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Poetry Uncategorized

BLOWBANG PYTHIA

She kneels in deck shoes and nothing else

unless you count tattoos.

The acolytes from off-camera appear.

Surround her, as she sets to work

maintaining all six erect.

She deepthroats one after the other,

after the other, after again the one,

after another other, and so on,

in accelerating succession.

Till the choir takes the wheel,

soloing together –

backflipped beetle,

six legs pumping,

while she fingers herself till the boys climax,

and goo clots with a horror of ecstasy

her skull.

                 The lingams withdraw, spent,

while she gallops nowhere in a hell

of a hurry, yet on the knees,

riding barelip her fingertip steed,

blind with stud pollen, licking dollops,

camera dollying in to worship

each grinning, bitter gulp.

Willie Smith

Categories
Uncategorized

A Review of My Book

1                My Book is a complex book.

1.1               The book is a structure made up of words, not of things.

1.11             The structure is composed of words that have entered the ear and been presented as sentences on the page in ink for the eye.

1.12             The structure was created by the architect, the author is the architect, I am the architect, within the book there is an architect, the words of the architect are the foundation and skeleton of the book, which is the structure.

1.13           There is a place for complex books and that place is between your hands and below or above your open eyes.

1.2       My Book should be read aloud.

1.21           I am told I have an ear for dialogue. I have two ears.

2                Twenty four hours make up a day. In that day many words pass from lips to ears. In the space between the ears, behind the eyes, words flow and collide.  The eyes can only see the words inked on the white page. The ears cannot read. The ears listen. The eyes cannot listen. 

2.01     My Book is better than this review.

2.011            Ludwig Wittgenstein loved Westerns.

3             Ferdinand de Saussure only wrote on blackboards with white chalk. Those hundreds and hundreds of blackboards are housed at École pratique des hautes études. They are hermetically sealed. But still the chalk flakes keep falling off.

3.01 2.011 & 3 are for the Literary Critic.

H.P. Wodehouse

      

Categories
Short stories

guts

We watch the squirrels. There are many squirrels that visit our back garden, as many as the trees.

We sit in the back garden, on expensive outdoor furniture, drink cool beer and talk about the lovely weather.

The barbecue cooks the meat and we talk excitedly about the food.  The grill is always loaded with chicken, beef and pork.

Some leave the patio, stand at the edge were the concrete and grass meet, to smoke.

The women flirt and the men place bets.

If we are lucky a squirrel will climb the utility pole. The wires hang from the utility pole like guts. We pretend they are not there.

We hope a squirrel will touch the magic button.  

When a squirrel touches the magic button, after the bang, we salute the utility pole as though it is a Mayan God.

Paul Kavanagh

Categories
Short stories

Gainsborough


I prefer Gainsborough (said Germaine) passing the garlic. Linda chopped up the garlic. She placed the small mound into the pan. Germaine handed over two onions.  Germaine didn’t understand art and was happy not to understand art. Germaine couldn’t deconstruct and then construct art and Germaine was happy. Germaine didn’t understand the eloquence of a brush strokes. Iconography was lost to Germaine. You have got to read Panofsky (said Linda). Germaine liked it when Linda showed up. They would stand outside and smoke. I get lost (said Germaine). The cigarettes had been unkind to Linda’s face. Go and look over La Primavera train the eye (said Linda). Her teeth had also been treated shabbily by the cigarettes. It is the best work he has ever done (said Linda). Germaine didn’t believe Linda. What she saw was the bottom of two feet. It is filled with soul (said Linda). Yes soles (said Germaine). Linda lit another cigarette. The soles were dirty. Germaine took another cigarette from Linda. Did you know that Gainsborough had a proclivity for prostitutes? (asked Linda).

Yoni Baxley

Categories
Poetry

Street Life

My grandfather beat my grandmother

My grandmother beat my father.

I thought my childhood normal

Until I saw my neighbour insert a straw

Into the frog’s bunghole and blow

I sucked.

My father beat my mother.

The best fuck I ever witnessed was perpetrated

By a bloke off the Street

He held a bottle of cider and kept on his socks.

Battered and abused She sold her story to the Newspapers.

My mother beat my sister

My sister beat my brother

All houses were open all cars free dog turds spoke

Biblical tales of age gob on the pavement diagnosed paranoia

Blood and snot entwined as spuds and gravy.

My brother beat me.

I never complained

Street Life is a game of dominoes

So I beat the dog.

V.D. Lewis

Categories
Short stories

THE $1.98 PORNIES

     I have been sitting inside the theater for forty-five minutes and still have my coat on. When I came in I was so anxious to start looking at the screen that I forgot to remove my coat.

     I don’t want to start taking it off now, because somebody, maybe one of the burly crewcut drunks behind, will notice and think I am getting carried away.

     It is getting damn hot. On the screen five or six young men and women are balling frenziedly.

     It’s too late. I can’t take it any longer. I start taking off my coat.

     Nobody takes his eye off the screen.

Willie Smith

Categories
Short stories

HIDE & SEEK

Time means nothing to a child. When I play I go missing for years. This is only the second time I have played. I have not surrendered yet and I have not been found. I am still hiding under the table. When I write years I am guessing for time means nothing to a child. All I know is that I now have a beard and Benny my dog is no longer a dog. Benny went away bit by bit. Little pieces of Benny vanished over time time means nothing to a child. He was like the cookie that you pick at. With each nibble compunction taps you on the back and points to the excessive fat around your waist. I have decubitus upon my bottom. Decubitus is fun to write, but painful to sit upon. I play with Benny’s bones for entertainment, sometimes I arrange his bones to look like a man walking. A silly walking man with a funny hat. The funny hat is Benny’s skull. Other times Benny’s skull is a big ship. A big ship on a long odyssey but time means nothing to a child. I use Benny’s tail for the sea. It undulates. My father’s feet were once the feet of Polyphemos. My father’s feet no longer poke me in the back. For a long time my father’s feet poked me in the back. My father had very large feet. His father had very small feet. His father had very small feet. His father had very small feet. His father had very small feet. His father had very small feet. His father had very small feet. All the feet smelt of shit. My feet are neither big nor small but still smell of shit. My feet were bigger than Benny’s paws. It is only now that I wonder where my father’s feet are time means nothing to a child. I do not miss them. They caused a lot of pain. I miss them but I don’t miss the pain. Pain is an awful thing. My mother has beautiful feet. Sometimes I get the urge to stroke them. My mother’s feet hardly peek through the tablecloth. When her nails are painted my heart swoons. The absence of my mother’s smile has left a lacuna that is painful. Pain is an awful thing. Pain is black and odorless. A thing without odor is without essence.  The table contains a myriad of odors. Benny’s bones reek. It is a reek I have grown to love a love tantamount to the love I had for Benny and now have for his bones. Sometimes I can still hear Benny barking. It is when I knock his bones together. The noise drives away the pain. Pain is an awful thing. My legs are filled with pain. I hardly move my legs. My toes are black. They look like black olives. Well, I think they look like black olives for I have forgotten what black olives look like. I used to like black olives I think. Pain is an awful thing. Pain is black and odorless.  The pain in my belly is more painful than the pain in my legs. The pain in my belly is like the pain Polyphemos must have felt would Odysseus poked out his one eye with that stick. The pain in my legs is a throb like heart ache like the heart ache I feel when I hear my mother crying about my absence. My mother’s crying is loud and goes on for days and days I think for time means nothing to a child. Sometimes I drum using Benny’s skull and bones to drown out her weeping. I have become quite the drummer.

A.K. Kevinour

Categories
Poetry

GOD IN HELL

Dear God in Hell:

Make my life big and swell,

like a thumb hit with a hammer.

Make my life dumb and

crammed with yammer,

and with death and all its glamor;

because, oh my dear God in Hell,

it is so good and well

that I am what I hammer.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

SHIT STREET

François Villon knew Shit Street knew Shit Street not in the way of a taxi driver an ambulance driver a pizza delivery driver knows Shit Street passing thru a flittering blur he knew Shit Street with its back streets the subterranean streets the gutters the dirt the grime the smells like a dog knows one arsehole from one arsehole the best getaways the best holes to disappear down the best places to duck and hide the best gambling dens with cock fighting and bear baiting the Chaucerian taverns bars brothels cheap whorehouses far away from the pox the place to store and sell swag

yes, François Villon knew Shit Street like Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio

                                                                      like Ben Johnson

John Sidney Blyth Barrymore played François Villon in the movies.

Where are those who were before us François de Montcorbier?

François Villon lived a life on the lam one foot in front of the other the result of a life on the rob a life of riotous living

                                                drinking

                                                            fighting

robbing

                                                                                   gambling

                                                                                              fucking

Rhyme is a carcrash they say then and now

Bloody heads protruding through shattered tessellated glass

Meter and rhythm are moribund they say then and now

Would François Villon find a publisher today?

Vers libre to the French but free verse to the English. When the English tongue – the vilest thing we possess – moves around the mouth it produces rhythm and inexorably meter they say then and now. No such thing as free verse nothing’s free nothing is free free free. The poet has to go out and rob. Even old T.S. Eliot said

T.S. Eliot worked in a bank. You know what Balzac said

                        Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.

Even in prose rhythm that old bitch gone in the gums slips in like a surreptitious thief to bash in your skull and steal your dreams. Is the mythical method an academic way of saying thieving from the past? There is no free verse they say then and now.

Poverty always stings cried François Villon. O how true!

Some poets just have a knack of landing in Shit Street.

François Villon wrote

                       Qui Meurt, a ses lois de tout dire!

                     Ti-tum-ti-tum-ti

Kit Marlowe was a scholar an international spy a forger an atheist so it’s no surprise he finished his beer & pie and got stabbed in the eye. Poor Kit ended up bleeding all over the floor of Shit Street.

Overindulging in pickling herring and expiring is living in Shit Street

poor Greene

twice he gets it in the neck

a dig at the Bard

That’s double Shit Street!

not many knew Shit Street with the intimacy of François Villon from a cell he dreamt of it from the torture chamber he dreamt of it suspended and broken he dreamt of it kicked and punched he dreamt of it stretched to breaking he dreamt of it old and frail and without words he dreamt of it from the deathbed he dreamt of it

Paul Kavanagh

Categories
Poetry

Neighbor

Sometimes you fall because you desire the fall the shadow may be monstrously huge but the source is always predictably small in comparison. Once one spectre is dispelled inexorably up jumps another. Individually we know the mendacity of our imagination but collectively we are fooled each time. The Italian term fascismo is derived from fascio meaning bundle of sticks ultimately from the Latin word fasces. My neighbour has a set of D’Annunzio inspired whiskers even though he has never heard of D’Annunzio or heard of Liszt’s daughter or Wagner or read La dottrina del fascismo but the SS Haircut screams in the warm wind as he mows the manicured lawn dreaming of the New Dawn. The mind, a vile beast, gives birth to a myriad of horrors. The horns of the Minotaur. The hair of Medusa. The eye of Polyphemus. The mouths of the Hydra. The teeth of Cerberus. The body of the Sphinx. The wings of Typhon. The tail of the Chimera.

S.T. Dyer