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 Constamment 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.

By Üzeyir Lokman
Translated 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
Circling
Circles round
Church tower

Brown sparrows
Bathing
In the gutters

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

-Pretty green
Bottles
Emptied
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
Shameless
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,
Sigh

-A miserable sound
And continue
on my way
Towards the
underground
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
Selfish
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
then
back to gray again.

"Etceterenough"



By George Gaudet

Things and NoThings Alike

Bone-weary
Wit-
H t-
his
Use-
Less living
Grown tired
Of cities
And sometimes
Cities
Crowded
With strange,
And
Always
Bitter faces

-I write
Burnt-
Out
And fatigued
Despite
Mind's
Broken down
machine
Of stupidities
And cluttered
Dreams

Like
Heart Burns
Gasoline
Heart burns
Gasoline

- I write

Tired of automobiles
And subway stations
Alike

Birds and flight
Alike

Dirt and sky
Alike

Cabs and bikes
Alike

Tits and thighs
Alike

Words and sighs
Alike

Fags and dikes
Alike

Alike

Day and night
Alike

Alike

Moon and sun
Alike

Dislike
Alike

Alike


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"

Old,
Middle-class
Bastards
In neat suits
Strangled by
Patterned ties
Passing by
Reflections
In the polished
Wood And death
Is understood

I imagine

" I hate
To say
This now,
But this
Really is such
A lovely
Home,
Such an
elegant
Place
To rest
One's weary
Bones
( Thinking )
After life
is death
And death's
Dim Repose
Once the curtains
Close and the
end of
this sad tragedy
turns
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

Cold
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

Untitled

                  "Give      me
                some  head,"
                the       dude
                sternly,
                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).)
                

Spotted!

Hiding behind half hearted handshakes
respirating botanicals
and wondering when this liquid
crosses the line, into confidence
convoluted
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

Intern

microwaving ravioli has never seemed so dismal

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

gazing at the framed scenery
rainforests
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

apologetic

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

see

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
John
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
piety
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
champagne
i mean Holy Water
rain
salty tears

well, it's wet and
it keeps coming
i thought you were only baptized
once
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
and
that book never got opened
But
My loneliness decided to stay
to keep me company,
And this madness is here staring at me
from under my coffee table
as
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

Cowboy

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 www.raudkennedy.com.

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. )

To David

“How you gonna cross-stitch those faces
Into your dream-catchers, face catchers,
Tender cottonwood branch mandalas?”
Says the mighty derelict,
The immaculate scumbag,
The simple bum, me,
To the artist of the awful,
Artist of the ugly,
Who crafts eight-eyed beasts
And gnarled toads
And Frankensteinian dead-eyed worms
In his waking-mare,
That sleepy-frowned
David Gonzalez of Pittsburgh.

Crooked Apache shoulder shrug.

He will with slight-of-hand,
Slight of foot,
Cross-stitch the awful beatific
Of all mysteries onto tiny
Canvasses and finger-built feathers
From here all the way to Pittsburgh’s
Hot Metal Street.

By Tony Burfield

Untitled

A man with a fierce black beard walks up to the drunk and pushes him

into the gutter.
"You're not drunk!" shouts the man with the fierce black beard.
"But my stomach hurts," whimpers the drunk.
"Well don't come bleeding on me!" shouts the man with the fierce black

beard.
"Have you any hot milk?" asks the drunk.
"Hot milk?" yells the man with fierce black beard. "What's wrong with

good
brandy? Or for that matter black rum?"
"I have decided to become sober." explains the drunk.
"Out of my way fool!" shouts the man with the fierce black beard.
"A drunk cannot decide to become sober, he must decide to become

drunk, or how else will we know where we stand?"

By Billy Childish

Con-versing with mineself whilst someother sits across the room

I need to talk to you
Can you stay
Awile wit me?

Listen:

my hart sings in disdain

My soul breathes in the sad songs
The drunken bums sing aloud
all night long on Bowery street
Just outside the Mission's
soup kitchen.Listen

I stand shoulder to shoulder with
All saints and madmen.

Denouncers of Fate
Thee Ungodly scum
Who breathe new life into this world.

I am my own hero,
My own future to look forward two.

And you, Florence,you should listen.
Youre always speaking in spanish
And I hate that about you but dont
Mind it so much cause I know
youre beautiful and trying so hard
to keep in touch with me my sweet

Truth is
I've distanced myself from you,
and though youre sitting just across the room
from me right now
As I write this
ragged shoddy shit pome
you may as well be siting somewhere
Haffway across the wurld.ah well,

Go on then
leave

It's the end of the discushion
And we should be lost by now.

By Pablo Pastor ( Yonkers, New York)

The Empty Box

I wanted him to come inside,
take his socks off
and stay a while.

My box had been empty for
quite some time,
the crimson striped ribbon
frayed
from jagged fingernails
clawing for fresh testosterone.

But he couldn't quite locate
the sliding door
to my personal space.

Bumping into invisible walls
I never got around to painting.

By Sandy Sue Benitez

Sunshine

If I could
I would lick sunshine
from your arms
feed the guinea pig your yellow
heart torn into tiny pieces
like the petals of a daisy

I can't smile the way you do
can't pretend that I smell
frangipani
while drinking a glass of sun
with artificial sweetener
swirls inside mixing my emotions

How can you walk in dry sandals
when the earth rotates its tears
I falter with every other step
forget how to tie my shoelaces
but you skip over the details
head straight to hopscotch
drawing hearts with sidewalk chalk

Your eyes reflect the sky blue
with tints of golden light
smiles that water glide on
belief, love, faith, hope, serenity
that stick to you
clinging as vines do

while I am covered in thorns
each cut bleeding me
one step closer to illumination

By Sandy Sue Benitez

Ruins Of A City

April
Thirteenth
Two-thousand and six,
What the old man said to me
Amid the
Black ruins of a city:


"This house is dying.
These stones will soon decay.
Ill weather will wash away the names
and dates of our living and dying.
Only our bones will remain.

Our memories will grow gray.
We'll grow old like cowards,
dragging our burdensome lives behind us. "

By Mr.Topo

The American Vital

I do things -
when no one's around.

I pick my nose.

I talk to myself -
and answer back.

I kiss my pillow -
to remind myself -
I still know how
to kiss.

I fantasize -
I'm on a game-show.

I fantasize -
about screwing
the American Idol contestants,
all of them.

I fantasize -
I'm on The View,
being interviewed
by Barbara Walters
herself
for doing something -
note-worthy.

I am jealous -
of the makers of "Head-On."

I illegally
download sad songs
so I can remain,
unhappy.

I think -
about getting high.
Sometimes, I do.

I put things -
inside me.

I pee -
in the sink.

I sign in
to the poetry message boards,
and I wonder -
just how long it's
going to take,
before people realize -
I'm a literary genius?

Every other poet
has millions
of comments
placed lovingly
on their poems.

Mine -
aren't even viewed.

I'm glad
I do all those other
fucked up things.

I get my immediate needs
met
regardless.

Who the hell
wants
constructive criticism
anyway?

Famous?
For doing fucked up
things
when I'm alone
and pissing off editors?

Hey, we all
gotta shine
somehow.

Don't we?

By Bryon D. Howell

Not Even The Candy-Man Can

It's come
to that point
where your depression
now supersedes everything
including us.

We don't talk
sometimes
for days.

When we do,
you sound more
and more
like a saturated mop,
being dragged
from one end
of a cold, flooded room
to the other.

Those are the very words
you used
to describe how
you've been feeling.

I only added the word,
cold.

I tried to make
you smile.

There once was a time
our mindless
chatter
and my dry wit
used to get
a real rise out of you.

I tried to help you
turn things
around
and I guess in a way,
I did.

We both said goodbye
and hung up
the phone.

You
rolled over.

By Bryon D. Howell

The Quick In The Red

We had had
a volatile argument,
full of gunpowder
both of us
cat fishing
for one quick
match
of words, to strike.

Luckily for the two of us
our better judgments
moistened that wick.

You say I'm sensitive -
trigger happy.

I'm getting too old for this.

Some cowboys,
much younger and more fortunate
than I
can drink their whiskey
straight up
while sitting on
all kinds
of broken barroom glass.

I can barely draw,
my hand shake more
than the town drunk's,
and my teeth
are just as sensitive
as I am.

I look at them in
the mirror
as if I'm inspecting the inside
of a covered wagon
and discovering all kinds
of hidden secrets -
like you.

And like you,
I can just about
see
right through them.

You'd made
a pot-full of homemade
chicken soup.
Good choice.
Good for the soul -
hot as hell.

Needless to say,
my payback was a bitch.

I took one swift
spoonful and my mouth
exploded.

It would be awhile before
I uttered
another word -
kind or otherwise.

Now all I can do
is keep my mouth
shut
and wait for the rest
of the million some-odd feathers
to settle -
like fighting dust.

And although you
may have struck
fool's gold,
I'm taking out
a $1,000,000 bounty
on your head for just
one southern accent of
truth -

in your East Coast lies.

By Bryon D. Howell
...a poet currently residing in New Haven, Connecticut.
He has been writing poetry for a great number of years. Recently, his poetry
has appeared in poeticdiversity, Red River Review, The Quirk, The Cerebral
Catalyst, and The Lost Beat. Bryon is also the Editor-in-Chief of two online
poetry 'zines: The Persistent Mirage and Bringing Sonnets Back.

No Time For Sleep

Through roses and anemones
my soul is wandering free.
No time for sleep
No time for love
The night grows blue
And the sad moons weep
Far away in the distance.

By Florent Thibault

Vagabond

Your absence keeps
Me company.
Immigrating,
Like a ghost
Clear and simple.
Sojourner
Widowed,
Lost.
On those roads
Leading towards
Your afternoons
Of solitudes.

By Florent Thibault

Pop Icons

If a company sold a pop singer’s poop,
people would buy it.
And if they told you it was good for you,
people would eat it too.

By Michelle Rydberg

Double Entendre

It’s the year of the cock and I woke up
early to sit next to the pussy willow drinking a
cocktail
under the warm afternoon sun
stroking my pussycat as she lays their tired
and lazy like a
cockatoo

By Michelle Rydberg

The Director

She is the director of her life

She takes the horn and blows it in the man’s ear

“I’m not your wife”

Grab me a beer

she commands. And it is done.

Gently stroking her employer on the cheek and whispering,
“I will make this company grand and glorious,
let me work for you and you shall see.”

Speeding away on a hotfoot to the tryst
vociferations bellows from her desperate friend
But it’s too late…she’s made her wend

To Paris and back!
She prowls around town with a cigarette sniffing out her prey,
spotting a sexy man, with champagne in his hand
She is waking up in Cannes and parting in Nice,
And back to Paris the next week.
It’s her plan.
To keep up with her is
unfeasible
She eats her years
And spits them out in your face

By Michelle Rydberg

Whatever things make me think of you

It wasn't the persistent tick of the clock
On the nightstand next to me
That made me think of death. It wasn't
The spider quietly spinning her
Delicate web in the corner of the ceiling,
Nor the dying glow of a cigarette
about to meet its end as it hangs
Between life and death
Between my finger tips.
It was an unfinished poem I found today,
Hidden away among old notes.
lines to a girl living in some small unknown
town in France.
A note that read like love;
a love poem
written in terrible French.

By Benjamin Soahlis

An Apology

I did not love you
because you are not the only one.
That street, on which we met,
Became a lover's highway,
That slowed with all its signs,
the bloody mess of human love.
Our union ,
A scar after a terrible wreck,
My lies,
the drunken driver
who dies in regret.
And you,
the unlucky passerby,
Busted bones, broken neck.

By Benjamin Soahlis

Waking Up at the Bustop

Haunting Love. Huntress of Dark Desires.
There
In the gathering twilight. Moonlight
Breathing blue.
The end comes suddenly. Dead among blossoming
Flowers.
Post Mordumb madness
lives to be still-born. A mother's grief.
Pain of creations desired desire to be creative.
Modern Matrimony. Terribly wounded, shadowy
Singing sisters pray.
Charming melody of seaside girls
Decked in silky blood red
Dresses weeping wailing weary
Maid-of-honors.Seas. Smiles
Of mourning women.
Good Idea he had of it Mr Joyce
Says. Smart idea, certainly so,
" Marry in May and repent in December"
Long and short of it.
And one night
They'll bring you the leg
Of a duck." and so
Life limps on...

.Befitting storm clouds gather
Above his head.
Pleasing as anything to sea
Cottony clouds of vengeance.
"When did ye return?" Emily asked
Indifferently thinking
"... Dick is sin..."
Emily in fading blue denim jeans,
In the arms of her lover, broad
Armed Mr.Collins
There in the land of the dead
Just 'round th'way, and he
" I've returned just last week" Grey
Hound bus from Reading
To Penn Station...asleeping...
Were you waiting long?"
Thinks
" The splendor of traveling cheap!"
To himself thinking
"Sweet taste of her ovaries"
Wearing moonblue shoes new
In a striped suit splintering at the seams

Forsaken In silence,
Silent in cruelty.

Mr.Topo

ms.Corinne

<>

I loved your lips,
ripe mangos
bending
the heavy
bough
the
orange
glow
of her sun
burning
early
autumn
at dawn.

ms.corinne
and her men

in white shirts
dressed
in black
shoes for the feet
to keep moving.
Dancing the dances
in lobbies and halls

ms.corinne

at the front doors
parting

ways hesitant to a kiss
or a late cafe au latte.Spring

pressing on like lightning bonbon
so long.

By Steven Wakowski

Strolling through some thoughts

today I walked across
a little old bridge which hung
above a modest lake diseased in toxins.
is summer, are a few men fishing,
some young some old, some swans, two,
floating by the shore peopled by lazy
folks laying in the sun near willow trees.
I've forgotten to bring my matches.
I ponder this cigarette,
I look to the fisherman and ask for a light

A cracked vase, ashes on a window-sill.
Detrimental pictures of members of your family
you severely detest nailed to the blue walls.
nagging hunger urging you
and you prepare your early morning
meal half-heartedly. Comforting monotony
of this particular ritual.all men must eat,
and women too. Chipped and peeling tiles.
furniture rearranged. sunlight
through the window. wind in the curtains.
I've hung up my laundry and I've cleaned
the black sheets. And the clouds turn
into myself, I smoke a cigarette
and smell the cold winter fragrance.
out on the porch, my boots on ,
and the smoke clings to my coat,
smoke and mist thinking
about everything I don't own.
That guitar I've yet to play
lies in a corner of my room.
a spider resides inside
it's wooden belly I suspect.
old dusty webs where the music would be.

By Billy Herzog

Sun And The Moon And The Wars

Our fathers drank together,
Our brothers cursed and fought.
Our mothers danced together
A sleepy time in waltz.
Their laughter broke the moon in two.
Their anger burnt the sun.
and all is good,all is good,
Yes, all of that is good my brother.

By Billy Herzog

Anna Minstral

"I wish I knew where I belonged.
Sam says he knows but ain't saying much.
I'm tired of singing the same old songs.
Life's like weed and we need a dutch."
“And Ann, she's tired of taking the same old walks,
Talking the same old talk,
And dancing the same old waltz...

She's pretty
A pretty girl living an ugly life.
Stripping to pay the rent
On an old, cramped apartment
In some small town in
Upstate New York. It's a real nice town.

By Antonio Merzal

Movie House

In old , abandoned movie houses,
Where the lovers suddenly stiffen
and kiss one another with the pale lips
of ghosts - the colour of a dying people.
That is where I'd like to be found,
amid sunken ships
beneath ill tempered harbours.
vicious bays grown tired and fatigued, quite used
to the bitter wave's laments
and the ancient seas memories.
That is where I'd like to be...
Amid the drowned fish,
Dancing without feet, dripping wet
tasting of the salt's excess and algae dreams.

By Pedro Marrero, Jr.