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

Categories
Poetry

A Night of Serious Drinking with Cervantes

A night of serious drinking with Cervantes always ends in tears. We drink until sunlight makes the electric light unemployed. In the morning a profound melancholy is experienced, so profound is this melancholy that we start to drink again.

          Stop with the morning talk.

Drink!  

It happens every time, just like clockwork, like the bells tolling on the hour, after a heavy night of drinking there is always a fight. A ball composing of fingers and a thumb will collide with a mouth and teeth will be expectorated in a shower of spit and blood.

The only cure for this kind violence is to

Drink.

And so, after the fight,

                                      We drink.

Cervantes has never been the same since he lost his left arm. It held the hand that he wrote with.  

To this we drink.

Larry Kevinour

Categories
Poetry

3/13/22

black vultures from hell 

circle my empty home—

have they figured me out?

figured out i’m a phony,

a fraud, that i hide behind 

these lines, these poems?

i play the game and wait 

in line just like the rest. 

Tohm Bakelas

Categories
Poetry

New York 1989 2 AM

I saw a Street Kid shot thru the head

On Amsterdam.

I never saw the collapse for the taxicab that had

Dropped me off got in the way.

Moments before the taxi driver had offered me

His wife & daughters.

He said that I could do anything

I wanted with them so long as he could use his new

Digital camera.

It was an ephemeral moment,

Timeless

The sound of the gun echoing thru the

Streets

Of New York City & the City swallowed the

Bang

As it swallows its children.  

Sirens, screams, shouts. I refused

My hotel room.

What a show New York puts

On for its tourists & free as well.

I bathed in

The electric flashing lights & drowned in the

Cops’ orders.

In a huge black bag, they

Scooped the trash up like I do at home. In the

Morning, I went to where the Street Kid was

Shot & there was a dry clot on the tarmac & concrete.

There was no white line depicting a murdered

Street Youth

Like in the movies.

I was disappointed for I had bought a cheap

Disposable camera.

Richard Wainborough

Categories
Poetry

the kiss of kings and queens

Against everything they had fought and now they stood victorious upon heaps of obstacles. They had each other. With hallucinating alacrity the world the very world of earth water and sky flew past them in blurs and traces. The cacophony was a whisper carried upon soft brushstrokes of zephyrs. Day slipped into night and night into day. The moon morphed into the sun and the sun morphed into the moon. Both were indefinable only generic orbs characterless in the sheet that covered the kiss.

Kitty Kevinour

Categories
Poetry

AMNESIA BABE

Whenever I lose who I am,

I always ask love.

We arrange over the phone

to meet at the library.

She loans me her card.

We check out the KAMA SUTRA.

Take it home; try it out.

She nearly, getting into this one

position, breaks her neck;

while I conserve junk

to give later to Jesus.

She blushes; shakes her head;

admits most men suck in bed;

and that’s statistically that.

But before you hand me my

hat, show me the door –

did you check the shredder?

Maybe you got so horny, you

thumbed it through the slot.

Actually, I hear shredding identity

can prove orgasmic.

Gone and done in a nano, of course;

but this is a different neurosis of a horse.

Takes no time to know overamped

lust shorts consciousness out.

My ego, you see, ate my ID. But

no sweat, I’ll just scare love up.

Gotta be in here somewhere.

Here, this thread goes maybe

with the address? Can you help, love, glue back together the shreds?     

Willie Smith

Categories
Poetry

broken dreams dreamt in school playgrounds

humiliated, mocked, beaten senseless

to retch

her cunt is the gallows he said.

Broken condoms

tidal wave of lust and violence could taste it all at the back of his throat

                                                fingerprints

                                                            brokennose

                                                                        teeth pressed into the soft tissue

imbecilic apemen chatting to coquettish underaged sluts underwear wisps of prostrations.

inebriated junky cataleptic, prostrate

            half-eaten by dogs

                                    like Ajax go mad and contemplate suicide

D.C Adams

Categories
Poetry

Metempsychosis With Me

infinitesimal brush stroke

sitting on the bed

Let Rabelais deal with giants and their drink problems I said. Her movements articulated the poetry of Petrarca

                                   her conduct found in Castiglione.

Plagues the seeds for tomorrow

slave of

death

slave to his belly distasteful

 we shall devour skin, hair, fat, eyes, ears, lips, flesh, heart, lung, liver, kidney, appendix, veins, arteries, ligaments, nerves, cartilages, bones, morrow within the bones, brains, glands

and even genitals,

we shall devour our own excrement.

D.C. Adams

Categories
Poetry

dead from the neck down

 

perpetual misdemeanors begging for drinks     

boils, spots

black

heads

tasting the sweat and the makeup blowjob next to the toilets,

dog shit upon the

pavement alongside the

sui cid es     

wanted to pluck the moon from the sky and place it next to his heart    

use it to illuminate motifs

 from gothic to eastern to the oriental

D.C. Adams