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)