Categories
Poetry

a bad man

She married a bad man. She did not mind that he was a bad man. That he was a bad man excited her.

He never complained or moaned like a baby so long as he could be bad and she enjoyed his badness and his myriad of bad sides. She enjoyed the hard integument that cut her to the core. She enjoyed the terse and taciturn tete-a-tetes that were never verbose. When he shouted it showed that he really cared.

He did care.

And that is why he built a wall around her.

And planted trees that formed a canopy.

When she protested he called her his Madonna.

And the unicorn and the rabbits and ewes made her very happy. And then one day the bad man decided to be a magician. The best magicians are the fakes, the fabricators, the cheats, the ones with the white even teeth, the fake tans, the cat’s eyes, the ones in the white jump suits and undulating capes, the best magicians finally end up in prison or in the mouth of the roaring lion. He made her disappear into a thousand pieces and alphabetically labeled each piece A for arteries B for bladder C for cunt D for diaphragm…

and when the police arrested him, they said, he was a very bad man.

Carl Van Detta

Categories
Poetry

A dirty and filthy man

He was dirty man.

A dirty and filthy man. Dirty and filthy.

But a clean man, physically speaking, with an unblemished physiognomy. His chiseled frame did in fact excite the opposite but not just the opposite sex his own sex lusted after this dirty this filthy man. He was meticulous and fastidious when it came to hygiene. Never did a smell roil that structure. He was a spotless man. But with a metaphysically dirty and filth mind.

Impelled by his dirty and his filthy mind he spent many hours in the local laundromat.

Filthy underwear. Smeared lingerie. Soiled knickers. Dirty underclothing.

Until one day she mistook him for her laundry. She folded him up and placed him into her wooden basket. He liked her soft hands, and he liked the way she handled him, and he liked the smell that emanated from her body, and he liked the feeling that something good would happen and so he didn’t complain about being folded up and placed in the wooden basket.  

Carl Van Detta

Categories
Poetry

RUMPELSTILTSKIN RESPUN

The spider from the gut spins the web.

The wine from the jug spins the head.

The word from the mouth spins the tale.

From the sky to the earth the glider tailspins.

“I am not here,” inside the head you hear

the devil say, “the world to unconfuse.

The failure of all being being the bomb,

I am but the fuse. Each life born to die.

The rock to crumble. The star to rumble

through the eons to the ashes in its mouth.

Only love breathes eternal; although none

understand why love –

worse than death –

forever and always hurts.”

The spider from the gut the corpse spins. The

wine from the jug plots against the heart spins.

The devil inside, the nausea to ease,

now and again a new tale spins. 

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

amongst the deranged and lonely

i drink amongst 

the deranged and lonely

who have no place to go 

where the bartender sometimes 

gives me free rounds on account of

“you’re a good dude and 

i see your sorrow”

i don’t ask for much

and i’m given a lot,

i should be thankful,

but i wish to be 

left alone

i wonder if this sort of thing

plagued my ancestors and 

if this fixation on death 

can be attributed to 

them or if it’s just 

my head

Tohm Bakelas

Categories
Short stories

Gordo A. Lama

  1. One summer I gave birth to a monster so terrifying my mother and father ran around the house screaming and tearing out their hair. It was a long birth. A whole summer. I thought I was creating a friend. The torso appeared first and then arms outstretched and welcoming. Pity arose in me seeing that he had one leg longer than the other. I quickly ameliorated the situation of the legs. The arms developed hands and then fingers.  His belly swelled. His legs grew feet and toes, even toenails. And then a head appeared and within the frame appeared a mouth, a nose, eyes, large ears, and a brow that led to a full head of hair. 
  2. I called my friend: Gordo A. Lama.
  3. “I am impressed by the water intake,” said my father.
  4. “That you have put down the books and taken full advantage of the sun impresses me,” said my mother.
  5. We shared profound philosophical conservations Gordo A. Lama and me. I read to him. I listened to his obsession – War.
  6. One very hot morning, my friend turned into the monster. A monster so terrifying that I froze into a ball of rock.
  7. Bursting, I jumped out of bed, leapt clearing the stairs, ran through the house without a good morning, and managed miraculously not to urinate in my pajamas. Awareness spread as the bladder deflated, as the hot kettle boiled piss flowed, around me I noticed the air was full of flies, all kinds of flies, bluebottles, horseflies, fruit flies, flesh flies, sawflies, snakeflies, alderflies, and houseflies. And there standing before me was the monster
  8. “This is the last time you will piss on me,” said Gordo A. Lama.
  9. He was covered in thick fuzzy hair from head to toe.  But more terrifying than the look was the smell. The smell hurt my eyes and my nose and my mouth. It burnt. I coughed. I choked. I froze.
  10. Gordo A. Lama climbed off the wall and parted his coat of fur and showed me his huge, throbbing hirsute member. It was amazingly long and thick.
  11. It only stopped when my mother intervened on the behalf of my bottom with a bottle of bleach.

Larry Caomhánach

Categories
Short stories

The empirical thumb

“Oh,” spoke Satogata, “what a splendid morning.”
“Nonpareil,” spoke Grunfeld.

Satogata looked around him and all the MPs, physicians, police, barristers were mimicking him. When he farted another farted; when he spat another spat; when he dropped his trousers and pissed into the river another dropped his trousers and pissed also.

Satogata was perplexed.

“Quit the mimicking,” spoke Satogata, vexed.

Inevitably the words echoed for Satogata was situated under the bridge in the muddy puddle.

“I’ve had enough of you lot,” spoke Satogata. “There was a time when this place only received the best.”

Satogata had one thumb up his nose and the other was situated up his arse. He coughed and bellowed but still he could not clear the pipes. He was under the weather and pleased. His arse had been running all night and now his nose was finishing the race.

“Excuse me,” spoke a lady steeping out of the nebula.

Satogata shook his head in disbelief. Perplexity produced a myriad of silent farts, but the thumb saved him from opprobrium.

“I’m not dead,” spoke Satogata, lost in pusillanimity.

“Thank him upstairs for that,” said the lady.

The lady was all smiling teeth and unblemished complexion. Her fur coat emitted rose water. The hair was cut short and purple. She looked as though she hadn’t done a day’s work in her life, but neither had Satogata. Was she a philosopher, also?

“Spare me some copper,” spoke Satogata.

“I’ve no coin,” spoke the lady.

Something metaphysical told Satogata that he was not about to get a free copulation.

“I’m a writer,” spoke the lady.

“What do you write on?” spoke Satogata.

“Paper,” spoke the writer.

“A boring topic,” spoke Satogata.

The writer frowned.

“What do you want?” spoke Satogata.

“I want to ask you a question,” spoke the writer.

“Please do,” spoke Satogata.

“What’s it like being homeless?” spoke the writer.

Satogata took the thumb from his rectum, stood up, and shoved the thumb down the writer’s throat. The excreta upon the buried thumb quickly started to dissolve the lining. The writer gagged, retched, puked. The vomit was futile in removing the excreta from off the thumb. It was concrete. Teeth bit down upon the thumb. But teeth are useless against concrete, I have been told. The vomit warmed Satogata’s thumb and eased the squeeze of the fur coat.

“That’s what it’s like,” spoke Satogata.

Satogata pulled his thumb out of the writer’s mouth with a pop and stuck it in his own. He sucked the excreta and viscera off his thumb and dried the shimmering thumb upon the dirty rag that was his coat.

“I’m going to call the police,” spoke the writer, drowning in tears.

“If you do that,” spoke Satogata, “I’ll be longer homeless.”

“You evil man,” spoke the writer.

“What?” spoke Satogata, incredulous. “For free I have presented you with a great gift. As the acid in your gut works, as shit in your gob attacks your teeth, think of me.”

Paul Kavanagh

Categories
Poetry

QUEST

I thought, one night, of a rose,

and into my mind

the thought of a rose arose.

While into the woods,

disregarding all shoulds,

like a knight on a horse of glue,

I rode.

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

WHAT I KILL

     Tip of the smith hat to Rudyard Kipling

If I could reach back and flush myself

like the piece of shit I am.

If I could under the sole of a boot

squish my centipede soul,

contemplate with a grin

the guts-clotted legs twitch.

If I could torch to hell

my slum of a life.

Then might I hold my head high

up my own ass, proud

of the abomination, the impotent rage,

the loser lust, the petty vindictive spite,

say nothing of, oozing down the mirror,

over my eye, the spit. A tiny gnat,

a nit, surfing a saliva bubble,

shrieks, “Save me! For breakfast, at least,

you ghoul, you clown, you horrid shit,

save me!” But no sweat: 

I never eat what I kill.

Fail even to know,

except in pixels like this,

time frothed to defy belief,

what I kill.                

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

love is a cancer

Cough up your locule

You were standing over me casting a glowing shadow

Within ravens crows & magpies.

You spoke softly & I couldn’t make out the words

I saw your lips move.

The birds swooned casting tenebrous blankets

Bromidic is the integument comes from peregrination

Spit hymeneal chyle.

Piss scrofula erysipelas the gout the pox & love

Shit chthonic kisses

The coagulated the aceldama fructifies fecundity in the womb

When tomorrow we weep tears that are crystal are but otiose

Concupiscence is the trajectory wails the hydra dressed in coruscating silk.

Fulo Devhanque

Categories
Poetry

Paris 1990 3 AM

She was beautiful & alone

I sat

Said

You are intoxicating.

She smiled a supercilious smile with her eyes

I asked if I offended her

She said no

So

I asked her if she were afraid of sex & she laughed

So

I said, repeat this

She said what.

I said

I want to fuck you

No.

See you are afraid.

Betrayed,

Those supercilious eyes feared defeat

She laughed a soft false laugh

Well

I want to fuck you

No thank you.

Richard Wainborough