Categories
Poetry

pockets full of stones

I am going to read. I am going to read Woolf. I am going to read Virginia Woolf. I am going to sit down cross my legs and read Virginia Woolf. There is only one Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf was born into an affluent household in South Kensington, London, England, the seventh child. Virginia Woolf’s father was a Sir. Virginia Woolf’s mother was photographed by Julia Margaret Cameron. Virginia Woolf had a Victorian Childhood. Virginia Woolf once dressed like a man. Jinny was a member of the Bloomsbury Set. The Bloomsbury Set were all upper middle class. Virginia Woolf wrote many difficult books. The book in my hand is To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. It is a difficult book to read. When I read Virginia Woolf I like to have a cup of tea close by and toasted bread with lashings of butter. Last night I read To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Last night I read a hundred pages of To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Last night while reading To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf it rained and the wind ululated but I was warm and secure and had a cup of tea and three slices of toast with lashing of butter while I read To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Over my head was an electric light and it illuminated the pages of To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Unfolding and folding thoughts dreamily wafting an opium dream of Augustus Carmichael melancholy thoughts permeate We All Die Alone such a sad thought my thoughts are now swayed by To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Virginia Woolf drowned with her pockets full of stones in the River Ouse, Sussex.

T. R. Rayland

Categories
Short stories

kitchen sink

On the brown fake leather couch Lucrezia with her mouth fucked Robert and Lucrezia with her mouth fucked Matthew and Lucrezia with her mouth fucked Robert and Matthew and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert and Lucrezia with her mouth fucked Matthew and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Matthew and Lucrezia with her mouth fucked Robert and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert and Matthew and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert while Matthew watched and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Matthew while Robert watched and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert while Matthew jerked off and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Matthew while Robert jerked off and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert and Lucrezia with her anus fucked Matthew and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert and Lucrezia with her anus fucked Matthew and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Robert and Matthew and Lucrezia with her anus fucked Robert and Matthew and Lucrezia with her anus fucked Robert and Lucrezia with her cunt fucked Matthew and Lucrezia watched Robert with his mouth fuck Matthew and Lucrezia watched Matthew with his mouth fuck Robert and Lucrezia watched Robert and Matthew with their mouths fuck Robert and Matthew and Lucrezia watched Robert with his anus fuck Matthew and Lucrezia watched Matthew with his anus fuck Robert and then Lucrezia sitting on the brown fake leather couch made Robert and Matthew lick her cunt and Lucrezia on the brown fake leather couch made Robert and Matthew lick her anus until Lucrezia was happy very happy sleepy happy and happily Lucrezia slept.

Paul Kavanagh

Categories
Poetry

DRINK PAINT

I wanna drink paint.

Gallons of to-die-for lead base.

Put color in the old GI. Experience

room temperature good ice cream consistency.

Taste a spike sledged through the throat,

pin ya to the wall. I plan to drink till

paint pupils orange pith white;

skin gangrene early blackberry green.

I wanna die from ochre, from scarlet,

from vermilion; head in a toilet from Jersey;

zapped on LSD under sputtery bug lights,

while the elevated thunders.

I wanna chug a pint of plum.

Finish off the belly with a yellow lacquer.

Paint the town red as a stop to the blues.

And no more shall the blues reign.

For this paint hath put me down.

Thick bitter tinct made me extinct.

Put me down here – to jitter with you dead.

To jig a cocoon no puzzle ever saw.

Put inspire to bed. Then inside that rattle –

clutched in a piglet trotter – puke pigiron pigment.

Not what meant mentally to blow into my horn.

But what see now meant stuck fast.

I wanna drink paint.

Willie Smith

Categories
Short stories

???????????????????

I drop the title of this story on the back of a snail. Go home give up says the poet Kowwowski. Come on I say I feel lucky. Kowwowski throws down the money. I lose the Milton epithet. Kowwowski says Luck has abandoned you today. I say Come now see those pigeons in the sky. I lose the Aristotelian beginning middle and end. I lose blisters warts boils cysts carbuncles abscesses hemorrhaging scabs sores crabs lice worms of insights and knowledge. I lose rude words grinding poverty brutal gestures sexual depravity intense human interest unhappy marriages sordid background an atmosphere of acute misery.  I told you so says Kowwowski with a sloppy smirk with a grinding grin with a cacophonous chuckle I know I know I say But surely if I put money on that car beating that truck so far I’ll win it all back.  Go home says Kowwowski My poem is complete I will not suffer defeat I say Let us play cards Poker says Kowwowski. I lose the quintessential existential anti-hero to Queens. Into the pot I toss the subplot subtext the submarine. That’s paltry says Kowwowski Wait I say I have a prostitute down on her luck in the muck without luck Hell no says Kowwowski I’d rather have the commas Take them I say and let’s have a drink and then we’ll box for everything else the whole shebang. We wrap towels around our fists and sheathe the towels with plastic bags. Kowwowski says Let’s get it on. I b-r-r-ring the bell. Kowwowski throws jab jab jab and I lose the chase the race the slaying of the dragon the gold the mold the deflowering of the damsel the key to the enigma the delight at the dénouement.  I throw uppercut uppercut uppercut. Kowwowski clocks my right eye. There’s goes my dignity my territory my lucidity. I bop the nose. Kowwowski brings blood to the bottom lip. There goes the cosmic soup the dream residual the Vicoan loop.  I surrender my Quotation Marks. Kowwowski gets me on the ropes and pounds my pate bats my bollocks forays my face and I lose my grammar and Kowwowski while erranding the ears nullifying the nose chiseling the chin says Boy your Grammar sucks.

Paul Kavanagh

Categories
Poetry

Magic

Magic betrays the senses & the will labyrinthine & serpentine unreal when you desire the real can fail suffer from entropy with smoke & mirrors & sleight of hand turn the drunk the dolt the pious the villain the parasite the gobshite into a God. That the moon goes around the earth & that the earth goes around the sun & that we are stuck to this ball shows me that there is real magic but I haven’t a fucking clue how the magic works. The term magic etymologically derives from the Greek word mageia (μαγεία). Men were butchered & women burnt to dissipation by a finger of accusation. Magic has to be simple if magic is difficult you hope the magician succumbs to the chains the handcuffs the rope & drowns in the tub of water.  

Larry Kevinour

Categories
Short stories

The Man Without Pain

Come see The Man Without Pain says a painted sign. You follow the childish finger. The Man Without Pain is very ugly. The sign says a coin only. To reach The Man Without Pain’s tent you had to pass fleas that dance; fat ladies with huge breasts and beards; a giant as strong as Samson; dwarves that fight and maybe for extra coins fuck; skeletal women that dance and show their bald – yes, like plucked chickens – cunts; balloon-headed babies preserved in Mason jars with overgrown penises. You stand in the line. Hands stuffed in pockets. Fingers fidget with the coin. You think should I, is it worth it, shouldn’t I see the skeletal women with the hairless cunts instead. You peek over shoulders and wonder what is going on in the tent. You shuffle forward. Your breathing is quick, uneven, loud.  The cigarette hardly keeps the coals orange. Two carnies, smoking rolledup cigarettes and drinking moonshine from crack mugs, stand by the entrance. Dice roll over a sheet of wood. Loose money weighed down by the moonshine jar. They converse in a bewildering argot. “Fuck me” and “I anal fucked her.” They are there to break up the trouble and look after The Man Without Pain. The queue shuffles forward. Here the air is thick with cigarette smoke and boasting, “it will be over in one” and “I am going to picture my wife”.  What you think is popcorn in the muddy grass is a molar. It is your turn to drop a coin into the battered bowler hat. A nod. Ticket. A cloud of suffocating cigar smoke. Tattoos on a big arm. You enter. Eyes adjust. Breathing hard to do. Heart beats fast. The Man Without Pain is sitting, motionless and expressionless, on an old chair.  Six or seven kerosene lamps illuminate the inside of the tent. The smell of sweat and iron confuses you. The queue jolts. “Baby slap!” You are standing not on grass but sloppy mud that clings. A gramophone plays music, fast jazz, the Devil’s music, loud.  “Next,” says a sexy carnie showing a lot of leg and breasts. Whack! “Next!” To get here you had to walk past the Ping-Pong Ball & Fish Bowl and the Dime Pitch and the Duck Pond and the Cross-Bow Shoot and the Stand the Bottle. “Next!” A doctor with the first stages of Alzheimer’s showing sits behind The Man Without Pain drinking moonshine and smoking a thin cigar. “Next!” The sexy carnie is not that sexy.  Missing teeth. A deep scar on the right cheek. Eyes crossed. You step forward. Here the crowd is rowdy. Fights break out. “Hit him hard son.” Professional fighters show up and gamble on how quickly they can knock The Man Without Pain out.  You form a fist. “Next!”  A couple in the excitement start to fuck. She drapes a leg. He slips it in. They do it standing up. You have never seen it happen like this before. You can’t watch. “Move it jackass.”  You step forward. You realize the black paint hides the coagulated blood splatter. You look at your fist and compute the damage it could achieve if connected perfectly with the face. You make-believe a Boxing Ring surrounded by cheering Multitudes. You are about to fight the heavyweight Champ of the World for the belt. Fame. Riches. Women. The fucking couple look like they are dancing. “Next!” Fighting tongues. Four hands grabbing two behinds. “Next!” Gyrating. You see an exposed breast with an erect nipple. You hear the slap of flesh.  “Next!” It is you now. Your turn. The Man Without Pain closes his eyes. Teeth missing.  Nose broken. Lips split and hemorrhaging. Skin swollen and swelling and discolored.  Breathing even. You step forward. You pull back the fist. The line behind you inhales. “Go on!” and “Make it a good one!”. You tell yourself that The Man Without Pain is a bad man. You say he is a Banker. A Politician. The Hobo that made love to your wife and stole your good coat. There are two buckets. One holds cold water. The other blood and a sponge. You see a shadow move. It could be his wife. You heard he is married to contortionist and she is reportedly beautiful. You spit. You hate the bastard! The fucker! The cunt! When your fist lands on the face of The Man Without Pain it is you that winces, that huffs, that groans, that spits, that recoils in pain. He is expressionless, motionless, void.

Larry Caomhánach

Categories
Poetry

the mind of the heart or the heart of the mind

Memories ramifying into imagination or imagination ramifying into memories the sea and its whispers metamorphose into the validation of Vico’s theory that imagination is memory reshaping itself within the cage that is the mind of the heart or the heart of the mind.

The sea is blue and grey and white the sky is a simulacrum of the sea.

With three fingers I draw three lines.  Watch how I move and draw. Follow the tips of my fingers. See the lines I leave behind. The three lines now ripple. Wave crash into retreating wave belching and burping. On the beach gulls create shadows and caw crabs scurry from hole to hole flies feed upon opened muscles children build cities upon cities with canals that they clog with seashells and seaweed and corpses.

Larry Kevinour

Categories
Poetry

AMULET

Let me be your amulet.

Let my words lift your eyes

to the heights of my life,

that you may see

what I cannot tell you.

At the day’s outset,

while the dawn moon sets,

hang me like Dooley around your neck.

Let me swinging in the sun wink.

Set me, come nightfall, on your vanity.

Let me breathe, as you sleep, my fill

of fantasy, the room filling with moon.

Let the night hold in gold my words.

Hang me like Dooley around your neck,

that I may scent your heart glint.

Ah – let me your amulet be.

Because I am your amulet.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

My moon your moon our moon

We are told the moon dies

not dies

does not ascend and descend.

The moon is a thief

is perverse

is a rock

is old bold for sure but not gold.

The werewolf desires the moon

Calvino writes the moon

lovers love under the moon

the house burglar abhors the moon

the moth will with will fly into the candle flame.

No wretched heart was wrenched from within and displayed without for the moon.   

Lucy Jacobs

Categories
Poetry

next to you

No

Now

Never

Never say that

Never say what

Never

Never

No jokes

Now is not the time

Never is

Not now

Next week

Knock three times on the door

Never

No water off my back

Night

Night

Lee Meadows