route 8,
cut it smooth,
draw it out on your compact mirror,
roll your last dollar & snort that shit in 3 lines – one for the father, son & holy spirit.
You said: you gotta crush it
Lick the Devil’s share off the mirror.
You gotta let it roll over you, let it wash through your blood.
Cut it smooth.
Let the drip remind you of last summer – hush-hush wink-wink trips to the bathroom.
Remind you how to snort a line off a bar napkin.
You said: you gotta crush it
under strobe lights, when the drugs were free
& there was less desperation behind your eyes.
Cut it smooth.
You gotta crush it between two tablespoons,
cut it with the fumes in our gas lines,
draw it out on pink shut-off notices,
roll your last dollar & snort that.
Porn circa 1420
–after Donatello’s David
–after Donatello’s David
Cast in bronze with his hand on his hip
& hips thrust forward.
He is clothed in roman sandals
& a wide-brimmed hat with
an arrogant feather, as if to say:
That’s right, I’m fuckin boss.
David stands five-feet-two inches.
Goliath’s head rests at his feet
giving his teenage dick
reason to thicken
& hips thrust forward.
He is clothed in roman sandals
& a wide-brimmed hat with
an arrogant feather, as if to say:
That’s right, I’m fuckin boss.
David stands five-feet-two inches.
Goliath’s head rests at his feet
giving his teenage dick
reason to thicken
North Wayne
Automatic gun fire broke the night air behind the railroad tracks –
not a block from my front porch.
All these gangs coming in from New Castle, Ambridge, New Kensington, Pittsburgh
bringing H & crystal,
guns tucked in their waist bands –
you don’t wanna step on someone,
don’t wanna be a snitch.
You don’t ever call the cops.
3 pistol shots echo across the dark street,
we watch a kid, all in black, hood up,
slink up the block & disappear into the park.
Close the curtains, lock the door, turn the TV up.
You didn’t see nothing.
You don’t ever call the cops.
not a block from my front porch.
All these gangs coming in from New Castle, Ambridge, New Kensington, Pittsburgh
bringing H & crystal,
guns tucked in their waist bands –
you don’t wanna step on someone,
don’t wanna be a snitch.
You don’t ever call the cops.
3 pistol shots echo across the dark street,
we watch a kid, all in black, hood up,
slink up the block & disappear into the park.
Close the curtains, lock the door, turn the TV up.
You didn’t see nothing.
You don’t ever call the cops.
ONE POEM - ALFONSO COLASUONNO
Alfonso Colasuonno attended Beloit College where he graduated with a BA in Creative Writing. While at Beloit, Alfonso met an assortment of weird fucks, and lost his mind. Subsequently, he decided on becoming a writer.
"Why am I passionate? It's not racist to say because I'm Italian if I'm really of Italian descent, right? I think you can blame it on that, or maybe on being a native New Yorker, possibly even because my whole life I've hung with a bunch of crazy punks who don't give a fuck."
Big Boys
My friend was into graff
She bombed our weed spot with the words “big boy”
She tagged up an 80 next to it – 8.0 inches
Every decimal counts, right?
I thought she was being clever
Just a discreet way to show off her boy’s cock
Eight inches she claimed
And she always complained about being sore
How he’d stretch her out, and the pain
It turns out
She was into Oxys
I guess I’m not as clever
As I thought I was.
She bombed our weed spot with the words “big boy”
She tagged up an 80 next to it – 8.0 inches
Every decimal counts, right?
I thought she was being clever
Just a discreet way to show off her boy’s cock
Eight inches she claimed
And she always complained about being sore
How he’d stretch her out, and the pain
It turns out
She was into Oxys
I guess I’m not as clever
As I thought I was.
by Jeremiah Walton
THREE POEMS - HARRY BAXTER
Harry J Baxter is 19 yr old English Writer living in Richmond VA. Harry is passionate because it is the only thing in life worth doing. You can find Harry in Richmond or online at http://hellopoetry.com/harry-j-baxter/
Waiting for April Showers
Display me on the blank white brickwork of old buildings
project my essence - a thin, translucent film -
across the night sky
from my passions make fireworks
exploding on the 4th
their light permeating the sleep
of weary, blinking stars
these sentiments which can wick away the sweat
of 1,000 hard-working brows
toiling away in the field
where wisdom and prophecy are buried
hand-in-hand
teeth ache with clamoring fingers
trying to rip another spare moment
from the stinking entrails of this:
our Holy Universe
because the sun rises up our spines
and tomorrow will still be
hard work and sweaty brows
and people finding the time
to catch snowflakes on their tongues
convincing themselves they are cannibals
alone, under close observation
we are beautifully intricate
but together we are indistinguishable
let’s create a story
where snowman falls in love
with snow angel
and no rain comes in April
to wash it all away
project my essence - a thin, translucent film -
across the night sky
from my passions make fireworks
exploding on the 4th
their light permeating the sleep
of weary, blinking stars
these sentiments which can wick away the sweat
of 1,000 hard-working brows
toiling away in the field
where wisdom and prophecy are buried
hand-in-hand
teeth ache with clamoring fingers
trying to rip another spare moment
from the stinking entrails of this:
our Holy Universe
because the sun rises up our spines
and tomorrow will still be
hard work and sweaty brows
and people finding the time
to catch snowflakes on their tongues
convincing themselves they are cannibals
alone, under close observation
we are beautifully intricate
but together we are indistinguishable
let’s create a story
where snowman falls in love
with snow angel
and no rain comes in April
to wash it all away
Displacement
These bricks don’t fit right
outgrown by the very Earth
in which they were planted
seeds of maladjusted discontent
grasping at straws
all drowning in the rush of
neurotransmitters and hormones
flooding the junky head of creation
She’s looking at him all Sudoku
He’s looking at her all bottomless pit
Eyes all filled with histories too heavy
to lift out of the unspeakable
until the floor disappears from beneath the very feet
that first slid into that pair of
incomprehensible laced shoes
We all have to leave velcro behind at some point
to carve order from granite slabs of chaos
before falling from rosy tree tops
to the alien whipcrack of the breaking
of virgin bones
All of this flesh and blood and grey concrete
doesn’t come close to a bowl of infinity
every snowball gets yellowed at some point
and these eyelids are growing far too heavy
to take in all the pretty propaganda psychosis
superimposed over the surface of tranquil seas
“Excuse me,
do you have the time?”
outgrown by the very Earth
in which they were planted
seeds of maladjusted discontent
grasping at straws
all drowning in the rush of
neurotransmitters and hormones
flooding the junky head of creation
She’s looking at him all Sudoku
He’s looking at her all bottomless pit
Eyes all filled with histories too heavy
to lift out of the unspeakable
until the floor disappears from beneath the very feet
that first slid into that pair of
incomprehensible laced shoes
We all have to leave velcro behind at some point
to carve order from granite slabs of chaos
before falling from rosy tree tops
to the alien whipcrack of the breaking
of virgin bones
All of this flesh and blood and grey concrete
doesn’t come close to a bowl of infinity
every snowball gets yellowed at some point
and these eyelids are growing far too heavy
to take in all the pretty propaganda psychosis
superimposed over the surface of tranquil seas
“Excuse me,
do you have the time?”
Dash Lighters
“I was born in the wrong time.
I’ve been told I would’ve made a great philosopher.
Too bad there’s nothing left to say.”
and I shit you not,
right there - at that very moment,
all of his teeth started to fall out
hitting the floor one at a time with a
clack
unimpressive chips of unremarkable bone
From far enough away you can’t tell anything apart
disappearing entirely at night
Why have we always been so drawn to high places?
So nostalgic for the Tower of Babel
all the earthly world reduced to a drop of water
all 360 horizons present and accounted for
l’appel du vide
the constant dialectics of flight or fall
seemingly, gravity always wins
But I have no idea what I’m saying
It’s been 15 hours now,
and my nerves are burnt down to the filter
to think that it’s been 23 days since I smoked a cigarette…
Bedrooms and bailouts and I find myself helplessly yanking on a ripcord
My time piece will get you high
my predilection is for pretension
(or is it Pussy?)
my romantic skeleton hanged in the closet
the creek overflowing with run-off & waste
running south then running west then running dry
But Hey,
at least I talk pretty
I’ve been told I would’ve made a great philosopher.
Too bad there’s nothing left to say.”
and I shit you not,
right there - at that very moment,
all of his teeth started to fall out
hitting the floor one at a time with a
clack
unimpressive chips of unremarkable bone
From far enough away you can’t tell anything apart
disappearing entirely at night
Why have we always been so drawn to high places?
So nostalgic for the Tower of Babel
all the earthly world reduced to a drop of water
all 360 horizons present and accounted for
l’appel du vide
the constant dialectics of flight or fall
seemingly, gravity always wins
But I have no idea what I’m saying
It’s been 15 hours now,
and my nerves are burnt down to the filter
to think that it’s been 23 days since I smoked a cigarette…
Bedrooms and bailouts and I find myself helplessly yanking on a ripcord
My time piece will get you high
my predilection is for pretension
(or is it Pussy?)
my romantic skeleton hanged in the closet
the creek overflowing with run-off & waste
running south then running west then running dry
But Hey,
at least I talk pretty
Nostrovia[!]n Children
by Capt'n Lynn Thornton
N!'s sub-projects, Walking Is Still Honest Press & The Traveling Poet are re-opened to submissions, with new editors, new bodies, & new mouths.
W.I.S.H. was founded in 2013, & is protected by The Southern Collective Experience. Founded by Jeremiah Walton, & passed on to Holly Holt, W.I.S.H. has grown past it's initial blog style publishing to incorporate a compiled bi-monthly issues formatted in individual posts. This allows them to better promote writers & artists. Thru the consistent stream of posting, & pinning blog posts as issues, W.I.S.H. is a straight shooting press that seeks honest poetry w/ vivid imagery.
The Traveling Poet was also founded in 2013. Focusing on publishing youth poets, T.T.P reaches out to high school creative writing classrooms & solicits submissions to provide an open & safe outlet for emerging writers to learn about publishing thru participation. T.T.P publishes poetry, articles on traveling broke, survival tips, essays on philosophy, and puts a heavy focus onto being on the road.
We are excited. We are alive. We are moving.
Stick your thumb out w/ us.
by Jeremiah Walton
TWO POEMS - KATIE HOGAN
Katie Hogan is a twenty-year-old student studying creative writing and photography at the University of Southern California. Katie is also the founder and editor-in-chief of the small press, The Altar Collective.
"I am passionate because there are Sunday mornings where morning breath and light dance upon the walls to sounds that we can barely hear."
the Eucharist
a priest with greasy fingers
shoving french fries
through his chapped lips,
smiling through his rotting teeth.
this is the body of christ.
and he laughs with his mouth
full, remnants of swept up
potatoes glued to his cheeks,
as his white collar grows tighter.
let us rejoice and give thanks.
he grabs his soda, lips eagerly
kissing the rim, chugging down
the ounces of aspartame in an
attempt to wash the pesticides.
this is the blood of christ.
he shoves a dripping patty
into his mouth, molars grinding
the cow’s corpse in a rhythm that
resembles an offbeat chant.
let us give thanks to our lord.
and the french fries stain
his robe, and the patty drips
down his mouth, and he is
still laughing with his mouth
full, laughing with his head back,
as his white collar grows tighter
and tighter and his face swells
from the chemicals off
the coated tiles. he is praising
something, he is praising
hallelujah with parted lips
and greasy fingers. this is what
we cannot see.
amen.
shoving french fries
through his chapped lips,
smiling through his rotting teeth.
this is the body of christ.
and he laughs with his mouth
full, remnants of swept up
potatoes glued to his cheeks,
as his white collar grows tighter.
let us rejoice and give thanks.
he grabs his soda, lips eagerly
kissing the rim, chugging down
the ounces of aspartame in an
attempt to wash the pesticides.
this is the blood of christ.
he shoves a dripping patty
into his mouth, molars grinding
the cow’s corpse in a rhythm that
resembles an offbeat chant.
let us give thanks to our lord.
and the french fries stain
his robe, and the patty drips
down his mouth, and he is
still laughing with his mouth
full, laughing with his head back,
as his white collar grows tighter
and tighter and his face swells
from the chemicals off
the coated tiles. he is praising
something, he is praising
hallelujah with parted lips
and greasy fingers. this is what
we cannot see.
amen.
|
previously published by Quiet Lightening
|
|
pass Christian
(you've got morning dew on your lips, elizabeth)
|
|
you've been kissing the petunias in your grandfather's garden
all while he sits in the living room on that old leather couch, the skin around his knees turning into clumps of kneaded dough. he watches the same news station, where they mumble about
his medals from all the wars he never won. |
(you've got the dock's splinters in your toes, elizabeth)
|
|
your grandmother hides herself in the bedroom while you learn how
to balance yourself on rotting planks of wood. she looks at herself in the mirror : a sea of wrinkles and the same blue eyes that belonged to miss louisiana, the prom queen, daddy's little girl who prayed to jesus during the day but kneeled down before different pews at night. and she cakes her pout with the same red lipstick that stained the quarterback's cheek and all the unwashed coffee cups in the kitchen. |
(you've got a gutted fish in your hands, elizabeth)
|
|
your father teaches you how to fish, but he never
teaches you the alphabet. he tells you, as you hold a makeshift twig pole in the gulf, that he never did like the taste of chicory but he swallowed it down to put a smile on your mother's face. he tells you that fishing is bullshit, but its the only way that he can understand religion; a waiting game, a way to practice whatever trust means. he admits to you that he only trusted two things: a bottle of whiskey and gun powder. |
(you've got powdered sugar on your nose, elizabeth)
|
|
your mother's hand grasps yours tightly as you two
approach cafe du monde and order the usual beignets. she doesn't eat anything, but the powered sugar remains on her nostrils while your chubby fingers dive into a sea of saturated fat and cholesterol. your mother hates the quarter. too many drunks, she says. too many junkies, she says. but she resonates with the cobble stones more than the memories she has walking on them. |
(you've got generations of guilt, elizabeth)
|
|
you stumble on to the beach alone,
while your grandfather and father are too busy fighting over who has the best souvenir from the war, to build sandcastles and talk to michael even though michael isn't a real person but he is always with you. you tell michael about black beauty, about the lizards you caught last night while the humidity almost choked you, and you avoid the ocean because your mother always hated it, only to step on six dead jellyfish who washed ashore resembling a crucifix. |
by Andriy Ivanchenko
ONE REDDIT POST - ANONYMOUS
I've had a change in my understanding of how compassion arises through meditation
"I used to think that compassion arises naturally through the practice of meditation because, through this practice, we begin to understand the common ground of all experience as being identical. I know that other people are suffering basically the same suffering that I do, and as such I find it difficult to find fault with their poor choices, and as such I find it easier to identify with them and act compassionately.This made sense, and still does, it still functions well as a mechanism of compassion. But lately I've discovered perhaps a deeper connection, an even more intimate mechanism by which compassion naturally develops.
The more I sit meditation the more dissolves the line between my self and the rest of the world. There are times when I sit, and in sitting there exists the vastness of human experience. No longer "inner" and "outer" states seem to exist- they all blur into one whole and I see the completeness of experience without distinctions between self and other, this and that.
Now, with this insight, when I see another person in distress I react naturally as pulling my own hand from a flame. Indeed, there is no longer "helping others". Others are exactly myself. They aren't like myself, they are me. We are of the same Whole Body. When I reach out to help others it isn't in a sense of "I want to help this person because that would be good", instead it's a knee-jerk reaction. There is suffering there, need to relieve it.
Similarly, this insight seems to cause me to care for all things with this compassion- animals, plants, even inanimate objects. I seem to pay more attention to how I treat things- not because of some sense that they "suffer" in any way like I do, but only because I find imposing my small self on things unnecessarily to be crude and unskillful. I find myself being naturally more careful and mindful in performing simple actions like closing a door, brushing my teeth, making the bed.
Anyway. That's all. Just a little insight to share this afternoon. Thanks for reading."
The more I sit meditation the more dissolves the line between my self and the rest of the world. There are times when I sit, and in sitting there exists the vastness of human experience. No longer "inner" and "outer" states seem to exist- they all blur into one whole and I see the completeness of experience without distinctions between self and other, this and that.
Now, with this insight, when I see another person in distress I react naturally as pulling my own hand from a flame. Indeed, there is no longer "helping others". Others are exactly myself. They aren't like myself, they are me. We are of the same Whole Body. When I reach out to help others it isn't in a sense of "I want to help this person because that would be good", instead it's a knee-jerk reaction. There is suffering there, need to relieve it.
Similarly, this insight seems to cause me to care for all things with this compassion- animals, plants, even inanimate objects. I seem to pay more attention to how I treat things- not because of some sense that they "suffer" in any way like I do, but only because I find imposing my small self on things unnecessarily to be crude and unskillful. I find myself being naturally more careful and mindful in performing simple actions like closing a door, brushing my teeth, making the bed.
Anyway. That's all. Just a little insight to share this afternoon. Thanks for reading."
by Andriy Ivanchenko
SHORT FICTION - TYLER WATLEY
This came from eavesdropping on 2 old men
"Brother, it was my privilege to be able to serve my queen for as long as I did.""Brother, it was my privilege to be able to serve my queen for as long as I did.""Man...I was 21 when I met her. I saw her from across the room and brother.....didn't nobody have to tell me who she was. I said 'there goes my wife', and the rest was history. That girl was something else, man. Every single day, I'd go and work for 12 hours and when I came home, she had dinner on the table waiting on me. After the kids were asleep, we were both so tired that we would go straight to bed just so we could hold each other. I was always content knowing that she was right there in my arms. I told her every night that as long as she was there, I was just fine. She was my queen, man. I told her that every day, she was the queen of my whole life. And my queen pushed me all the time to be the man I needed to be. She pushed me to seek God and follow Him and love Him with my whole heart, she pushed me to be a better daddy, and you can ask my little girls and they'll tell ya, we wouldn't be nowhere near where we are today if she didn't keep on making us better. Some folks just have a way of doing that, ya know? Some people just make you wanna be a better man.
Well, one day, she started getting sick. I didn't worry too much at first, because everybody gets sick sometimes. But the doctors seemed to think it was something we should worry about. Well brother, they were right. She asked me if I would marry anyone else if she died. She worried about it. she couldn't imagine me being with another woman. I told her I could never have a second queen. But ya know what? She didn't believe me! That girl looked me in the eyes and said 'I know you better than that! You're the kind of man who needs a woman by his side. You couldn't be happy alone!'
I looked her straight back in those big brown eyes and I said 'sugar, I don't need no woman in my life, I need you. You're the only one for me.'
Well, after a year of fighting it, a lot had changed. There wasn't no more dinner on the table when I came home. Instead, I would work 12 hours a day, and I would come home. I would carry my wife out of bed and bring her to the table. I would cook dinner with her sitting there watching me, and we would just talk like nothing ever changed. Sometimes, we would sit and eat together and smile and just be happy that we could look at each other. On the bad days, I would feed her and she would cry and apologize, but I told her it was what I was there for. She was so sick, man. She was just so sick. She couldn't hardly do nothing. And she had to take medicine all the time, it was every 4 hours. So once we ate, I'd carry her back to bed and lay her down, and I would crawl in bed beside her and hold her just like I used to, and everything was ok. Just like I said before, it didn't matter what was going on, as long as I could hold her in my arms. But I could only lay with her for 4 hours at a time, because then I'd have to get up and bring her that medicine. But those 4 hours in between when I got to just be there beside her....man I wouldn't have traded that for nothing!"
There was a long silence, a profound peace which none of us eavesdroppers dared disturb with our poorly disguised sniffles
"But the body can only handle so much, ya know," the man continued. "It took 2 years of her being sick as a dog before it got the best of her. I saw it coming, and so did she. We both knew she wasn't coming back from it. But it still felt like it came outta nowhere. I mean....one day she's there in my arms, and the next day she's gone. It killed me at first, but it didn't take too long before I realized that she really was better off. She didn't have to take no more medicine, she didn't have to eat no more of my nasty cooking, all she had to worry about now was praising the Lord!
Ya know what still gets me though? Man, I don't know what to do about her stuff. I mean...I can't get rid of it. All her clothes are still in the closet, I got pictures of her everywhere, and her side of the bed is just how she left it. I wanna believe she's still here. My daughters tell me I should get it out of there and fix the place up, but I spent my life in that house with her. It's still our home, as far as I'm concerned."
Silence again overtook the room. None of us had ever heard a man speak with such absolute respect and admiration. It was obvious that he had truly loved and adored that woman, and it wasn't changing any time soon.
The other old man broke the silence and said "Man, that had to be so hard, though. I mean...taking care of her like that and having to do everything for her."
A smile crept across the old man's face. His entire face lit up and he said.
"Brother, it was my privilege to be able to serve my queen for as long as I did."
ONE POEM - BEN RIDDLE
A nineteen year old aspiring poet from Perth, Western Australia, Ben Riddle studies Political Science & English & Cultural Studies at the University of Western Australia. You can find more of his work at riddlesocialcommentary.tumblr.com
"This is a poem about passion, and the pain of passion; and ultimately passion that led me nowhere except here. I hope it moves you."
Kicking the Habit
I said your name in my sleep last night;
once while I was trying to
open my eyes,
to wake up,
and once more when I managed it.
I said it again when I made love to a stranger
who knew my name
when I had forgotten hers,
and your name was the most
sincere sound I could offer.
Finally, I said your name
before I went to sleep;
praying that tomorrow
I could say your name
one less time
Or that you might
remember me.
One way or another
I wish I could care more.
once while I was trying to
open my eyes,
to wake up,
and once more when I managed it.
I said it again when I made love to a stranger
who knew my name
when I had forgotten hers,
and your name was the most
sincere sound I could offer.
Finally, I said your name
before I went to sleep;
praying that tomorrow
I could say your name
one less time
Or that you might
remember me.
One way or another
I wish I could care more.
TWO POEMS - VICKI IORIO
Vicki Iorio is a Long Island native. Iorio's first poetry collection, "Poems From the Dirty Couch" was published in April, 2013. Iorio performs her poems in various venues on Long Island & NYC.
"Poetry is oxygen. Poetry is an organ in my body that is essential to life."
Love at the Crossroads
I want to cook for you
I haven't cooked for a man since the '90's
I say this to you
Not even shitfaced
Womb tingles
Vagina
Like the dick
The moby
The second head
Has a mind of her own
Clit imperative
Drives me to the North Fork
To harvest food for you
I want to get barefoot in my kitchen
Cook a red sauce for you
A blood sauce
With just enough spice to rouse you tongue
There will be wine
Red White Does it matter?
I want to cook for you
Not have your baby
My table will be repast enough
We will get past all the fairy tales
Chew till we hit bone
I haven't cooked for a man since the '90's
I say this to you
Not even shitfaced
Womb tingles
Vagina
Like the dick
The moby
The second head
Has a mind of her own
Clit imperative
Drives me to the North Fork
To harvest food for you
I want to get barefoot in my kitchen
Cook a red sauce for you
A blood sauce
With just enough spice to rouse you tongue
There will be wine
Red White Does it matter?
I want to cook for you
Not have your baby
My table will be repast enough
We will get past all the fairy tales
Chew till we hit bone
Open Mic
fucking in the ladies' room
during open mic
what the fuck am I doing what the fuck with
old enough to be a grandma
back is breaking leaning up against this nasty sink
spread open I'm gonna feel this tomorrow
back tattooed by faucets
deconstructing vertebrae pounded on porcelain
I'm gonna feel this tomorrow
poetry slammer boy slamming me
pumping away
red parr swimming upstream
connecting to nothing in dried crater
what the fuck is happening here
Act your age, grandma
walk out here a lady with ripped stockings
recite pantoums, sestinas, triolets
boy is fucking a ghost
shouting out names that are not mine
I will not remember him
the back pain the knee cramps but not him
not the fuck or scrawny dick poking through my folds
at this venue where verbs take action
in the dirty ladies' room in between sonnets that are red
during open mic
what the fuck am I doing what the fuck with
old enough to be a grandma
back is breaking leaning up against this nasty sink
spread open I'm gonna feel this tomorrow
back tattooed by faucets
deconstructing vertebrae pounded on porcelain
I'm gonna feel this tomorrow
poetry slammer boy slamming me
pumping away
red parr swimming upstream
connecting to nothing in dried crater
what the fuck is happening here
Act your age, grandma
walk out here a lady with ripped stockings
recite pantoums, sestinas, triolets
boy is fucking a ghost
shouting out names that are not mine
I will not remember him
the back pain the knee cramps but not him
not the fuck or scrawny dick poking through my folds
at this venue where verbs take action
in the dirty ladies' room in between sonnets that are red
from Fuck Art, Let's Dance, N!P, & every person who has stated-
"fuck stardom, I want to be a galaxy"
guess what? you are.
w/ love
Nostrovia! poetry
Dig our chapbook contest:
|