Sunday, December 14, 2014

I Chew My Fucking Nails Off

I chew my fucking nails off.
For no reason,

Definitely not for the flavor.
The boys would do it for me

If I'd let their furry snouts
And dagger teeth nip at my
Tender hand flesh.
But I won't.

I chew my fucking nails off
On my own, with my own
Gnarled stumps of calcified,

Enamel coated grinders.

My tongue likes the smooth
Underneath and the rigid tops
The textural adventure begins
Once I put my fingers in my mouth.

My nails are parasitic poison,
A gross fact of life
And no amount of soap and clean
Water will stop my eager fingers

From invading my drawbridge lips
And exposing the buds of my
Tongue to the subtle flavors
Of life and dog dander.

There are worse things to put
In your mouth, I'm sure.
Some boys and girls choose cocks
Or feet or silicone dildos.

I chew my fucking nails off
Because it's the only way to be true to myself
I'll admit I enjoy the devilish nonsense
Of reading WebMD article

About hygiene and nail destruction and
Torn cuticles and overexposed nail beds.
I chose fingers and all of the nasty
Microscopic life that comes with it.

--Caseyrenee Lopez

Sunday, November 30, 2014

remember I said this

when I kicked the
punk-assed bitch out
he cried about need and want

in the middle of one thing
the end of another
and the beginning of the rest

those days were, still
tragic and bloody
the nights, an endless shit storm

--Ag Synclair

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Editor's Piece/Peace: First Time

First print edition OUT!

Rob Plath
Emily Ramser
Claire Phelan
Charlie Stern
April Salzano
jared lacroix
Caitlin Hoffman (me)
Photography by Kas Miller

Email w/ Subject Line ZINE ORDER if you want one/some. Include mailing address. We'll work out shipping through Paypal.

May do it the "right" way (Amazon, etc) eventually, but I'd rather not pay those fucks for anything.

Keep it visceral,


Sunday, November 23, 2014

If I Had A Son, I Would Teach Him About Evolution

I bled through
the crotch of my pants

and the Wonder Woman underwear
I bought two and a half years ago
on sale at Target

while eating
chocolate chip cookies
in my bed.

I put my hand between my thighs
to wipe away the blood
and realized, that
God had once again decided
to not put the embryo
of Jesus Junior in my womb,

leaving me free to continue
reading blog posts
tagged atheism.

--Em Ramser

Sunday, November 16, 2014

The Sharpest Knife in the World

The picture came in a box
I took it out and hung it
The box went to the backyard
Where it blew around
Till I gotta knife
From the basement
Took it outside
Where the wind blew
Like a bastard
I wrestled with the box
Put a half-nelson on it
Till it finally broke loose
And stood there glaring at me
So I waltzed it into the garage
Away from the stupid polar-ice cap wind
And sliced it into a million pieces
"What happens if I cut myself
By mistake?"
I tried not thinking about that
And hauled what was left
Of the box
To the dumpster
Still thinking about what my hands
Would look like
Then went back inside
To look at the picture I hung
It was deceased
It would be nice to give it
A proper burial
A box would come in handy
Right about now but
There was blood everywhere.

--Paul Smith

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

The Road To Happily Ever After

is bullshit,
a never-ending straightaway
that leads nowhere good.
Littered with carcasses
of frogs and fickle princes, discarded
tubes of chapstick, broken glass
slippers, the entire pathway ticks
like a timebomb until midnight,
then disappears right before your eyes. 
--A.J. Huffman

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Holding a Baby

I was tricked into the only
Time I have ever held a baby
A friend of a friend shouted
Here and took off sprinting
I was expecting to grab on
To a beer or maybe an American Spirit
Not a poop producing machine
That passed itself off
As a miniature human
I tried to hold the thing
At arm’s length, but I hadn’t
Been to the gym like I resolved to
And after about 30 seconds
My elbows started quivering
Trying to get a grip
On the morbidly obese creature
So I had to bring it to my lap
But it kept staring at me plotting
When it was going to vomit
All over my mostly clean shirt
It had already sucked the life
From one woman—infecting
Her with its parasitic motivations
So I sat it down on the ground
And tried to escape
But it kept falling over unable
To support its own bulk
And attracting unwanted attention
With its incessant wails
I cautiously extended one toe
Placed it firmly on the slobbering
Beast’s back and made
Sure it stayed upright

I guess even I have some
Maternal instinct
--Jessica Hylton

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Surviving the Street

my name is joe
(if yer asking -
which you ain’t)
although that’s not my name
but one i’ve always thought
could fit me
as an endangered urban tortoise
whose home rat-clatters
as it scutters along the high street 


my stains and my rips
down-and-out chic 
gift wraped in this season’s black plastic 
the colour of passing
stuffed inside 
a wire cage tesco screambucket 
on maladroit wheels
incarcerating one dissipated bag full
of the tatters of yesterdays
and one bag overflowing with wild
debris of deflated bright wonder
that once shone in a child eye galaxy


the grime that dresses me
depresses me
two bin bag joe off his trolley 
forcing screambucket to cross hexed
cracks in the pavement through 
puddled reflections 
of fractured neon attractions

look away

drowned in the sound of traffic
a peripheral smudge 

an illusion 
quick step >escape >too late
i’m in yer face / rank breath
spare a quid for a cuppa mate

-P.A Levy 

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Sometimes A Bit Envious Of Softer Voices


                                                      I don't know, man.
                                                      The odds are twenty five thousand to one.
                                                      Helicopters above the house now.....
                                                      thuck, thuck, thuck, thuck, thuck, thuck...
                                                      You crazy fuck.
                                                      Stop talking so loud.
                                                      And you from the north,
                                                      not one of those southern drama queens.
                                                      Have to make a run for it.
                                                      Drop and roll.
                                                      I don't read the tabloids.
                                                      I am far too sophisticated.
                                                      --Colin James

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Editor's Piece/Peace

A print edition's coming. Super DIY. Dotting the i's, seeking printers, etc. Will TRY to add a link if anyone wants a copy (price will be free- you'll just pay shipping). Previously published poets included in the print edition will soon be informed, and sent a copy for free (I'll pay shipping). Submission guidelines soon to be updated also.

Oh, and we gotta FB page now ------>

Keep it visceral,


With Shark

eyes, the idea of ancient becomes black
beacons, time-travelled testimonials to consumptive
power. Terminology amalgamized: good
evil. Necessitative
hunger. Living
carnality. Thrashing
instincts: feed, fuck. Survive,
the path in which we quake.

--A.J. Huffman

Monday, September 22, 2014

The Door to Nowhere

could just have easily been named the door to everywhere,

but as children, we tended to think what could be contained,

looked out from, was the point of reference. Our home was

anything but safe. Loaded guns lurked in nightstand drawers,

pornography was coffee table art, and we were too young

to be left alone as often as we were. To pass the time, we wrote

the names of rock bands on our school folders, copied

from my father’s album collection. We took turns

lying on our stomachs in front of the milk crate

where the records were alphabetized, our heads cocked

to read the vertical lettering. If we felt brave, we would

slide the cover out, never removing it all the way

because we were certain our father would know.

Even if we could put it back in the correct slot,

some dust-smear or fingerprint would reveal

our disobedience, the crossing of the imaginary line

between permitted and forbidden, a line that shifted

or vanished entirely at times. The door

was a sliding glass patio door with no patio below,

mocking the way an accident can so quickly

become a tragedy.
--April Salzano

Friday, September 19, 2014

Up All Night

I used to
take advantage of each
second – popping truck stop
Yellow Jackets
just to stay conscious
for another hour.
And, though I shook
with lethal doses of legal uppers
my mind functioned
with a clarity that
I can’t even begin to
Even in hour 72
when the micro-naps
and hallucinated confidants
blurred across my perfect vision,
I was more connected
to life
than I’ll ever be again.

Today’s life is dull,
a reflection
of something so
that I wonder why
I even miss it.
--Jessica Gleason

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Steaming Open Envelopes

“I suppose you heard what happened to Johnny 2 drinks?”

“No, I’ve just got back from Wales, what’s happened?”

“He’s up at City Royal in intensive care, a right mess.
Stevie and Mickey caught him in the kitchen
steaming open the mail with a boiling kettle on Giro Day.
They kicked seven different shades of shit out of him,
he’s in a coma still, gives me the horrors just thinking of it!”

“That doesn’t make any sense, why not just steal the mail
and open it elsewhere, like in the park across the road
or somewhere and then just bin the envelopes afterwards?”

“Well, him and Karen from room 6 had a barney again
and it was her post that he was caught steaming open.
He’s been ranting drunkenly about her seeing another man
for a couple of nights before all this happened.
He tried to tell Stevie and Mickey that he was just
looking for evidence as they were beating him
but of course they were both having none of it at all!”

“But that’s crazy, I think that he’s probably telling the truth!”

“I know but it was Giro Day and it’s the principle of it.
You just can’t go around messing with other peoples envelopes
on Giro Day or there will be bloodshed, everyone knows this.
He’s lucky that Dai Bones was still sleeping or he would
be proper dead and we’d all have another funeral to go to!”

--Paul Tristram

Saturday, September 13, 2014

You've got your pretty punk girlfriend

You've got your pretty punk girlfriend.
I've sold out.
I'm everything that you used to be.
I'm everything that I used to hate.
Idiots guzzling beer,
what's the message?
There is no message, man.
Rape your country.
Kill your Indian.
Buy a new car.
You've got your pretty punk girlfriend.
I've sold out.
Your band is the hit at The Whiskey A Go Go.
--Mikel K

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

mad world

the old year unfolds for me
like a shit-stained rose
and on the elevated d train
i look into blue homes
at the debris of humankind
at the playpens of screaming children
and television sets
the empty couches and soiled beds
the families huddled over dinner
over gadgets that offer them better than flesh
their only true hope to rise tomorrow
and once again say hello to the cancerous sun
i watch this
and i think of myself as a mad youth
in college student unions of my dirty memory
writing mad words
meant to take over this mad world
and failing
having it arrive too late
to truly save the gray man looking back at me
in the subway window
who once challenged himself
to be immortal
but will now have to settle
for being just like
--John Grochalski

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

They Lack A Fundamental Understanding Of Physics

He speaks of the (im)possibility
of love: something almost like time
travel: i.e., theoretical: i.e.,
accessible to alien creatures
he can’t (won’t) understand.
She says, “I’m no scientist,”
which means, “We’re the same,” which
means, “Let’s find the fourth
dimension together,” which means,
“I can prove you wrong & you’ll
like it when I do.”
He shakes his head, admits
telescopes scare him as much
as microscopes = observation frightens
him = the fear of change.
She sighs. Δ is how she lives
her life, lest she should turn
supernova & throw her own self
out of orbit, suck them both
into a black hole.

--Caitlin Johnson

Monday, February 24, 2014

Dear Universe

cheers for all
the fucking holes

there’s not much left
for you to stab

--Rob Plath

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Acrid Homes

Drips into
metal pans

The smell
fully scrubbed

The staunch memories
of flophouse
hit me

of drugs I’ve never

And I wonder if
the 9-5 conformity
was ever worth
the sacrifice
of always
a cheap
and a free
from some
punk laid
out on
a love-stained

This contributive camaraderie
never as tight
as the
warm embrace
of a one-shoed
wearing a
Dorothy dress
and dreaming
the next day.

The paint always
peels, bubbles away from
the wall

of roof-water


--Jessica Gleason