(untitled)

(untitled)
by andi kato
Myspace and raw, unsalted butter.
Wine and raw fish.
Adderoll and exercise.
Heroin and positivity.
Pot and unheated honey.
Valium and hiking.
Shrooms and non-smokers.
Vodka and raw eggs.
Ritalin and daily walks.
Hitler and pop rock.
Gin and swimming.
Sex and Einstein.
Dipsomania and AA.
Hydrocodone and probiotics.
Oxycodone and jogging.
Clove cigarettes and mineral water.
Naproxen and meditation.
Concerta and hacky-sacks.
LSD and Kimchee.
Dramamine and steak.
PCP and skateboarding.
LSA and […]

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Bloody Barbie

Bloody Barbie
by christina reed
Daddy
You lied
There is no such thing as happily ever after
I’m a CUNT
A Bitch
Their mother
Our whore
The scholar
You slut
Loose but pure
Big but little
I was born wrapped in pink
And I dread if I die in it
I was what you wanted
What you needed
I do as I’m told
Fold my hands
So nice and neat
Cross my legs
Sit up straight
I’m […]

More on page 492

NO DINNER AND FLOWERS, JUST STALKING

NO DINNER AND FLOWERS, JUST STALKING
by john grey
The telephone rings.
A car cruises by
your apartment.
Another letter arrives.
He’s in the next shopping aisle.
The parking lot
is a hundred of him.
The wall shadows become
a succession of his silhouettes.
He’s every noise,
each chilly brush of wind
against your cheek.
He feels so close some times,
his rancid puffs of breath
ooze out of your mouth.
His […]

More on page 491

happiness

happiness
by louise gluck
A man and a woman lie on a white bed.
It is morning. I think
Soon they will waken.
On the bedside table is a vase
of lilies; sunlight
pools in their throats.
I watch him turn to her
as though to speak her name
but silently, deep in her mouth–
At the window ledge,
once, twice,
a bird calls.
And then she stirs; her […]

More on page 487

headshot

headshot
by diy danna
She submitted her headshot to Vogue,
a bullet wound through the face
courtesy of Adobe PhotoShop 6.0
and the Editor wrote her back:
“Dear Madmoiselle,
You may need to seek professional,
psychiatric help. ”
Her headshot rests on the table
next to the letter in a frame.
She still hasn’t found a place for it.
She glances in the mirror
with mild disapproval of […]

More on page 220

Sex

Sex
by gene defcon
A lifetime of cones
Can never erase the memory
Of that soft pink cylinder
Easing through the waters

More on page 484

boatpaper.

Shannon Baker Comments (0)

boatpaper.
by shannon baker

every
“why i am not someone else”
lifts restlessly unwanted ribs.
the rest are forced to listen.

this
lip of matter
troubles
an expected knot
of spine. fog reflection, greenish
was your father’s eye such is
certain.

bright, the budding fishfarm
neon bathtub in rebirth.

the physical world humiliates.
real people ignore themselves.

vacuum bags, aluminum,
rope hang
almost warbles.

bombs, but very
soft bombs.
also some hundred eggs of milk.

sentient outmotion,
overturned
upside&downlooking.
that is to say,
we sink.

eleemosynary @ May 9, 2008

Applesauce and Brown Sweater in the Morning

Guest Writers Comments (1)


Applesauce and Brown Sweater in the Morning
by nicole kuwik

Garbage trucks
sound like school busses
until they start picking things up but
hearing them
stop
outside your floor-level window
at the dumpster across from your door still
makes you feel like you are missing
something

Editor @ May 8, 2008

Eternity

Guest Writers Comments (1)


Eternity
by mary ferrari

for Kenneth Koch

at the end of every cigarette that burns there is of course
a soft little bright light which means
hope! eternity! so you are not
killing yourself when you
smoke you are preparing for
heaven where the loving lavender
cigarette angels have soft ash wings
or for hell where a flaming cigarette forest makes
a marvelous explosion in which at least you are involved!

Editor @ May 7, 2008

Till the Gardens of Machpelah

Guest Writers Comments (2)

Till the Gardens of Machpelah
by Halifax

Galatians 4:27

Her vacant womb, barren, screams for flesh. A low black fence, bright gilded rail,
squares a yard and bounds the pale.
It aches to swell with blood and water but is answered with soured Muscat wine. Across that, a green field dotted with stone shaded by oaks fed well on bone. Ahead the empty endless future taunts her, dancing with fruitless pleasure. There’s a stone church, with plain front doors, the right wide open for you and yours.Wincing, livid and wild-eyed, she roils like a cornered predator.Within, glass views of biblical fellows, coloring Sunday service in blues and yellows. Hands and claws rake furrows in her own face to quench the hunger, to slake her gut’s first need.Past hard oak pews in columns paired, afflux with red carpet to an altar shared. Black birds on each transom arm lend themselves to her efforts.Under heartwood beams, under a lowercase “t”, in a lit pool of water caustic like a sea,She suffers starving in an indifferent ideal, tied and bound by unwanted care.Old Fire & Brimstone speaks the Name then drenches the alb to quash the flame. Her beauty fades like thick white clouds before a descending rain. Here is the church under stark timbers enjoining rebirth for all the members.
Each life never lived rumbles out of her for denial, “No flesh! No blood! No purpose!”

`Proverbs 8:4 Perfect, stagnant and unchanging, the saccharine garden birds sing to her. The lilt of their song tears through her as lashes on her bare skin. The seeds within her will never know the sweet sound. This knowledge drives her away, to gnash her teeth and rip at her hair to feel pain for them. Her punisher made her a comfort for creation and knows her pain. The devourer of birds, fiery and more beautiful then her, He walks the garden and tells her what not to eat.

` Thomas 9 & 10

Halifax @ May 6, 2008