She Lingers Alongside

She lingers alongside
a stubborn cloud of smoke
amongst cigarette butts
and rose petals
cradling hope for the morning
when her name will be painted
in the sky
and she won't be afraid to follow

blanketed in delusion
the bottom branches of the oak
laugh, as they did when she was young.
skyscraper penthouses
kiss the clouds more audaciously
and wink in her direction.

It may be she's lost an inch or two
or maybe, at her specific
latitude and longitude
the ground sinks
until her fingertips
glance off the apple

yet still, she taunts the sea
dodging the waves
and shooting seductive looks
upwards, toward the moon
making him blush
and the tide roll in

By Zach Paulsen

Come On Baby

“Come on baby, swallow it,” he says
with his dick in her mouth, she thought
she might bite it.
Eyes vacant
somewhere else
she looks up at him imploringly but
sees only the disgust in his eyes as he
tightens his grip on the back of her head.

By Ky Huynh

Le Miroir

L’être humain se voit lui-même
Dans le miroir…
Il reste au de delà pensée
De temps à autre
Il voit des figures déformées,
Il voit les choses à l’envers…
Il cherche un coupable
Il voit des tissus
Tout en morceaux…
Celui qui est à accuser
Est lui-même…
L’être humain courtois
Ne peut accuser sans connaissance…
Que l’être humain vive à Paris
Ou à Konya
Les vérités sont invariables
Dans l’univers…
L’être humain se voit lui-même
Dans le miroir…


A human being sees himself
in the mirror.
Beyond thought
from time to time
he sees deformed faces,
he sees things upside down.
He seeks a culprit constantly.
He sees fabrics
all in pieces.
Whomever he accuses
is himself.
A courteous human being
cannot accuse without knowledge.
Whether a human being lives in Paris
or in Kenya,
truths are invariable
in the universe.
A human being sees himself
in the mirror.

Üzeyir Lokman
by Joneve McCormick - 2002

I need

I need it all…
I need a world in which
I don't need to be (at all)
I need a world in which
I need not steal other people’s words to utter
I need a life that will not end in death
I need a life that will not die with me
I need it all…
I need a death that will not live after me
(and will be mine only)

By Milos Petrovic
( Edited with permission from the author)

You had better stay home

You had better stay home.
You had better watch yourself hereafter.
They are coming…
If they sense you..
You had better post guards at the door.
You know, after all, what I'm talking about.
Therefore, I hope
That we will meet each other next Tuesday,
That you will be all right.
They are coming…
If they sense you..

By Milos Petrovic
(...a poet and poetry performer from Serbia, in the former Yugoslavia.
Has written over 4,000 poems that have not yet been published, nor translated in English.
He does not attempt to publish any of his work in Serbia anymore, because conditions are very bad for self-governed artists of any kind. He was declared as the most talented poetry writer in the last 25 years in his city. He also won one national and several local poetry awards.)

Rising to Pee

When you rise to pee,

I follow you with my eyes.

Artificial light is soft enough

to see a long way back,

to a plum orchard wet with

late night mist, the rattle of elevated

trains. Kisses tasting of garlic and ginger

by artificial light, graveled paths

leading to my apartment.

Why not pee when you have to,

why not laugh until you cry?

By David Thornbrugh

Bleeding Internally

Conscience is a slow bruise,

almost-ripe avocado damaged by squeezing.

Pounded into square holes daily

by jobs, lovers, traffic, news

beyond digestion.

The heart weaves red baskets

picket fence solid,

makes room for all the eggs

you’ll accumulate.

By David Thornbrugh

Underground Automatic Poem

( The fifth of May, Two-thousand and seven)

Dirt-faced dunnocks
Circles round
Church tower

Brown sparrows
In the gutters

An Old china
Drudging along
An alleyway
a rusted cart
with a motley
Of various detritus,
though very important,
As all things
are really.

-Pretty green
Of their wine

-An apple shaped clock
That looks a
swollen heart,
Or bloody fist.

I contemplate
Her filthy misery
With indifference
And feel a certain
Selfish happiness
To look at her
As me
Not looking
Back at her

-Whatever the bloody
Hell that means.

And turning away
From the haggard old bitch
I imagine smells of piss
Looking towards the end
Of the street
Just in time to see
Two lovers meet

The fuckers...
- lean in
For a kiss. pucker up
And the
lips meet

And I,
The unlucky passerby,

-A miserable sound
And continue
on my way
Towards the
In London
Of America
NonEnglish Poppa
says Subway
And the hell with 'em

And I entertain
various digressions
Such as these so as
To forget my stubborn
Loneliness and laugh
And say,
at the end of the day, perhaps
In French
if I may,

"Je Suis Désolé"

And laugh
With a sissy French accent
Says Cousin haven't seen
many years since I hear
He makes a life In Queens.

And everything's a digression
A shift from scene
to every other scene
Gray to gray and green
back to gray again.


By George Gaudet

Things and NoThings Alike

H t-
Less living
Grown tired
Of cities
And sometimes
With strange,
Bitter faces

-I write
And fatigued
Broken down
Of stupidities
And cluttered

Heart Burns
Heart burns

- I write

Tired of automobiles
And subway stations

Birds and flight

Dirt and sky

Cabs and bikes

Tits and thighs

Words and sighs

Fags and dikes


Day and night


Moon and sun



By George Gaudet
( George is a college student living and working in London. A Parisian born to a Frenchwoman
and an American father, he has gone to England in hopes of earning a teaching degree.
He is currently working on a small collection of poetry entitled
" Empty Bottles in Smoky Rooms" which he plans on submitting to various U.K. Publishers)

Filling in for a Friend at the Funeral Home

"You'll have to try
And stay out of the way
Kiddo, I know
This ain't you're gig, so
I'm gonna take it easy on ya
Since ya took it on such
Short notice
Just make sure things
stay neat and don't be
Drinking on the job
Not in plain view at least"

In neat suits
Strangled by
Patterned ties
Passing by
In the polished
Wood And death
Is understood

I imagine

" I hate
To say
This now,
But this
Really is such
A lovely
Such an
To rest
One's weary
( Thinking )
After life
is death
And death's
Dim Repose
Once the curtains
Close and the
end of
this sad tragedy
out to be a kind
Of comic show"

Hat in hands
Head hung low
Lips held close
To the ear
And a few
Whispered words
To comfort
The blue dame
Dressed in black

"To tell you the truth, I
Never liked the guy,
But still it's such a shame
That a good guy like him
Had to die,
Life's too cruel
Sometimes,and I"

Their pensive eyes
Were stiff
As dead men

As frozen fruit

By Paul Drummond
( Paul, a 27 year old journeyman, currently resides in Clifton, Maine.
He has been writing for three years.His influences include;
Anne Sexton, Charles Simic, Paul Levine and his wife to name a few.)

A Sense of Safety

When the queer professor spoke,
Herb's mama would not let Herb commute
to his sophomore organ lessons on campus,
but locked him in his room all day long
since she didn't know for sure
what hour would be spoiled.

In his room, Herb floated
through Mahler's "Resurrection Symphony"
remembering how Mama used to starch
his shirt and parade her "little man"
up and down the block every afternoon.

A sense of safety guided Herb
to retrieve Playgirl
from far out on the rafters of his closet.
He sprayed an odd sock with sperm.

Mama squeaked in her porch swing
imagining dry cathedral resonance
in which Little Man played
"Toccata and Fugue" to thousands
as she sparkled at the front.

The queer professor talked of Michelangelo.

By Louie Crew

Peasant Privacy in the Forbidden City

Big Nose winked in Mao's gate.
I think he took my bait
and turned around to follow
--I hope. Maybe not. Ten
more may squat or piss; then
he my white jade will swallow.

He smells too sweet, but's thick.
I'll, dangling, suck his dick,
or, heels thrust in the hollow

of his back, astride neck,
I'll goo his throat; peck, peck
his baldness, for a dollar.

At least the last one shared
that much. I wait, ass bared.
Big Nose, Big Nose, follow.

By Louie Crew


                  "Give      me
some head,"
the dude
grimly said.

I wanted to hold him in my arms, to
feel the weight of him on top of me. I
wanted to scratch love marks down his
back and to watch him enjoy being alive.

But down I
went and
gave him
only what he
asked for.
Both lost.

By Louie Crew
(Louie Crew has edited special issues of
College English and Margins, Has
written four poetry volumes
Sunspots (Lotus Press,
Detroit, 1976)
Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987),
Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks,

1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake!
(Dragon Disks, 2003).)


Hiding behind half hearted handshakes
respirating botanicals
and wondering when this liquid
crosses the line, into confidence
weaving words into
quarter-witted remarks
Inhaling the season's end
exhaling feelings of last year
there's the constant reminder
not to glance over one's shoulder or into the past
lest they gaze
on your vaguely familiar face
“The sky is yearning for your hands
lay the pen on the ground
the vines of clever justice
have you surrounded,
oh, poignant poetaster!”

By Zach Paulsen


microwaving ravioli has never seemed so dismal

someone muses about the weather
the cute one asks about my weekend

gazing at the framed scenery
mountain ranges
the sea

all reminding me
that teamwork is important
and to get those numbers up

Bobby tell's me I'm the man
my soul gasps for air

By Zach Paulsen

There is no More Y

most people aren't happy
the priest said to me
no ones life is the way they want it to be
we all live in the garden
to a greater or lesser degree
some get cement, some sea
even He had Gestheme
as of late I have heard this line about
my cross and all I am to bear
just as I have begun to share
with all who will listen
or hell anyone within earshot
of my blind husband
and all the fears in me
at first the advice I received
made me contrite I could see
but didn't
for failing to readily accept my new family accessory
and duty to constantly remind
the blind to carry his cane
I get tired afterall
near only medical device you'll get for free
a white cane no questions asked
no one really wants one of these
legislators figure
it's cheaper than a street cleaner
forgive me for
relying on the rhyme of E
on the eye chart it's nearly all he can
and E represents to me
the sum of the two I(s) / eye(s)
we once had
and between them is Y
but Y has lost its meaning
a satellite
sometimes consonant
a question, an answer
lost now in the periphery
till even the E
of ego
goes and
leaves me
the only I

By Laurel K. Graham

Joan and Jerome

i saw Joan everywhere
she was dressed in drag
(as a man)
her hair clipped
her tiny bones chipped
skin flayed
mounted on a disk
her bosom bound
heard her voice
like she Catherine, Margaret and Michael
saw her name
in spidery script
took the wax seal to mean
this little bit was real
in front of her i cried
symbolic womanhood
at her pire i offered
my feeble attempts
at avoiding sin
a series of mortal near misses
and a broken heart
but actually she wasn't there
off somewhere with Jerome
what i saw was actually
no one has seen Joan in along time
except for me

By Laurel K. Graham

Hedonistic Obscurantist

if i have a belief
it's in the make believe
and the practical magic
obscurantists preach
Hogwarts like seminaries
and plastic beads
thrown at worry
like Mardi Gras
Fat Tuesday
every day

i am on the verge of
will redeem sanctity when
i turn in x number of envelopes
to my parish

indulgences are all mine
in my head
in my mind
especially when it rains
i mean Holy Water
salty tears

well, it's wet and
it keeps coming
i thought you were only baptized
but maybe i was never

maybe it's that
veil of tears
real after all
and life after all is a process of dying
to ourselves
and in the end just a matter of where
we Fall

By Laurel k. Graham

My Morals

I smiled to myself
b/c I thought that I was a good person
for driving all that way to the ocean
to deliver those starfish back to their watery world.
I think that at least one other person
would have agreed with me.
But to the lady
and her
three dogs,
two children
and one stroller
parading down the middle of the road
I was a horrible person for driving
over 25 mph
on their road.
She corralled the dogs to the side of the road
Clutched her children close
and threw up her arms.
But I had no time to slow down and apologize
Only enough to put my window down
and give them all the finger.
I was saving lives,
couldn't they understand?

By Kristofer Koerber

Celestial Cathedrals

Celestial cathedrals,

Roofless above whose light glimmers endlessly:

A brothel for weary dreams

Dazed by the beauty that tickles the soul

And sends shivers down the spines of sailors

In the midnight sea,

Who lounge on the decks of their creaking boat

As it lazily covers the way to candle lit ports,

Where lovers and wine wait patiently for the return.

By Kristofer Koerber

Sunday Night

The wine never got drunk,
the girl who whispered in my ear
about hair pulls and purrs
never showed up,
The music never got turned up
that book never got opened
My loneliness decided to stay
to keep me company,
And this madness is here staring at me
from under my coffee table
these words continue to waltz lazily
Across my paper.

By Kristofer Koerber

Your Leg

Women who want to be men.

Men who want to be women.

Women who want women.

Men who want men.

God, so what if my Chihuahua

humps your leg.

By Raud Kennedy


The parking valets in Portland

are dressed as vaqueros.

Black shirts, vests and sombreros.

They hit their hat brims

sliding behind the wheels

of the cars they park.

In the rain, they sag

and drip tears of black dye.

In the rare sun,

they make them sweat

and break out.

It’s tough

being a cowboy

in Portland.

By Raud Kennedy

“And Your Mission Is…

James Bond is always on the go.

I can’t picture him going to the toilet

or trimming his toenails, doing what the rest of us do.

He doesn’t sit in cafes, bored and irritable,

like other imaginary characters that fill our evening hours,

naval gazing about his sex life.

His life is pared down to his mission.

Just his mission, and our lives depend on it.

I wish I had a mission that cut

all the drudgery and dullness from my life.

And a cool theme song, of course.

By Raud Kennedy

( Raud Kennedy is a novelist as well as a poet. View his titles at

A link has been provided in the Spitoon section of the blog, way down below)

a shot at haiku/ by Kelly Pardekooper/ A pseudo poet

blue-haired lane drifters

slowly speeding into sleep
beware the Buick!

hold me through the night
push me into the corner
my arm loves the numb

the heart is heavy
and the days turn into years
she’s not coming back

guitar strings corrode
as the sweat dulls the chorus
a faux authentic

By Kelly Pardekooper ( Iowa City native Kelly Pardekooper is a singer/songwriter currently based in Madison, Wisconsin. He has toured all over the United States and Europe. )