Pad over to the Poet’s pad.

Surprise the clown making love to his fist.

Hoping thereby – he grunts – to get a

handle on some angle for an ode.

Gets out, between gasps, concentrating on

his two-stroke: “Booze in kitch, cabinet under

sink, Popov – beside cleaning fluid can.”

Spurts across the room at a shelf

stuffed with self-help books.

Myriad animalcules die –

dried to a horrid death –

on the binding of a Webster’s. The

Poet snaps. Zips. Buckles. Slouches

onto the couch. I re-enter

with glasses and the bottle.

The Poet replaces his glasses.

Mumbles, hates to wank in focus.

Pulls from his pants a ballpoint.

Rolls eyes at the ozone. Explains he’s

fingering the Muse’s organ.

Play her like a fugue.

Force every register howl.

In his grave Bach flips.

I hand the Poet a vodka flip,

highball just now invented.

Both eyes out of his skull lower.

Chugs the flip. Falls

to scrawling in a spiral pad

snatched off the cocktail table:

“Able was I ere I saw Elba.”

Sip my drink; suppress a grin;

start the session with:

“Are you no longer,

then, I take it, Napoleon?”  

The cat across the room catapults;

caterpillars into the Poet’s lap; glares up

like I’m in the wrong pigeonhole.

We chase the cat under the sink,

whooping like Genociders and Indians

hammered on hard cider. Exit drowned

as rats in a failed thought experiment.

Anything held against me, the Poet

screams, I – hustled out the door,

into the back of the van – never meant.  

Willie Smith

Short stories

Two Grand

He said he wanted the apple and I told him that the apple was really an onion and he laughed and said that he would have the apple and I told him that the apple was an onion and the onion belonged to me and he said that what was his was mine and what was mine was his. I told I was saving the onion and I had plans for the onion and I told that I hoped the onion would ramify and that we would have an armful of onions. He laughed. Barked. Farted loudly. It was a cruel laugh. The fart reeked. He showed his serrated teeth, black. He said that apples grow on trees. Yes I said. Trees take years he said. I placed the onion before him and told him to look at the onion and he looked at the onion and light invaded his eyes and his face glowed red and he licked his lips. He farted again. This fart was louder and fuller than the last fart. Have we any salt he asked. I shook my head and I told him we had pepper. Black like your teeth I said sans smile.  He said that an apple does not need salt. Clever. I agreed. He smiled. I watched his ears lift, pig’s ears. I picked up the onion. What are you going to do with that he asked. I pointed to the hole in the ground. It was a small hole. I had spent a week digging the hole. The ground was frozen. I had to use my hands. He had watched me dig the hole and he did not offer to help. He could have helped. Are you digging your grave he asked. Yes I said. In the past if there is such a thing as the past he had helped. Together we had dug holes, my older brother and I, many holes. It’s a grand hole he said. I thanked him. It will rain today he said. I smiled. Don’t smile he said. Thank you for the reminder I said. My pleasure he said. I nodded my head. That’s better he said showing me his black teeth. My brother the showoff the bighead the manabouttown. My mouth is without teeth but has a fine array of gum diseases. Too many to catalogue. Let me have a look at the apple again he said. I reminded him that what I was holding in the hand and was planning on growing in the soil was an onion. I was once called an onion he said. Yes I said. Yes he said. Why I asked. I could bring a tear to a girl’s eye he said. There was color in his cheeks and his eyes had enlarged. He was very happy my brother. How I asked. He stood up and unzipped his slacks and before I could protest he showed me the onion and he laughed and swung the onion before the tip of my nose. That is no onion I said. What he said. It is a cucumber I said. Yes he said proudly and trying to shive it into my mouth he said it’s a shit trouble maker by Christ. Put it away I said. He coiled the monster and stuffed it into the aperture and while zipping his fly he whistled ostentatiously. The proof that we are seeds from a different fruit he said. Yes I said and added a swan will never come from the meeting of two hippos. He sat back down and he rubbed his belly and I rubbed my belly. Let me feel the apple he said. Vexed I passed him the onion. He weighed the onion. This apple could feed the both of us he said. I nodded my head. The onion was still an onion but I was vexed. Brother he said and he added go inside the house and fetch the knife. I held out my hand. Don’t you trust me brother he said. I shook my head and he laughed and farted a phenomenon. He tossed the onion at me and I caught the onion. That’s a fine apple that is he said. He licked his lips and rubbed his belly. I carried the onion into the house and after being out in the air the fusty odor of the house stirred the hunger and I saw unreal apples and pears and spuds in the mold and mildew and I placed the onion on the table and picked up the knife and it was a very sharp knife and to test the sharpness of the knife I removed a node of my fuzz and I looked at the removed hair. Grey. I picked up the onion and carried the onion and the knife outside. Rain he said. I had forgotten why I had gone inside but I was holding a knife and I showed him the knife and I shrugged my shoulders and arched my eyebrows and smacked my lips. Hand me the knife he said. I handed him the knife. I closed my eyes and tried to remember why I had gone into the house and I why I had a knife and why I had handed my brother the knife but all I saw when I closed my eyes and thought was nothing. Seeing me thinking impelled him to laugh. That old McCormick hit you hard and often he said. I nodded my head and I tried to remember the fight. It started well. Fair play said Old Joyce seeing a good left and a good right. Old McCormick tried to take the center but I moved him on with two uppercuts and a few jabs. Blood. I cut him above the eye and the crowd clapped and cheered. The blood flowed and Old Joyce said fair play to you both. Old McCormick ducked under a right and. We lost two grand. Pass me that apple said my brother. It’s an onion I reminded him. He never forgave me. It’s an apple he said. No I said and I held up the onion. It’s a grand looking apple he said. Yes grand I said. Yes Two grand said he. I told him that the apple was really an onion and he laughed and said that he would have the apple and I told him that the apple was an onion and the onion belonged to me and he said that what was his was mine and what was mine was his and I asked him for the knife and he said he would swap the apple for the knife and I agreed. After three we will swap he said. We counted. One two three. We swapped. He held the onion to his nose and inhaled and I looked at the bevel of the knife and it was sharp and he licked his lips and I spat on the knife, both sides and polished the knife on me slacks and he bit into the apple and he chewed and then he groaned and he dropped the onion and it started to rain and I went over and kicked the onion into the hole. You gobshite you done me good you give me an onion for an apple and I see the apple in your slacks. I held up the knife and told him that I would stick him with the knife if he came any closer. The rain turned the soil to mud. He jumped out of his chair and tried to glue his hands around me neck. I tried to stick him with the knife. He moved quickly. He hit with me a right and

Larry Kowwowski        

Short stories


This is not going to be easy. It has never been achieved in this manner before. He closes his eyes. He believes eyes should be shut.  He pictures a bed. Not his bed. Another bed. A bigger more luxurious bed. A bed maybe found in a fairy tale. The room is commodious so commodious he cannot make out the other side of the room where there is a door he believes. He hopes. Wishes. Desires. It is a door made for a castle. The door opens. Not to complicate things there is no music. To speed things up there is one of those moving things on the floor that you find in airports. She steps through the door. She is wearing white panties and a tight white t-shirt. She steps on the moving thing that brings her closer to the bed. And him. Panting. Excited. She is lissome and red haired which turns blond as she gets closer and then coal black. He waves and she reciprocates the wave. Affable. He smiles. She smiles showing white even teeth. This is important. To him. He pulls back the sheet. Seeing what is in his hand she sighs loudly sighs deafeningly with pleasure. To tease she rolls the tight white t-shirt up close to the beginning of the ascendance of her breasts. He says More and she says You little naughty boy and he says No and she says Sorry my love I am here for you. Smiling, he waves her to hurry. She hurries on command. He notices her legs have changed as she steps off the moving thing. The legs are no longer thin and long but resemble his sister’s fat and little legs. Hurry he says fearing the void. He feels it creeping through the cracks. Many cracks. Finally, she removes the tight white t-shirt. To his great disappointment, she is wearing a white bra. Oh no! It’s his mother’s white bra. Seen in the laundry basket. Hurry take that off he demands fearing detumescence. Now looming over the bed, over him, over his tumescence, she starts to remove mummy’s white bra. He says Faster faster and she says Are you ready and he says Oh yes I am ready and she says Here we go. And suddenly. There has to be a suddenly. Her huge breasts explode out of mummy’s white bra and a jet fighter plane flies over head and drops a bomb and the bomb lands on a house much like the neighbor’s house and the house explodes and the sky is filled with limbs and blood and lumpy things that explode like fireworks.  2. The commodious room has gone.  The thing found at airports has gone. Even the bed has gone. He is in the front room. His parents have been sent into exile for taking his toy. They will return when he says. She enters the room. There is not even a door. The curtains are open. It is night. A warm sultry night. He remembers a holiday in Dubai. She is wearing nothing. Wait.  She has hair, eyes, nose, ears, lips, neck, tits, belly button, one that does not stick out, tits, not four tits, two tits, the thing you know between the legs, and legs. She falls. She has feet, toes, toenails. Painted a bright red. She saunters over. He says Can we do it and she says I am here to do it with you and he says Do you love me and she says If you want me to. They kiss. Kiss. Tongue. They tongue. Dry. Spit. Better. She touches his you know what and plays with it. Something is not right.  Fingers. Still not right. Thumbs. Painted nails, bright red. He says Not that way please slow down no faster no like this. Suddenly her huge tits gigantic spill over him and he is drowning in a feral sea. Cold. Wet. He sees the moon and sitting on the moon he sees his mother and father that he sent into exile because they confiscated his toy and they shout to him Do you need our help and he fearing they will see his hard you know what says No thank you I would rather drown. 3. Her boobs fall into his mouth. He sucks his knuckles. There’s a knock on the door. His mother says What are you doing in there. 4. He is in bed. He is naked. His penis is hard. Next to him is a box of tissues. A man and a woman are hugging. Both are semi-naked. They are standing under a tree. An apple with teeth marks. The man removes the woman’s fig leaf. Nothing is there. A finger probes. The skin is soft and malleable. Still nothing. The woman removes the man’s fig leaf. Again, there is nothing there. Fingers search. The skin is soft and malleable. The man says You are missing something dear and the woman says I’m not the only one and the man says What should we do and the woman says Are we not made of clay shouldn’t we you know design them and the man says I want a hole and the woman says I want that serpentine thing that we have not named yet. 5.  She orders him to stand up. He stands up. She points to the slouches, the flab, to the places where he has let himself go. He is old. She is young. How did he get so old so quickly she says. She points to his three chins and says May I have one for the dog. He does not laugh. She says You have been masturbating too much lately and he says How do you know and she touching his bald spot says The headboard has left its mark.  She orders him to suck in his pot belly and puff out my chest. She tells him to straighten his back and open his eyes. She dissatisfied with him says Where have all the good men gone to and he says I am a good man and she says No good man comes here. She is beautiful, gorgeous, amazing, her breasts are big and bountifious. She says You dirty naughty boy did mummy and daddy take your toy from you because they caught you and he says I am I am Oh I hate this but I have to and I don’t know why but I like it.  She walks. He follows. The bondage belligerent babe. The diabolus dominatrix. The nubile nuclear bomb. She says I have the ropes, the whips, the baby oil, and the candle wax and he says Yes and she says Do you want me and he says Yes and she says Do you like strawberries, chocolate, feathers, high heels, stockings, crotchless panties and he says Yes. He watches her put on lace this and lace that and rubber this rubber that and leather this and leather that and the cracks open up once again. He says Please hurry. She orders him to stand up. Her body is pushed up against his.  He can feel her syrupy breath on the nape of his neck, on his knees, on his elbows, on his throat. It is hot, really hot, too hot. He says You are burning me and she says You’ve turned on the Fully Fitted Heated Waffle Soft Underblanket Elasticated Skirt. 6. They play all one thousand and one positions. Play is the operative word. Passing from one to the next with heart-breaking alacrity. He feels dizzy. Sick. On the carpet, on the chair, on the stairs, on the balcony, in the bath – sans water and soap. Never once does he see her cunt. Thinks he can smell it, feel it, hear it sing, but Ali Baba’s cave will not open for him. She says After I have whipped the life out of you the welts on your backside will be as big as magical kingdoms and he says I don’t like this I want just to have sex you know straight sex a mundane position and then I want you to ride me and maybe then finish with doggie style and then I’ll come in your mouth and all over your face and your tits I don’t know why this you know all this showering of stuff but I feel as though that is how it should finish what do you think and she says Lick between my toes and he says I’ve just told you what I desire and she says Remove each speck of sand you dirty dick. 7. All I have to do is tell her one thousand and one dirty, filthy, disgusting tales. Homework.  After I am finished telling her one thousand and one lascivious tales we will perform one thousand and one mind-blowing sexual positions she tells me. A promise. He opens one eye. Looks. She enters the room. It is his bedroom, his carpet, his posters, his table and chair, his books, his pen, his bed. He closes the one eye. She is wearing black stockings, a garter belt, black silk panties, and a bra. She looms over him. Leans over. Moans with pleasure. Takes his cock into her mouth. Warm. Wet. He says Yes and she says It will take us forever to fuck all the ways I know and he says Softer softer I am close so close I am com com com faster harder and she says Once upon a time there was a young girl and she was hungry and so she called for a pizzaman to deliver pizza and he says What and she says Once upon a time there were two young girls and they wanted pizza and so they called the pizzaman and he showed up at their bedroom and he was naked and had a huge cock and he says Keep going please please I’m so close I can feel it I am going to explode she says Once upon a time there were two young girls and they lived in an apartment and they had no water and so they had called a plumber and the plumber arrived and he was naked and the girls welcomed him onto their bed but they had left the door open and so entered sailors and soldiers and spies and policemen and bricklayers and actors and writers and teachers…

John Smith

Short stories


     Came the day all the microphones in the world turned into penises. Sportscasters sported in their fists big dicks. On location in Beirut, some guy in a suit suddenly found himself spewing the news into an orgasm. Frank Sinatra, Ronald Reagan and all the presidential candidates began to resemble nothing more than a bunch of arrogant cocksuckers.

     To avoid the charge of homosexuality, the President was kept under wraps. The First Lady stood before the podium, like Cinderella at a gangbang, and declared a national emergency.

     The situation worsened. By afternoon of the second day, every speaker on earth had metamorphosed into a throbbing, hairy vulva. Over the air, fundamentalists howled this was the wages of society’s obsession with sex to the exclusion of Jesus. But since these prophets ranted into squirting hardons, their jeremiads proved hard to swallow.

     Throughout the terror, Madison Avenue continued selling. Commercials screwed inside skulls. Chewinggum married suppositories. Cars supposed to save lives killed toothdecay on contact. Men sporting bras were invited to compare headaches, while scarfing a breakfast tiger; purchasing for added protection a brass doorknob. The 4th dimension turned up inside a kleenex. Sanitary napkins invaded the privacy of dogs wolfing horsemeat. Odor eaters burst, like overstressed rubbers.

     Most of the public succumbed watching the latest chocolate filled bugspray. The rest fell to razors – knifed in the shower by rhinestone-studded mikes.

     The third sex materialized. Then radiated starward. Humanity, at last cheap and affordable, if not free.   

Willie Smith

Short stories

Match Report

“Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.”

Roy Keane

Darwin Hill.   27/8/2020

13:01: The score is twenty-one nil. I missed my vocation. Yes, it really is twenty-one nil. I should be doing something else, maybe teaching literature. The pitch is a mud bath. The wind is coming down off the mountains with unmitigated thuggery. The rain is torrential and is oscillating with hail.  The epicanthic folds are being hammered. The sun is nowhere to be seen which I might add is typical for this time of year. Goal! There is one supporter and he is cheering for both teams while repainting an advertisement for a local plumber. I should be in Paris, smoking a pipe, drinking coffee, and discussing Lacan and Barthes. If I were on the pitch I would drift away. I want it to end. Blow the whistle, please. Oh, referee that was a pen. Surely. Terrible error by the referee. Some feign injury. Some instigate a red card. Some are exhausted. Ennui would get me. The ball is played down the left. The left-winger dribbles, makes space, and sends ball into the heavens. Bloody awful. The game continues.

14:45: Goal! The ball is thrown in and is once again kicked out. The writer Marguerite Duras would repeatedly ask the playwright Brenden Behan to take her to an Arsenal game in London. Behan after saying yes would forget Goal! on account of too much drink.

16:02: The ball is stuck in the mud. The actor John Wayne took a day off filming Brannigan in London and went to a West Ham football match. There he had one too many drinks and ended up in a fight. It is now legendry with the West Ham crowd. The philosopher Ludwig Josef Johann Wittgenstein when not teaching or marking or talking could be found in the local cinema admiring John Wayne. During the First World War Goal! when not masturbating, he enjoyed a good game of football with his peers. He played inside left. He was a dirty player. But not as dirty as the director Pier Paolo Pasolini. He was a great defender, solid, great ball control, could run all day, could run through walls. 

17:03 The writer Albert Camus protected the onion bag. (Football slang). Three players of the same team are down and in need of the magic sponge. (Cynical football slang). The reason Camus played goal-Goal!-keeper and not a centre forward or a winger is because of the role the goalkeeper has in the Team. (A reminder 11 players on each time, for our American Cousins). The goalkeeper is a solitary figure. An existential antihero. A goalkeeper is cold, aloof, cerebral. Plus, I might add, he wears a different shirt to the rest of the team. Camus was cool. Our keeper is a sad Sisyphus. Plus, I might add, Camus enjoyed a cigarette and he played behind a very tight defence.

18:05: Scintillating play by the right-back. So close! Still waiting. The writer Samuel Beckett elected cricket Goal! and rugby over football. Although, he did follow Luton. The referee has lost his glasses both literally and metaphorically. Beckett Goal! said he was waiting for Luton to win the league. We are still waiting.

19:01 There is half a yard between a nutmeg and a bicycle kick. The writer George Orwell after his visit to Wigan told the writer Rayner Heppenstall that Wigan would be a powerhouse one day just like Manchester Utd and Liverpool and when Heppenstall laughed and mocked Orwell on hearing this proclamation Orwell beat him up with a shooting-stick Goal! Oh, number nine is going to see red now. Yes! He’s going to have an early bath. (Football mockery).

22:00: The painter Francis Bacon took the writer William S Burroughs to a Chelsea football match and admired the legs and violence of Chopper Harris and during the game Bacon had to remind Burroughs that Chopper Harris was not Sir Arthur Harris. Goal! The man famous for almost killing Kurt Vonnegut.

33:03: The writer David Markson could never decide if he enjoyed soccer Goal! or not and so asked the writer Malcolm Lowry if he should follow soccer. (Soccer hahaha). It’s a funny old game. Now remember, Lowry was born in Liverpool and football in Liverpool is a religion.  You are born into a cult. Unless you are an Everton fan. They are giving one hundred and twelve and two thirds percent. Ouch! Of course, said Lowry, and so Markson even though he could never decide if he enjoyed soccer or not always chanted for Liverpool.

41:23: The dancer Rudolf Nureyev taking it one game at a time turned down the chance to play for the USSR and because of this refusal to play, he was an outstanding winger we are told, his three sisters were forced to weightlift and grow beards.

46:00: Half Time.  Sliced oranges and cigarettes.   

45:00: The writer Jack London while undercover in the East End of London for his book The People of the Abyss played one game in Goal! goal for the Hope & Anchor Pub but it was a complete failure he could not make up his mind to throw the football or kick the football. 

55:02: The writer Vladimir Nabokov loved playing goal Goal! keeper while at University of Cambridge. He said: “I was crazy about goal keeping. In Russia and the Latin countries, that gallant art had been always surrounded with a halo of singular glamour. Aloof, solitary, impassive…”

67:02: The writer Daniil Kharms Goal! while playing midfield Goal! slipped on an orange peel and broke a leg. The keeper had that covered.

74:56: The writer Jean Rhys supported West Brom and the writer Jane Austen supported Bath and the writer Ann Quin supported Brighton and the writer Bridget Brophy supported QPR Goal! and the writer Anna Kavan supported Goal! Fulham. The writer Virginia Woolf dressed as a man fooled them all and played striker for Manchester City and scored an hattrick and took the ball home with her.

81:45: The writer Ferenc Molnár thought about a game of football Goal! instead of war when thinking about his book The Paul Street Boys but Hitler changed his mind.

 83:03: Oscar Wilde for being a big Goal! lad was good with his feet.

85:23: The writer B.S. Johnson’s best work is inside the Goal! box. Sorry about the pun, a sport writer’s curse, The Unfortunates.

86:01: Clarice Lispector found her voice while watching the Great Pele destroy team after team Goal! during the 52 World Cup.  

89:01 Weighty heads and buckling knees and beating chests. Goal! Shouted words expanding and contracting. Goal! Goal! The old man and his dog ( an euphemism for the last of the fans) have gone home for supper (beer). Goal! The fat lady is warming up “tra ler tra ler tra ler.” Goal! The referee has the whistle in his mouth but is too exhausted to push the air through the damn thing and make a noise. The game continues. It is now squeaky bum time (Sir Alex Ferguson). Goal!

96:23: Wait! What? Really? What a comeback! Who would have thought it? It really is a game of two halves! What a beautiful game!  Twenty-two! Twenty-three! and a bag of wind! Watch a match! Truly amazing! Pure poetry! POETRY!  I love this game! Love it! See you next Saturday.  

Paul Kavanagh

Short stories


It is time for our game. Do not worry it is not a long game. I don’t play long games. You don’t play long games, if you did you would not be here. Sometimes I wish I would or could. There are such games that are long but our game will be short. Within the life span of a thought, as ephemeral as a desire, the game will unfold. You must keep in mind that it is a game and only a game and nothing more. Do not get lost. Stay on the path. Do not enter those woods. No not there, that labyrinth is dangerous. Keep away from the libertine. Watch out for the vampire. She is a femme fatale. He’s there behind you! It’s a game. We should not fool ourselves that it is something more than a game. This happens. Inevitable. It is not a difficult game. It is a simple game. Yes, simple. I am simple. You are not simple. You are amazing. This is not flattery. NO! The game is a mimesis of human thought. Bang! The gun went off. The boy killed his father for the box. She opened her legs and flashed her fanny. The farmer finally got the cows to moo. He opened the door and saw his dead father and the dead father said close the door I have something to tell you. Upon the wall the police found a – they did not know what they had found. They were perplexed and astonished. It is my wall she said. The game has begun. It is a game. A game! Life is but a game said Shakespeare – I think. Watch. The telephone rang. I mean listen. “Please leave me alone,” she said. The King married the Whore. STOP! This is how we killed all the stinking Communists. She was twelve and precocious and beautiful. The Grand Duke Hybergurgbur had a map of an island that was filled with fantastic beasts. He liked to show this map of this island with its fantastic beasts to little girls. For him the map was a playground. A game, of sorts. Our game is progressing. I lead and you follow. The rules are malleable, but they are rules, nevertheless. I promise I will not take you somewhere you do not want to go. “Fuck me with that hard cock,” he said, spreading his cheeks and exposing his winking anus. Sarah just wanted to be humiliated and beaten. She lost her ring. He won her ring. They kissed his ring. “Now we are married,” said the Whore to the King.  The Uggzque pulled out its weapon and kooooooooooooper! Forget all of your troubles I am here now. We have played this game many times before, remember that, it is important. The vulgarity! the profanity! the violence! All apart of life, the game, Mr. Shakespeare, I am afraid. We should not shy away, pretend that life is but an illyic walk in the park. Not that park! Filled with gorgons and perverts in Macintoshes. Who was the man in the brown Macintosh? please tell us Mr. Joyce and end the game. Wait! Slow down. I know you want to lead but I must lead that is the main rule of the game. She answered the telephone. It was the Uggzque. Moo! Moo! Moon! Moon!  We both know that you will try to lead but this is just part of the game.  During the game, of course, I will present the illusion that you are leading but this is an illusion and illusions are full of mendacity. He handed her the bag. – We’ve had these before, she said, after opening the bag of drugs. – You are repeating yourself. Remember the game is based on veracity. Real life. Not pretend. You are pretentious dear man. Is not pretentious pretending – playing the game – living life – dreaming. You and me. The sun. The moon. Moo! Look out of the window. The man with the gun stood by the opened window and waited.  There are certain truths to be found in the simulacrum, in the verisimilitude. The game. It is a con. A trick. Magic. I say the carpet is a bed and that my coat is a pillow and you know my coat is not a real pillow and the carpet is not a bed but still you lie down and open wide. My influence. My desire. My wish for metamorphosis. Open your legs. Wider. Thank you. You are playing the game. A wall of penises! -Hair! he cried. He opened the box and found a lock of his late mother’s hair. I promise you this time the game will make you happy. The last time we played, I noticed, you left vexed. You wanted to stop playing. You did. But you know the game. You cannot stop the game. The game has to finish. It has to reach the end. Beware of false cul-de-sacs. Don’t got caught in that dead end. Watch out for the hole! Do not get angry, be not vexed, do not cry, we are almost there. The Grand Duke Hybergurgbur took Princess Xeni into his Grotto and showed her his map.  Fear struck her. Fantastic beasts. Big and Ugly with sharp teeth. The last of the Uggzque was hounded from its hiding place by dogs. The farmer welcomed the television crowds onto his farm so they too could hear his cows moo moo the word moon. The writer drowned in a pool of ink. If only! It’s a game.  All games are based upon the labyrinth. – It’s the fuzz, she said, before handing him the telephone. Within the game there are many false deadends. Red herrings. The man with the gun looked out of the opened window and watched the bank manager unlock the bank doors. Red Herrings! Can you smell them? fishy! Some games pretend to be otherwise but they are playing with you. Toying with you. Messing with you. Even laughing at you. Yes, mocking you. The hard man tells his tale and climbs into bed and dreams of his mother. The junkie closer to St. Augustine than the death writes his big book and collects the money and buys a new car. The game. She had the most beautiful fanny in the world. I took a second drink and asked her to wait. I will allow you to change the words. Fanny for cunt say. You can rearrange any sentence. Go back and have a go. Not that sentence. Now I am closer to Julius Caesar than Apollonius of Tyana. I’m sorry. I am playing God again. Let us continue. I will give you the freedom to reshape the landscape, to populate the topography, to annihilate all even. -Hair! he sighed. We will lie down under a waning sun but still the warmth left behind lingering like a dream will allow us to disrobe. Why penises asked the police and the woman said penises are a lot cheaper than good fabric. The man with the gun watched and waited. After twenty cocks his winking anus started to impinge upon his hot desire. Princess Xeni pointed to the places where the Grand Duke Hybergurgbur explored and expelled those fantastic beasts. Cosmoses. The Uggzque were peaceful until man showed up in his spaceship. – I once loved you, she said, but murder. Oh god what are we going to do? “Please fuck me again.” The punch to the chin knocked him to the ground, he reached for the hammer, and leapt to his feet. You will lie down and I will enter you or I will lie down and you will enter me. The game calls for it. – You old bastard you fought over this over this how the hell can I sell this for the drugs I need.  The game allows such things. Now close your eyes and think of the ways you would have fashioned the game. How you would have played the game in the boundaries of your new rules. “Don’t come yet,” he moaned even though the pain was immense and stretching like his winking anus. The man with the gun at the opened window lit a cigarette. There must be more than two hundred cocks here said the police man. I demand for my winking anus to be filled! The cows suddenly refused to moo moo the word moon. Gawddamnit Communists! shouted the farmer. The Grand Duke Hybergurgbur was beheaded. Now the new rules that you have constructed dictates the game. You extemporize and create new trajectories. The fight started over a box both cherished. You complicate the game. The Grand Duke Hybergurgbur’s ghost haunted the bedrooms of little girls. You circumvent the old rules believing your new rules improve the game. He awoke from a dream. The man with the gun closed the window and put on his Macintosh. Mr. Joyce! You construct from pieces plucked from the dark recesses. You show me the School of Fontainebleau and I show you Agnolo Bronzino’s Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time and you show me Caravaggio’s Amore Vincitore and I show you Boucher’s Madmoiselle huuuummmm O’Murphy and you show me Manet’s Olympia. The Whore that married the King was not a Whore but a Princess that had been locked in a grotto for many years with an ogre for a husband. “You have such a beautiful penis,” he said, caressing the sleeping penis.  We remember poetry and snippets of literature. We talk about the writers we remember and love. Rabelais!  Dostoevsky! P.K. Dick! We sing tunes with made up lyrics. We invent foreign words for the arias we cannot remember. Uggzque Uggzque Uggzque. We reenact the movies we have seen and some we have not seen. Princess Xeni with the Sword of Subburnabla banished the Grand Duke Hybergurgbur’s ghost to hell and all the young girls cheered. I got the idea from a French book she said. – You stupid boy, said the dead father.  It is here. This point. This juncture. In this muddle of memories. You have made the game too difficult. I now decide to bring us back to the old game. Aha! The short game. There is no topography to speak of, to compare, to contrast. There are no lanes, roads, motorways. There are no streams, lakes, seas. There are no hamlets, towns, cities. You look at me with the eyes of a child waking not in his/her own bed.  You look around the room, seeking points of reference that will confirm you are safe. You are safe. SAFE! It’s just a bloody game. A game. Remember. You were lost for second. Welcome back. The perplexity of disorientation; the blurring of geography. Fades. Slowly. Yes. It’s the game. We are playing the game. Well not anymore. Here ends the game. Goodbye!

Tony Litman



Preacher been fucking the wife.

Get into a gunfight up and down the aisles;

shooting through pews, winging hymnals,

dinging collection plate;

ricochets whistle ire,

targets praying to acquire.

Near nail the sumbitch

with a beautiful shot,

him skeeting across the choir.

The Son’s hardly settled 

with corn and coke to watch the fun,

when off the rafters echoes click-click-click!

Man-o’-God’s rod emptier’n Satan’s heart.

It’s eye for an eye, tooth for a tit,

dick for a brain. Rush the altar,

jab about, poke around.

Spot Romeo crouched in a niche,

begging Jesus spare a little change;

into a mouse, maybe; so he in

some smelly little hole can hide his hide.

Clap muzzle to temple, jerk trigger, skull explodes.

Blood, brain, bone, hair spatter the cross.

Shrug – no longer cross with the

minister now administered to.

High time head home, get the wife stoned.

After, me and God sit down

to shoot craps with the cops.

Either way I come out on top.

On accounta everybody knows

every good old boy to heaven goes.

Willie Smith

Short stories


I had a toy. You had a toy. My toy was different. My toy had four wheels. It went very fast and very far when I pushed it. My toy could drive up walls, climb the stairs, it floated in bath water, it could fly, it traveled to the moon, to mars and beyond. You are saying that you had a toy that could do this.  In the day my toy was iridescent. At night my toy was a phosphorescent blue. Now I am losing you. You had a toy that glowed. You had a toy that made silly noises. No matter how hard I played with my toy I could not destroy it, I threw it against a wall, I placed it on hot coals, I submerged it in water, I attacked it with a hammer, with a butter knife, I covered it in paper glue. You broke your toy. You placed on the fire. You forgot about your toy. It eroded. My mother said the toy was made out of cardboard. My father said the toy was stainless steel. As long as I did not put it into my mouth my mother and father really didn’t care what my toy was shaped from. My toy tasted of bread and butter, of fried chicken, of strawberries, of vanilla ice-cream, of popcorn, of treacle. During the day when I played with my toy in the front room, in the dinning room, in the kitchen, I did not put it into my mouth, but at night in my bed I sucked upon my toy instead of the pacifier, instead of my thumb, instead of the sheet. In my mouth it hummed soft, stirring slightly, my nights were very pleasant, my dreams happy. You had a toy like this. You loved that toy. But your toy was not like my toy.  When I asked my toy to stop, it berated me and abused me and called me stupid. My toy bit me. The bite swelled and bloated, it hemorrhaged, it scabbed, it healed, I forgave my toy. My toy was not a dog, not a cat. My toy allowed me to climb on its back and it took me on many journeys. We traveled over vast lands, through thick jungles, between deep valleys, down mighty rivers, over vast oceans. I have lost you now. When my toy screamed glass shattered, mirrors cracked. My toy knew all the dirty words and taught me each and every one and how to use the dirty words. My toy told me about booze and drugs. My toy knew how to steal, how to lie, how to cheat. It told me about the secrets of my mother and father and about their naughty bits.  At night my toy showed me dirty pictures of women and men. My toy showed me women with women, and men with men. My toy showed me how to pleasure myself. My toy pleasured me. My toy engulfed my penis and sucked my penis. My toy inserted itself into my anus and stimulated the nerveendings. If there was movement in the hall my toy stopped. Now I have lost you. You never had a toy like my toy but you wished you have a toy like my toy.  When I was happy my toy sang soft songs about rabbits, squirrels, butterflies, about walled-in gardens, unicorns, lions and beautiful Madonnas. When I was upset the toy shouted that I should hit the person that upset me, my toy told me how to garrote, how to poison, how to attack with a knife, how to aim a gun. My toy had two guns at the back and three rocket launchers on the front. My toy gunned down my mother and father. My mother’s apertures bled profusely. My father was turned to ash. My toy blew up my home. It went through the neighborhood killing, destroying, breaking homes, blowing up cars. It went to my school, my church, my mall and broke them all. My toy fired rockets into the night sky and huge mushrooms clouds turned the day into night, it turned grass into dust, pets into slush, and the people into shadows. My toy like an eraser rubbed out the moon and the sun.  

Paul Kavanagh


American Karnage

Bradley Axelrod
Short stories


     The horniest picture I ever saw was in National Geographic. It was a spider’s asshole magnified fifty times. Resembled a soggy Cheerio on a slate background.

     I haven’t been the same since. Because I wanna do me one, and no live spider is big enough to accommodate.

     I’ve tried jacking off on arachnids. Wolf spiders and tarantulas the best. Daddy longlegs impossible. Scorpions a bitch. But I never come near the satisfaction gleaned that afternoon when I first drenched the National Geo full-color centerfold blown up to reveal a teensy parasite wriggling in some jungle spider’s O ring. 

     You can’t always get what you want. But, if you fixate, sometimes you get what you pay for. Visualize arachnoid roundeye.

     One night I was jizzing a black widow – ejaculating without orgasm, bored with the universe. I turned some jazz on the radio, while watching the spider struggle under the shroud of ejaculate.

     Goodman Benny inhaled clarinet. Jack Webb sat in. Max Roach fogged the chamber. They were in mixolydian – I heard a vodka tonic. Willie “The Lion” Smith masturbated the 88.

     I daydreamed antiaircraft fire. Nazi flak redshifted into what I’d dine upon that night. Turkey Tetrachloride? Veal Hardon Blue? Fish Dicks? Spam Sushi? Only a wizard could decide which tv dinner, when all you got is a radio.

     Imagine my lack of preparation, daydreaming as I was, when into the room clacked a spider big as a Buick. Eight pale legs supported a hispid, chartreuse body. She spun around. Hiked her crupper. Displayed a taut caterpillar green starfish.

     Like in a dream, I approached the miracle. The chiton of her legs buckled with anticipation. I ran a finger over the sphincter that was tinier than a dowager’s purse. She stood nervous, shy, to all appearances a virgin. She was dry as calculus. I ran to the kitchen for butter.

     Wow, I thought, yanking open the fridge, a cherry hallucination! I froze, staring at a bearded carrot, a cube of butter, a plastic liter of Rococo Coke and a stutter of roaches that had wormed in under the door.

     The roaches didn’t appreciate the light. Several rotated feelers. But none broke ranks. The fridge was too cold, despite crumbling insulation, for them to panic at such a stimulus. The insect at the head of the line lifted a leg at the grate of the middle shelf, whereon lay the carrot abandoned by Bugs Bunny about the time of Hiroshima.

     I guess I didn’t have any tv dinners afterall. In the back of my head a psychiatrist sniggered neither was there any mammoth Miss Muffetbuddy out in the parlor.

     I couldn’t face that. Vision or not, she was real as anything else in America. Slammed the door. Sidled to the sink. Washed my hands. If she was from another planet, perhaps a victim of radiation, I didn’t want to contaminate anything. Washed so good I scraped knuckles raw and broke two nails.

     She appeared to be garden variety. The type you see in September protecting tomatoes from mosquitoes. Occurred to me maybe she’d like a bite to eat. My mind turned to the vermin inside the refrigerator. Would they be big enough? Sure – I’d swoop all twenty into my fist. Offer them up like a mouthful of raisins.

     A kiss would be sweet. But I was unsure regarding spider lips. So my thoughts dwelled instead on tongue skating her cloaca. I could not think of a prettier, of a smoother, of a slicker rink. I’d make it slick – like a blade slaloming dry ice.

     Oh yeah… I dried hands on jeans, yanked back open fridge. Hauled out and unwrapped the cube of Lucerne. Forget the food. Life is uncertain. Best to come first.

     I closed my eyes. Said a wordless prayer. Then raised lids cautiously, like a snake charmer or an inmate in a prison movie. I walked back into the combination parlor/boudoir/conservatory. And there in the middle of my dump gleamed – as I had left her a momnent ago – my eight-limbed goddess.

     I worked the butter into the orifice. Just below the anus her spinnerets jutted like quadruple exhaust pipes. They were beige satin to the eye. I one-handed down my pants. Can’t afford underwear. Moved my fist, clutching the butter, deep into Rackne’s rectum.

     I rested my left hand on a spinner. Brushed fingers over fibrous rills close as the milled edge of a proof dime.

     I opened the fist. Palmed butter across her inner walls. With my left hand I petted the spigot at the end of her spinner.

     Thread the diameter of a chopstick spurted. My hand jumped just in time to avoid the bolt lurched across the room.

     Fist in her anus, other hand behind my back, a single thought struck: Spiders eat live meat.

     I pinched my left butt cheek. Nope – not a dream. 

     There are stories – from time primeval – of male spiders getting devoured for their advances. Spiders are loners. They are eager to eat whatever hops, jumps, walks, crawls, flies. They are mainly blind. Seem to have no sense of smell or hearing. Brains the scarcity of one angel on the head of half a pin. They perceive the universe almost entirely through touch.

     Sure, now and then one gets horny. But the trick – especially for the smaller, hornier male – is to coincide your hot pants with those of a babe of the same species. Then to split, before she gets post-coital munchies. Notices you still around.

     I inched my eyes over her bulk. Although she stood no higher than my navel, her total body volume was likely five times mine. She was one hunk of an ovoid. Smack up against her rump, I was hunched in the kitchenette doorway. Her front legs and pedipalps abutted the antique radiator on the opposite wall of the room. A distance of well over ten feet.

     To her – once cocooned in thread and envenomed – I’d be a meal plus maybe a midnight snack. She’d wrap me in sticky thread fast as a winch diesels crab line. Insert fangs through neck. One in the carotid, one in the jugular. Get me coming and going.

     I began to think in terms of withdrawing my fist, diving into the kitchen. Cram myself into the cupboard under the sink. I could hole up there for days. Lick condensation off the drain. Kill the odd rodent. Treat myself to tartare, while Rackne scratched in frustration at the in-opening cupboard door I lay jammed against.

     By then perhaps my rent would be overdue, the manager would get cops to force entry, crawl all over the scifi spider with handguns and billyclubs. At least beat her out of the apartment so I could be freed from under the sink.

     Then I slapped myself in the cheek. Why hadn’t I immediately understood? She had shot a twelve-inch length. If she wanted to get me, she could’ve spun out a baleful. Nah, she was just moistening at my touch. Those little spigots at the tips of the spinnerets must be mighty sensitive.

     Still and all, I removed my fist from her asshole.

     She didn’t budge. The upper left spinner glowed a little creamier. The anus was glazed and dripping with butter.

     My left hand drifted down to my erection. She was gonna be OK. Afterall, this was anal intercourse – not sex in the reproductive sense. Her organ proper was way up near the underside of the thorax. What we dealt with back here was the eliminative pleasure center, located in that abdominal rumble seat, the pygidium (hope that’s correct usage). I studied these terms in books at the library, as well as memorizing the text of that fateful National Geo spread.

     I slipped my dick into her butt. My glans entered with the ease of a cop into a bank. The shaft followed quick as a Crash. I was in.

     I was in. In the money, in the bag, in the chips, in the sun. In dig go, in diameter, indiana. God – how could I have been so wrong? Her name was Diana – Goddess of the Moon, the crossbow, the dyke bike and the little boy with his thumb no bigger than the head of my dick. Little Horner sat in a jack corner, eating his offal and whey out awful shit.

     I plummeted to the bosom of her epigastrum. Her bowels clutched. I went plum crazy. Hammered and tonged in a rhythm taking more time than space could express, so I soon had her panting like the Express, take the A-train and alla that crap I soon saw besliming my dick on the out-stroke.

     Spider shit is weird. At least with Diana. Color and consistency of 69-degree latte ice cream streaked with tar.

     When it first appeared, made me hornier yet. Then I gobbed a slurp off onto my finger, while I kept fucking. Sniffed. Gagged. Decided, (kept fucking) since it stank, I’d better taste it – to make sure.

     When dealing with a hallucination, it often pays to be scientific. Unless you wanna get arrested for throwing a fit in the middle of Macy’s.

     The taste drew forth legions of sour. A spirited defense was mustered by a contingent from musty closets. Underneath it all lay trampled the sweet serfs, who were slowly, even as I chewed, (kept fucking) being reborn into the ranks of the blessed sluicing salt of the earth.

     I hurled – atop a column of puke – the spider shit back onto my cock. Yeah, I threw up all over her butt. But, I am proud to say, nearly 100% of the actual masticated excrement found its way back into her rectum, where it belonged, via screw action.

     I kept fucking. Because this was the dream of a lifetime, and I had earlier on established I was not dreaming. Not even peyote could make me retch like this. Chyme, chyle, gristle,  Chicken McNugget boluses, dribbled like contour maps down Diana’s buns, over her puckernut, hanging like a horror movie off her four spinnerets.

     Then she farted. Now, this was love, and that is not a very lovely word. I mean not love, but… I was as much at fault as she. My humping had no doubt fomented the disturbance. And how much guilt in the loose of no more gas than a child’s balloon? It smelled less sharp than ozone.

     Again I threw up. I began to get used to it. The fart, not the puke. Even like it. Truly love myself liking it. Such a joy to revel in one’s own open-mindedness!

     I began to fuck like a dive bomber caught between warring gods of sea and sky. I fucked like Rockefeller pumping oil. I fucked like Mantle hitting a homer down Ruth’s throat. Right about then I began to need a blowjob.

     Like I said, her mouth was pretty much jammed up against the radiator over on the other side of the room. Also, a spider’s buccal orifice is a tight and obscure proposition. Even with Diana’s fullblown thousandfold gigantism, I could only expect her mouth to be about the aperture of a nose pierce.

     Still, might be solid to dork such a thing.

     I imagined myself giving mouth to mouth, to revive her from choking on an accidental drop of pre-ejaculatory fluid. I didn’t want to hurt Diana. But how romantic to snatch her from death!

     Also get a chance to taste my own juice.

     I pulled my dick out of her ass. Hobbled with my jeans around my ankles past her four left legs. Scrunched my hips up against the radiator.

     Fortunately it was summer or some damn thing, and the radiator felt by comparison to the passion of my hardon quite cool.

     I got my dick out of the radiator. Turned around to confront Diana, whose palps loomed in my face. I reached out. Placed a hand on either hawser-like protuberance. Squeezed gently twice, to communicate love, respect; pinched a third time to indicate there was no way I would ever come in her face. She reacted by pawing the linoleum with her forelegs. Shyly dipping her thorax.

     Spiders don’t have much of a face. Like my Aunt Martha useta say: no more features than the assend of a shotgun shell. Don’t let me get into Aunt Martha; I mean, bring Aunt Martha up… Mind you, I was a little leery of the fangs – despite all evidence of her enthrallment with my person.

     One thing to remember about spiders: they are powerful suckers. You might even say spiders make their living sucking. Overdeveloped gut muscles create a profound vacuum in the food tube, making of the tiny mouth an inverted jet nozzle. Thus the beast takes up the liquefied organs and muscles from inside the body of her predigested victim.

     Then I discovered, if I twisted – slightly twisted – clockwise both her palps, the fangs would spread wide, thus offering a clear shot at her pipette mouth.

     I glanced up at her eyes – a trapezoid of pinholes on the forehead above her fangs. There were between four and eight. I was too excited to count. Vision locked on her vestigial, nearly worthless peepers, I jammed my dick against her kisser. Shaft in fist, I guided by feel my glans over the slick brittle terrain.

     My meatus found the rim.

     Her fangs trembled. Her palps languished to the floor like limp rope. I thought I saw the sheen in at least two of her eyelets balk.

     I moved my feet around in anticipation. Suddenly a whine, like an F-14 Tomcat, turned over, began to warm, filled the room. My pizzle reported to my spine the joy of suck on nerve bundles. Suck grew. Suck multiplied. Suck exponentiated.

     I felt my urethra pucker. My prostate tickled what it ate. I began to have balls of helium.

     From her upper midmost orb sprang a tear of strain. Over linoleum her claws scritched; losing then regaining grip. The whine keened to a pitch just this side of a dog whistle. She dug in for the kill.

     A magnesium spine flared. A brain I useta be cursed with burst. At last my soul was floating that tunnel neardeath experiences.

     When the cops beat down the door. I mean, I did come. Or rather ejaculate. I didn’t come. The cops came. All I did was shoot the biggest wad since Kennedy’s brains hit the trunk. Then yank up trousers. Rediscover zipper, snap, buckle.

     I felt like Novocain. I felt like New Age fluff. I felt like a balloon in a universe of pricks. I felt like I got wet for no pleasure. I felt like an unexploded dumdum at the bottom of the sea. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood eyeless in Gaza.

     My only mistake was to steal the vacuum cleaners. They never found out about the visquine, the brooms, the glue, the cans of chartreuse Krylon, the nylon cord. For someone so ill-shaven and shabbily attired, I am a very accomplished shoplifter. But both Hoovers simply bulged too much under my Value Village overcoat. Perhaps if I had walked off with one at a time?

     One nice thing was that the cops had taken over twenty-four hours to get around to raiding my apartment. Thus giving me time to assemble and enjoy to the brink of orgasm my beloved Diana.

     They took me downtown. Threw me in the tank overnight.

     This big drunk threatened to rape me. But when I developed spasms of diarrhea and vomiting, he lost interest. I have a knack for doing that, especially when I am around people. Like I say, I’m kind of a loner. Apart from my subscription to National Geo, I have minimal human contact.

     Since the vacuum cleaner outlet got their equipment back, they neglected to press charges. Cops claimed none of this would go on my record. I hadn’t even been booked. They cautioned not to the let the door hit me in the ass on the way out.

     I came home to the mere husk of my sweet Rackne, my beloved Diana. My arachnid princess was now a jumble of brooms, a visquine littered floor, blocks of wood, snarls of cord, empty spray cans, deranged coat hangers. At either extreme of the rumpled plastic, holes now gaped. There had lodged the Hoovers – cleverly suspended with her broomstick legs, and a little dumpster carpentry I did inside the glued visquine of her body.

     Turning on the cleaners every hour or so kept her tightly inflated. The artificial straw from the broomheads made excellent body bristles. I chopped oodles of other “straws” into millimeter high cylinders. These adorned the braided nylon cords that had been her ultra-sensitive pedipalps.

     To my disgust I noticed someone – the cops or the manager – had carted off her fangs. Her fangs had capped the wizardry of my lust: two shivers of exquisitely broken Budweiser quarts. Some asshole cop right then probably using them to interrogate a helpless sex fiend.

     I snapped on the radio – to find some jazz, to ditch this line of thought. I twisted through rank punk, easy music, country listening, talk spite, talk rage, news outrage, rank talk, easy talk, country talk, buy-this-bullshit talk. In the void of my grief I could find no jazz.

     I checked the back of the cordless transistor. Yep – still no batteries.

     I sat down on a flat, floor-level throne of visquine, my head alive with a disagreeable music of voices. I awaited the next coherence. 

Willie Smith