Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Pissed

 
On rental bed in the apartment
where her drunken boyfriend peed on borrowed
living room furniture late
one fall, she gripped
the phone with moistened hand, wet
from the news that you
were marrying someone else,
knowing she deserved better than getting
pissed on,
knowing still
it was all she had left
 
-- Linda G. Hatton
 
 

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Two by Amy Pajewski


You’re no longer my lover


not since you twisted
that speculum inside me,
to examine my connective
tissue.  Revision: fuck.

Watch the blood and
filaments and flipper-
feet expand then
contract when untimely
ripp’d.  Black specks.
bulbous brain cavity

swimming in an
air-less bucket,
seeing and not
seen in the
amniotic fluid
within the
bubblegum
sphere.




you walked out



this morning.  Pacing
as you turned
your panties inside-
out.  Slid one hole
up your leg,
then the other.
Cloudy silhouette,
still now – you
look at me.
Are you
crying?

When our
eyes meet, this time-
I feel
nothing.
And I didn’t
even get
to tell you, how
pretty your dress
looks, when
you’re on
your knees,
disinfected.





Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Keys


Already lived
in too many places-
could make a necklace
with all the keys.


So many faces blurring into one,
some man-god stuck-up and stupid.


Only one I don't want to forget...

After a while he saw past me,
what I would probably become.
He told me and left
before I could beg him to take me.


Probably the years between us
would widen too much.
This is what I tell myself,
when the night stretches me out
on my bed,
comfort of his words still in my head.


Long nights
hanging heavy around my neck,
those keys staining
a rust river
running between my breasts,
dripping into emptiness.



--Anita McQueen

Friday, September 7, 2012

Ode to Pussy Riot: We Are All Hooligans


A Pussy Riot masque--
Faces tucked beneath cowls
They gyrate madly
Awkward Elaine-dancing-sisters
Weeble and wobble
To punk rhythms,
agitated dys-syncopated
sixteenth notes of protest.

Freedom dances in their heads
head-clanging freedom songs
Thirty seconds of cause célèbre
Joyful kerfuffle
Marshall McLuhan would have relished.

Congregants sizzle,
nuns shackle themselves to the foofaraw
elders shoo them from the altar.
Police indignation
hies them from the scene
where they languish in cells.


Soft-shelled crab,
Vlad the Impaler,
skin so sere
blood flows like lava
just below the surface.

Put in chains--
Free speech, they learn
Has its limits.



--Sy Roth



Ease is a Pair of Stockings Torn Away


anxiety encumbers the soul   
melancholy+depression—colour of coal
     life is tiring
coal in this regard is the antonym of ease
the way
a tight pair of black stockings    [wraps]
     chubby thighs
tearing the pair of s/t/o/c/k/i/n/g/s away  
                              is the synonym of ease
liberation+euphoria—colour of light


--Ali Znaidi

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Three by A.J. Huffman


BackBeat?

I wish I knew you or understood you when you speak to me or even when you don't speak to me when you say don't go don't stay don't talk don't think don't speak don't walk don't wait don't feel just fuck just fuck just fuck you say the words like fists strike me batter me batter my mind batter it hard until it drips with thick golden goo and drops to the steaming pavement in a bubbling ball smashed flat with an old wrought iron plate that probably belongs in my head grey and cold like the lock on my belt my chastity belt your toy you like me to wear you know so only you can fuck me or maybe so only I get fucked I never could get that right or straight as the way to hell that's where I'm going nowhere else to go but down down but only when we fuck then go down way down on a spiraling slide of darkness that spits me out regurgitates that sticky white wad of me right back into the misunderstanding of your arms.




Response to a Bittersweet Love Story

I let you fuck me.
Not because you wanted to,
but because I felt like it.
I could see the red glow of rage
consuming you when you looked at me,
the photo-negative of some cracked-out Barbie doll,
and your blinding need to punish me
for being anatomically correct.

So I let you fuck me.
Not because you wanted to,
but because I welcomed the prick of your vile needle
as it sealed me with sticky thread.
I obediently whined
when you scratched at your handiwork,
wanting the given pain back inside you,
and playfully wrapped your knuckles.
"Tomorrow . . ." I began,
and the laughter of your assumptive arrogance intercepted my words
as you dressed yourself in the pre-conceived pleasure of my fall.
"We'll see," you tease before telling me good-bye.

But I let you fuck me.
Not because you wanted to,
but because I enjoyed watching the shock of understanding
overtake your branded body
when I pulled the apple from beneath my pillow
and placed it in your trembling hands.
"Tomorrow," I began again,
shouting over the room's resounding emptiness.
"Tomorrow, I dare you to fuck me."




Temporary Orifice

You stifle my desire with your presence,
filling my mouth
to dissipate the words that lubricate
your penetration.
My voice is lost --
crushed beneath your pleasure.
It drips down my throat,
a four-letter reflection of myself
ringing through the mirror in your eyes.

I shatter beneath the inspection.
Suddenly, I am your echoing vision,
covering my ears to stop the brand overriding my conscience,
already weak from colliding with the truth.




Scorpio

lie awake at midnight
guitar leaning against the laundry basket
unloved/untouched for weeks
 
poems circling my brain like the voice of satan
at his naughtiest 
 
and
 
callous as a
cloud.
 
at just gone midnight the face of a girl
explodes deep in my
chest
 
and I can't remember the last time
I fell for somebody
who fell for me
less.
 
at ten past midnight picturing a short skirt
on the most beautiful 
brown
skin
 
a voice quiet as
meditation
 
eyes deep as
honey.
 
two more days before
I fall numb at your
alter once
more
 
and there is nothing
so crushingly
soulless
 
as the meandering of
minutes.




--Ross Leese




Sunday, September 2, 2012

Vegas Bathrooms


The Vegas airport
has sinks stacked against the wall,
each with a streak
of rust, brown, orange, blackening

It makes me wonder
how many people have cried
to rust away fake porcelain.

--Emily Ramser