Category: Poetry

Two Poems by Adam Paxton

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Bang Home The Trifecta!

Watching basketball late at night.
McCollum Bangs home the Trifecta!
A 63 year old man said that.
Colour commentator.
Bangs home the Trifecta!
What a ridiculous thing
For a grown man to say.
I say it’s late at night,
It’s three in the morning,
If we’re being specific.
Slashing, sideways rain
Is whispering to my window
The candles do that dance
They do. Cinnamon incense
Strokes my central nervous
System. Sending smoke rings
Of such size, If I had a basketball
Baby you bet your sweet bippy
I’d Bang home the Trifecta!
I’m high on light-to-medium
Strength semi-synthetic opioids.
I took three of ‘em
And washed it down
With a chamomile tea.

I Banged home the Trifecta!
Is this a ridiculous thing 
For a grown man to do?

Did I Get You?

I keep having these dreams where a giant snake
Bursts out of my best friends arse while he’s shitting
And he shouts for help, so I run to find him there
On the bowl
Legs akimbo, this snake is the girth of, like, 
Brock Lesnar’s fucking neck,
And it unhinges its jaw and out of it
Emerges its true face instead of a tongue.
It’s the face of Draco Malfoy,
From the early films, say, the second one.
Chamber of Secrets. Yeah, with the big snake.
Basilisk. Cool word. Anyway, this thing,
This Draco Malfoy-face, extended like,
What, five feet? Out of my best friends arsehole
I can’t break eye contact with it.
And it just says ‘Scared, Potter?’
Then pauses for a second to sneer at me,
Then suddenly kinda zips back inside my friends arse
Like a deflating balloon or some shit, just
Sucking back up in there with a whistle,
That sounds like ‘hwoot’.
And my friends arse,
It isn’t even prolapsed all to fuck or anything,
My guy must have a really good sphincter.
And he just looks at me and he says
‘Did I get you?’ and raises his eyebrows.
And then the dream ends.
Jung could probably tell me what it all means,
But honestly I just think it’s something 
My best friend would probably do
If he could. If he could source the snake, (tall order)
And Draco Malfoy circa 2002. (fat chance)
Or if he had the flexibility (hasn’t got it in him)
I think he’s got the sphincter for it though.
‘Did I get you?’ Shit yeah dude.
Shit yeah you got me.

Adam Paxton, 28, is from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in England. He is an English & History Undergrad and Creative Writing MA at Newcastle University. He’s unemployed as fuck. He’s writing an autofiction novel provisionally called You Could Be More (but it probably won’t end up called that cause it sounds like a self-help book). He tweetos at @TheSuicideJones.

Signs I’m Spiraling in the Fall Again by Cash Compson

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crying before i’m up in the morning.
driving through the front doors of Costco.
eating every meal at Costco.
69 cent soda upon my 1.29 pizza.
only thing to peel my lips off the chrome behind the car.

thinking about every other October.

every moment already belongs to a moment that once was.

i watch Rob Zombie movies every day
and he only has, like, 5.

i get scared i’ll be mania and sobriety and sexlessness forever.
i get scared i’ve got to do this for 50 more years.
i get scared my mother is going to die like how all the dogs have died.
i write that same thought constantly in these poems because it’s
one of the only ones that linger when i’m fried.
and how all of the people do it. they die.

i call out of work to stand by the water and purgatory myself
for not having the guts to drink all of it.

i’m here only because i was,
because i’ve been.

Cash Compson’s first book of poems, People Scare Me, will be published by House of Vlad Press in February. Follow him on Twitter (@cashcompson) or IG (@cashofcompson) or come find him in the northeast.

3 Poems by Valentina Ale

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if the baddie calls you a baddie you might be a baddie or in my case both me and my micro mini skirt were

he won’t answer my texts in a timely manner.
is this what happens to a bad bitch?

i listen to nirvana scream at me. i am a bad bitch

my bae won’t respond. still, i am a bad bitch.

They probably taste like cigarette butts and Suboxone 

We are at the park
walking the dog 
when 
we see three 
wild turkeys in Staten Island;
Izz Thunders looks at them and says, 
“They probably taste like cigarette butts and Suboxone.”

Typing into the keyboard like a piano player

I sit in the middle of the bench so people can sit on either side of me

Some days I’m alive and mostly I’m dead

Valentina (formerly known as Grapes and Michèlle Salazar) enjoys cotton candy flavored Dippin Dots and Miller High Life beers. She was born October 2, 1990 in NYC to Colombian parents. Her art consists mainly of poetry, fashion and fine art. In her approach she often emphasizes the importance of a d.i.y. ethic. Her forthcoming zine, I’ll Not Contain You, will be self published on Picnic In A Graveyard Press.

mouthfeel by Rudy Johnson

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mouthfeel

i literally kiss the outside of the burger wrapper before i eat
reverent burger prayer
“thanks Obama and daddy for this burger”
bite
flash of drone strikes
bite
sexual arousal
bite
vietnam war that i didn’t fight in
mmmmngg
playing with my dick only semi-ironically
mmm
not sure if it’s hard
bite
eyes closed
Tourrettes tic
bite
(i swallow mostly whole
a huge burger reduced to 5ths)
bite
when i get to three fifths i say “glad i’m not in 17-something africa”
bite
oh god i miss daddy and mommy
bite
Kurt is on in the background
loud
bite
i’m worthless for spending $20 on burgers
mmmmm tho
fuckign kill me Jesus
(don’t kill me, don’t kill me)
breathing shallows
GERD is a ringwraith on horseback
lit by the wan moonlight of an ONN monitor
cresting a gentle hill on my fatbody
i hide in the long shadow of the Precious
black riders draw blades
yum

Rudy Johnson makes dumb games/poems. Rudy is one of the two vultures at Misery Tourism. Rudy wants the intellectual property rights to Fraggle Rock, immediately and without restrictions.

Cuba Studies by Wallace Barker

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Holy Day


i am alone in the world and it has always
been this way bc i have isolated myself
thru years and years of patient efforts
dark wires encircle the globe
i am hiding in an embargoed nation
do you ever dream of a searcher
who will find you in yr hidden place?
at taberna la botija there are slave
implements on the walls as decor
a reminder of the sugar plantations
that first brought wealth to trinidad
the revolution destroyed that wealth
but of course the slaves are gone too
an old man stands at the window
holding cigars he tries to sell
in the santeria temple i left
an offering of 200 pesos to a dark saint
when i emerged from the temple
a crowd had gathered around a street dog
giving birth on a soiled mattress pad
bendito, bendito, bendito


La Distancia

i programmed havana with my dreams
the code is degrading and music is playing
art deco plaster facades crumble into the ocean
i am no longer able to control my environment
we recline in the shade of a beach palapa
in verradero we ate fish and pork
later we drank piña coladas at el mirador
overlooking the bacunayagua bridge
pink plaster is sliding off
my colonial mind into the sea
ppl are standing along the highways
holding pesos in the air
the more money they display
the farther they must go

Vas Bien, Fidel


eating pizza at a sidewalk cafe
along calle teniente rey
i felt a tap on my shoulder
a beggar boy around six or seven
offered to sell me a paper rose
he was shirtless at night in old havana
i declined the rose “no gracias” 
he asked if i would buy a chela
i declined the beer
he asked for a slice of my pizza
a trio of cuban musicians played
bongos and a shrill trumpet
crowds passed on either side of our table
exhausted dancers pantomimed salsa
in hopes of a “regalito” from tourists
i told the boy twice “no tengo nada no tengo nada”
and turned back to my table while
he slipped away into the crowds
i ate my remaining pizza like ashes
then also disappeared into the passing throng

Wallace Barker lives in Austin, Texas. His most recent book Collected Poems 2009-2022 is available from Maximus Books. His debut poetry collection La Serenissima is available from Gob Pile Press. More of his work can be found at wallacebarker.com.

I Have a Gun (Excerpt) by Graham Irvin

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men like guns
for the same reason 
they like cars bikes 
skateboards legos 
buildings computers 
indie music or internet memes 
guns can be broken apart 
infinitely retooled 
constantly made bigger 
better more expensive 
a gun is a task project hobby
studied vanquished conquered 
all men need a project 
manhood is the product 
of obsession
there is no collective 
accepted obvious voyage
men must pick
a hobby and learn 
everything there is to know 

it’s the reason men
defend Woody Allen 
it’s why there’s a dude
at the noise show who scoffs 
when someone says
they listen to Merzbow
it’s why people are afraid 
to enjoy Infinite Jest or Lolita 
or Blood Meridian or whatever
because they’re afraid 
they might look like that guy 
a gun is the same as reading 
Deleuze & Guattari in public
except it’s sometimes used by cops
and soldiers and dictators
and right wing dads
and far left revolutionaries
and sometimes children against children
to extract blood from the bodies
of people who instead got obsessed 
with table top roleplaying games for instance 
a gun is a tonka truck for adults 
a gun is a great second obsession 
for the man who didn’t become 
a hero of his first obsession
sure he’s gone to comic-con 
every year since 2005 
but that doesn’t make money 
and the attendees are getting younger 
their costumes are unrelatable
why would anyone want to pretend 
to be an intergalactic vigilante 
when they could be the real thing or
at least own the thing that makes it real 
a bullet is basically an earth laser
he could imagine anyone’s face 
on those paper targets 
a child actor turned director
the host of a mid tier podcast
any scumbag 22 year old 
by the concessions
all the anime e girls flock to 
no he doesn’t understand what or why 
or how their whole thing works 
it’s just the obviousness with which 
they see him as a non prospect
he just wants to be desired 
a gun is a distraction a fantasy 
a way to hold the potential for death 
and still fiddle with cosmetic modifications
magwells night sights trigger connectors
handle grip inlays plastic wood grain pearl 
a gun is a sport about death 
men never have to play 
it’s protection from an opponent 
they never have to face because
they’ve always got their gun 
and no one fucks with an armed man

Graham Irvin lives in Philadelphia. His writing can be found at Hobart, HAD, Apocalypse Confidential, Joyland, The Nervous Breakdown, and/or Misery Tourism. His book Liver Mush is available at http://flatdogdistro.bigcartel.com.

3 Poems by Cletus Crow

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SEASONAL ALLERGIES

Asshole arborists 
mostly plant male trees. 
Population management:
because life can’t happen
without paper work.
The trees are horny.
They pollinate my eyes. 
Yellow cum covers my car
and everything else.
Someone drew a smiley face 
on the windshield.
Someone drew a penis.
Someone wrote “I love you”
on both headlights.

IDEATION 

They should invent true happiness. 
You feel nothing
perched on the Cliffs of Moher
beside the beige tourist. 
They should make a way to jump
without dying
so you can feel air through your fur.
They should put that feeling 
in a syringe,
but you feel like falling for real,
so they should invent God 
or some massive net. 
You feel yourself step forward.
They should let you do it,
but no one wants to ruin the moment.
There are kids here. 
You’re sorry for their open eyes.

SLEEPOVER

I propose a dick measuring contest.
The loser must strip
completely naked
and run once around the block.
Mark grips his tighty-whitey waistband
like an elastic noose.
What are you gay Mark I ask.
Everyone laughs. I almost feel sad.
He shuts his eyes drops pants
and it’s the biggest penis
I’ve ever seen
except for pornography.
Your turn asshole Mark says seething.
The foggy twilight
cools my erection like a snake
on some moss slick boulder.

Cletus Crow is a writer from Middle Tennessee. He has a chapbook with Gob Pile Press.

‘Dying as a Habit of Expansion’ by Lucas Restivo

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I’m about to reach max saturation 
Turn completely spherical 
Leave a slug trail when I roll 


At first it’s frightening
Feeling more and less of different intervals and levels


Then it’s exhausting and awful
Then you get used to it


Still I bet you this
One day you’re out somewhere maybe the park 
You bump into someone you haven’t seen in awhile 
Between the how longs and now what’s they say something 
Maybe the time you puked in geography
Or marital problems
Or trees smell like antique cardboard 

Continue reading “‘Dying as a Habit of Expansion’ by Lucas Restivo” →

“Venom Stained Band-Aid” by Nate Hoil

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When you roughed up the snake charmer
you forgot about the snake
and got bit. 
Don’t worry I will bring a hammer. 
When I get there I will bring the hammer down. 
For now keep one eye on the snake and
one eye on your swelling venom filled blood vessels. 
Today started with such up-tempo preparation 
drinking coffee standing up
thinking you could walk into anywhere 
and talk them into hiring you full time, 
thinking you were headed towards an X marked 
treasure chest. 
Soon after, the day revealed its
inability to send positive plotlines your way. 
I even heard 911 left a voicemail message 
word for word imitating 
a voicemail message you left them 
proving you are a cotton candy brain. 
You’ve probably got soft fluffy bunnies 
in your picture book. 
I get bundled up indoors and go outdoors.
One week into January 
I am disintegrated and reconstructed 
into a bag of frozen vegetables.
I cartwheel over moving traffic headed your way. 
When I get there you are dead and
the snake is gone.
The charmer sees the snake in his dreams.