She was fat as a pimple,

dumb as scum on the Susquehanna;

but no ordinary Philly whore:

she was a drunk dirty lady

from down in lower Darby,

a stinko queen who had,

or one of her sisters,

been on the scene since the beginning of sex.

I creaked up the wood stairs

and swung open the hard-sprung door

into the hallway and the door banged behind

and left me in the dank stink

of fried eggs and catpiss. Ambled down

the butt-scarred hallway

to the number the man sold.

Brushed dust off the knocker

and banged. She waited for the word;

I said it, went in; she kicked over a gin bottle

with a flat grin and etiquette evaporated

as we rolled on the floor like boa-constricted sweathogs.

She was no ordinary Philly whore,

she was a fat dirty lady

from down in lower Darby,

simple as a pimple, ugly as a bug

in a wino’s beard, dumb as

scum on the Susquehanna,

but sexy as that Lexington shot:

you heard convulsing 400 pounds

round the world

that night for ten dollars we made meat sing.

Willie Smith

Short stories


3. Vinny slept with the gun under his pillow. Vinny slept soundly with the gun under the pillow. Vinny turned dreaming of the intruder at the locked window and the gun went off. Vinny stopped dreaming of intruder at the locked window and never woke up.

4. “- listen and listen good, I want everything in the register,” said Marcus. Tony gestured to Marcus to take it easy and not to do something crazy. Marcus was wearing a Halloween mask and he was pointing a gun at Tony. Marcus told Tony to hurry up. Tony didn’t move. Tony couldn’t move. Tony was frozen with fear.    Marcus went behind the counter and grabbed Tony by the shirt collar. It was one those polo team shirts. It was red with a white collar. Tony shouted and so Marcus hit Tony with the gun on the head. A dull thud told of the impact. Tony moaned. Tony’s knees buckled. Marcus stopped Tony falling. “Get up or I’m going mess you up,” said Marcus to Tony.  Tony managed to get to his feet. Marcus released Tony and pointed the gun at Tony. A hole in Tony’s head was bleeding. Tony was softly weeping and the blood was running down his face and onto the polo shirt.  Marcus pushed Tony to the register. Tony tried to say something but Marcus pushed the gun into the back of the Tony’s head and Tony pissed his pants. Marcus tried to push the gun through Tony’s head but it would go through Tony’s head. Tony was sniveling and the piss that had discolored his pants reeked. “Open the register and put the money in here,” said Marcus and Marcus handed Tony a brown paper bag.  There was a stack of brown paper bags by the register. Tony opened the register and Tony grabbed the money but Tony dropped the money on the ground by Marcus and Tony’s shoes in the pool of piss. The coins rattled as they scattered about Marcus and Tony’s shoes in the pool of piss. Marcus pushed Tony to the ground and Marcus grabbed another brown paper bag and Marcus stuffed money into the brown paper bag and then Marcus stuffed the brown paper bag into his hoody pocket and Marcus could hear Tony weeping, weeping like a little girl. Marcus shot Tony in the back of head and the blood and the brains splattered Marcus’s shoes and Marcus wiped his shoes until they looked clean on Tony and left with an armful of cigarettes.

Paul Kavanagh


(An Advertisement)

I have a big penis. I had to get that out of the way first. I have a twenty-seven-inch penis. A past girlfriend called it ‘The Onion.’ I was very proud of the name. Many years later I found out she called it ‘The Onion’ because of the smell. I always thought she named it ‘The Onion’ because it brought a tear to her eye.  My teeth have all fallen out. This is the second incongruity that attracts notice. I refuse to wear dentures. I could choke on the dentures. I have a wide mouth. I am able to swallow two fists. A girlfriend found it very funny. For her I would swallow a tennis ball.  The tennis ball would get caught in my throat and she laugh. She said I should join a circus. I have no need to join a circus I am famous. If I were not famous, I would join a circus. But I am famous. I have a thousand friends. I have never met or talked to any of my thousand friends. All of my friends are famous and brilliant – I love them dearly. My friends follow my every word. I can do something the Mona Lisa cannot, I can turn my neck. I am witty. I have read two thousand books. Each book bigger and longer and denser than the last.  My fingertips are permanently purple. I know musicians, film stars, fab-celebs, cheats, sycophants, hooligans, gangsters, drug dealers, child molesters and murderers. I have six fingers on my left hand. I have one leg longer than the other. My parents were always pulling my leg. My parents eloped. They never went through with the wedding. They telephone my neighbor once a year. I have three nipples, but saying that many people have three nipples. I have two assholes. One of the assholes is a snob. My mouth and tongue are to blame for the loss of my teeth. There is a strange odor that emanates from me. It is fusty, I am told. When it rains nodes appear. I have found worms burrowing into my flesh. I have plucked earwigs from my ears. I have stopped centipedes running up my legs. I have a Siamese twin. He is much taller than me. Sometimes He will carry me. He is a simpleton. I have to do the reading and writing. My vocabulary is huge. I have more than twenty-six thousand words in my arsenal. I can say yes nine different ways. My Siamese twin follows me worse than a shadow.  One night he stole my girlfriend. I found them in bed together. They were smoking. It was the cigarettes pressed against my flesh that told me of their betrayal. I have run marathons. I have fought in two wars. I work in a bank. I am as horny as a dog with two dicks. I have many children. I know Derrida. I am blind like Borges. I wear women’s underwear like Joyce. I chew my food like Kafka. I have written a book. I have a second penis. It is connected to the frontal lobe. For years I was told to get into porn. I tried. The porn star stripped off. She was very beautiful. I was overwhelmed. I fainted. My doctor said the rush of blood to the head almost killed me. He warned me never to get so excited again. I was lucky he said. He asked to see my penis. He called it a diving board. He was once an Olympian. Bronze, I think. He is very proud of his endeavor. I would have won gold knowing me.



Arthur Rimbaud

Did not Arthur Rimbaud ask the question What am I doing here? but you never ask the question standing before the mirror with the hairbrush in your hand impersonating Arthur Rimbaud chanting Jadis, si je me souviens bien… with your hair puffed up and a scowl on your face and a teatowel tied in a bow around your neck and though you see Paul Verlaine old and bald and decrepit you ignore it for nobody wants to be old and bald and decrepit Paul Verlaine when you could be Arthur Rimbaud.

20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891

Larry Caomhánach



Media urges me to buy it.

All my friends tell me to buy it.

People at work insist I buy it.

So I decide to go out

and buy it.

Take along my AK.

Couple hundred hollow points.

Because what is the point?

Take along a crowd a thought –

we can all buy it together.

Drive to the store. Hop out. Duck

in. Inside cluster scores

of that social insect humanity.

Just call me Raid. Read the label

on my can. Watch me spray.

See antennas, iPods, glasses twitch.

If you duck lucky, make it out

before I train on you my sights,

make the world know

I just came down to buy it.

And if you call me sick,

let it be thus.

Let’s make a play –

on words playing bullets

from my automatic.

Take this pain. Take that death.

Carry in your head forever film 

of the spatter to prove

while I breathe I still do not yet

buy it.

Willie Smith


Literary Masturbation

James Joyce uncircumcised

Virginia Woolf circumcised

Emily Dickinson uncircumcised

Barbara Cartland circumcised

Franz Kafka uncircumcised

Henry Miller circumcised

Philip Roth uncircumcised

Adomnan of Iona circumcised

Julian of Norwich uncircumcised

Jack Kerouac circumcised

Agatha Christie uncircumcised

Fernando Pessoa circumcised

Carson McCullers uncircumcised

Ann Kavan circumcised

BS Johnson uncircumcised

George Orwell circumcised

William Shakespeare uncircumcised

Sappho circumcised

Homer hummmmmm

Peter Berdyaev

Short stories


  1. Gene stared at the television, blew smokerings, and listened to the bed. An open bottle of whiskey and two dirty glasses and a dirty ashtray betrayed the morning. One of the glasses was smeared with heavy lipstick. The ice had not melted. The air was thick with perfume. Gene had not turned on the television and Gene had not opened the bottle of whiskey and poured the whiskey over the ice. There was a sock by the bedroom door. It was Lou’s sock, pink ruffle. On the walls were pictures of Gene and Lou. Over the television was a picture of Gene and Lou and Gene’s parents and Lou’s parents. The curtains were pulled but a thin band of sunlight cleaved through the dust. Gene listened and turned his wedding ring. The television showed commercials. A moan stirred. It was Lou. Gene dropped the cigarette into Lou’s glass, stood up, and stretched. Gene picked up the gun. Gene walked to the door. With his boot Gene pushed open the door. Within a thick band of sunlight dust danced. The air was hot and thick with sex. Gene swallowed, listened to the bed, looked at the naked bodies joined. Gene pointed the gun. Lou whispered a scream. Gene shot the man in the back and when the man turned Gene shot the man in the neck. Lou screamed so Gene shot Lou above the right breast and then Gene shot Lou in the head and then Gene shot Lou in the head again and then Gene shot Lou in the belly and then Gene shot Lou in the belly again. Sunlight poked through the holes in the walls. Gene dropped the gun and walked out to his car and Gene climbed into his car and turned the key. Gene waited. The car rolled forward. Gene said Gene would be back at the garage for the oil change at twelve.
  2. Trevor was drunk and Fernando was drunk. Trevor punched Fernando and Fernando fell and Trevor kicked Fernando in the belly and then Trevor went to kick Fernando in the face but Fernando moved and took out a knife and Fernando cut Trevor. A spray of blood splashed against the bar. Trevor screamed. Fernando crawled up a bar stool. Trevor left the bar by the back door and ran through the car park and stopped at his truck. Fernando stood up and wiped the blood from his mouth and went in search of Trevor. There was a trail of blood lit by the neon lights of the bar. Fernando found Trevor leaning against his truck. With the knife in his hand Fernando went for Trevor.  Fernando did not see the gun in Trevor’s hand. Three shots to the chest killed Fernando.

Paul Kavanagh

Short stories


     Sitting in this flop with a picture of you, a chicken pot pie, gallon of Gallo and little else; watching cracks on the wall; hoarse cough nextdoor, the oldfart damn near dead from WWI wounds, dead wives, Bugler and even cheaper wine than I drink; upstairs the nineteen year old Krishna freak without a dime and lacking a brain, chanting muffled through the floor, which is my ceiling, plaster praying to be left alone and let fall and goddamn skidroad god letting the ceiling/floor have its way through slow pain, I love you, but understand why I left.

     It’s hot here. One jammed window and it looks out five feet onto the brick of a sooty warehouse. Tattered oilcloth shade. Stink of gas now tinted with heating potpie. Steamheat permanently high. Landlady same.

     She offers me an extra blanket whenever I pass her shadowy desk in the lobby. She once had a wino freeze to death, she says, and is terrified of death and all its concomitant responsibilities. Fusty creature, sticky booze on her lips.

     No, I have not fucked her yet. Nor anything else. Still jack off to your picture, or sometimes simply jingle the change in my pocket.

     Here the ceiling is high and obscure. Lamp by my creaky bed the only light. Forty watts of consolation. Still, some previous pervert managed to get way up and scrawl with lipstick or blood or beetshit a poem concerning the necessity of leaving your jane to go to war when your country has gotten into hot water. Sonofabitch even rhymes: war/whore, jane/pain, water/ ought to.

     Soon the pot pie will be hot. I plan to eat it with a plastic fork. I am leaving you the silverware. I think it was yours anyway. All the rest is yours, too, and this letter. Send along another picture. I left because there was no longer any poetry to be found.    

Willie Smith

Short stories

Superman Rant

How do you fuck Lois Lane? You do it in the missionary position. I know. With the lights out. Never experiment. No joy involved. In out in out. No thought of poor Lois Lane. Your greed in the bedroom knows no bounds. It’s me me me Superman. You manage five seconds. Grabbing. Ramming. No kiss kiss. Pounding. Not even a sweat. And afterwards you weep like a tortured fool missing his fingernails and teeth. Yes, you weep. You plead for God to bless your holy seed. Wasted. I bet when you roll off Lois Lane with you limp dick spent you thank her. You roll onto your side, close his eyes, and pray. I bet Lois Lane rubs one off thinking of Batman. Once a groupie always a groupie! Superman is for the elite. Superman votes Republican. Superman hates rock n roll. Superman hates poetry. Superman is day. Superman is never night. I see Superman in a floral tie and smoking a thick cigar and saying I want more and more I want it all.  Superman reeks of whiskey and expensive aftershave. Superman does the double V for victory. Superman is obsessed with money. Superman is a narcissist. Superman is a bore. Superman has more billions than you. Superman has more friends than you. Superman would bore the shit out of you!  Superman is verbose! Superman is aknowitall! one clause too many! In HIS chair, next to His fire, and He opines about everything and nothing, rants, shouts all the time.  Is always in the Right.  Superman is never wrong. Superman hates women. Superman is no feminist. Superman hates mothers.  Superman hates little girls. Superman is a front room Victorian father. Superman is a Tyrant in the kitchen. Superman is a Puritan in the bedroom. I picture Superman and Lois Lane having a quiet night at home. He in His comfy chair, puffing on His thick cigar, rolling His eyes, complaining about those that have cancer, those that had any disease, those that need schools, those that need a dentist, those that have more than two children, those that are lazy, those that want to spend time having fun, those that don’t have a bank account, those that dream, those that want a better life, those that are not white!  Lois Lane is drunk, knitting, cursing the black man, cursing the brown man, cursing the yellow man just to keep Superman happy.  And then they go to bed, pray, turn off the lights and she starts with her hands, fingers roaming heavy breathing and you are thinking I should sock her, I should roundhouse her, I should karate chop her, I should shut her up. Superman never gives a man or a woman a second chance. You mess up and you’re out with Superman.  One mess up and that’s it, down you go. There’s no ambivalence with Superman. Superman is always right. Yes, always right. Superman sits in His comfy chair, smoking on His thick cigar, drinking His fine whiskey, and remembers the Good Old’ Days! When men were men and women were women and business was business. Superman remembers crushing those free thinkers: General Zod and Ursa and Non and laughs. General Zod and Ursa and Non were hippies just longhaired hippies. Listened to too much Beatles and that Narc Leary!  Lex Luthor bad? Hell. No. Superman puts down Lex Luthor. Why? Lex Luthor was a small-town boy, a self-made man, a huge success, a billionaire! Superman wants to return to the Golden Age, women in high heels and in the kitchen, mixing the drinks.  Men ruling the bedroom. Superman always knows he is going to win. Superman made sure Supergirl was a flop. He used all of his powers within the Firm to destroy her. Supergirl didn’t stand a chance.

Larry Caomhánach

Short stories


Perfectly aware of wearing only underwear, I shoved my fist down the throat of a Waring blender shoplifted last year from Salvation Army. My left index stabbed the puree button. I sought the pure experience.

     The engine locked into a screech. Blades bit knuckles; blood seeped, stung, itched; while from the shoulder I wrenched, beefed into it, matching downward thrust against torque.

     Bitterly the stalled machine yielded stink.

     Kept up pressure. Used left to key suicide prevention. Hit speaker phone. When the do-gooder answered, I blurted a bomb threat. Yelled it repeatedly, till I heard them scurry. Confident they were evacuating, I then punched off.

     No turning back. Nothing now between me and the petulant convenience. Sure – yellowbelly shivers blued the flesh; lemon of a mind salted knuckles, as the stinking blade whined slightly deeper slits; but my soul rubbed hands in glee: I was gonna show more guts than Ulysses. I would choke Charybdis, throttle Progress’s whirlpool – the delusion evolution has a goal, creation a crown, man a god beyond the law of tooth and claw.

     Or else – bit by bit – arrive today where I’m headed anyway.

Willie Smith