Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Attention to Detail / Supernatural / I'm No Green Thumb

Aleathia Drehmer

Attention to Detail

 I step in a puddle
on the bathroom floor,
a wet reminder
of finding him washing
his cock in the sink after sex.

I had opened the door
thinking he had started
the shower and caught him mid rinse.

There was something comforting
about his attention to detail,
to his OCD, that made me
love him more.

He smiled at me
knowing I understood; 
     knowing that is all
each of us ever
need out of life.


I have always been jealous
of people whose craft
materialized from thin air
while mine lay dormant,
waiting for a flutter of experience
to nail it down.

Tonight in a flurry of passion,
books fell to the ground
amidst the grunts and moaning. 

The hunger insatiable. 

The air thicker than silent death
and I forgot about their frivolous rhetoric,
and how all my poems needed a root
from which to grow.

We are all fused together
by sweat
and ether
and chance.

I’m No Green Thumb

 Half in the closet
my body is resected
in the past and present,
watching you sort
the musical history
of your life.

 I will never fully know
you like this.  I will learn
to piece you together
with stories told
in all our waking moments.

 I feel like a gardener
tending to our crops,
fresh new shoots
and turned soil,
with rocks and aphids
always threatening the balance.



Sunday, October 27, 2013


Alexis Rhone Fancher

Find Alexis Rhone Fancher’s work in The MacGuffin, Rattle, Fjords Review, BoySlut, High Coupe, Gutter Eloquence, Good Men Project, Bare Hands, Poetry Super Highway, numerous anthologies, and elsewhere. Her photographs, published world-wide, include the covers of Witness and The Mas Tequila Review. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013, she is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly.

LET'S BE HAPPY NOW! (Originally published in The Mas Tequila Review 2012)

Danny looks at me, the way

they all do:

lust-eyes. He waylays me in the

bathroom, hairy arms suddenly

around my waist.

“I heard U fucking Mickey last night,”

he says, “heard U cry out,

& no, no

it wasnʼt a cat but it yowled,

U yowled and my dick got hard, baby.

U know U want it. Deny it & Iʼll call U a

fucking liar.

I donʼt care who we hurt!

Letʼs be happy now!”

I confess,

his recklessness holds a certain allure,

& then Iʼm fuckinʼ him real high &

hard, up against the sink in the

bathroom, with his soon-to-be

wife just outside,

ear pressed against the door.

Not the marrying kind.

Iʼm the fucking kind.

The lewd lingerie kind.

The girl you

bring home for the


not to meet the family kind.

The dirty little secret,

the girl you jack off to after your


goes to sleep.

The one you think about

so you can get it up with the

old lady,

year after year,

decade after dreary

decade. The one you wish youʼd married

& youʼd be happy now,

happy now, so very happy,


POLAROID SX70 LAND CAMERA (Originally published in Downer Magazine, 2012/also in Cultural Weekly, 2012)

There’s a reckless streak in me I can’t control. It makes me do dangerous things. I know it’s wrong, but I always fail—no willpower at all. The thing about Wayne, I tried to keep my distance, but he was hot, sexy in a middle-aged sort of way. He reminded me of some of my father’s friends. I thought we were kindred spirits. 

“I dream about you at night,” he said, his voice husky, low. His breath smelled like clove gum and cigarettes. “I dream you do everything I tell you.” He stepped into the small office in the back, came back with a Polaroid SX70, smiled and handed me the camera. “I want you to go into my office, pull down your panties, spread your legs and shoot a photo for me. You know what I want. Something really hot.” 

The phone rang. He picked it up. “Wayne’s Volkswagen Repair.” He turned back to me, leering. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said.

I sat on the cold metal stool at the counter, legs crossed, black skirt riding up my thighs. It was a long way from Shangri La. Fenders and transmissions littered the floor, tools hung on pegs nailed into the walls, and half-rebuilt engines balanced on benches and worktops. Every surface was covered with a layer of greasy dust that mingled with Wayne’s ever-present cigarette and made the air heavy and hard to breathe. What was it about these sleazy places? I felt sick. My stomach bottomed out with that familiar, crazy swirling. Sickening, but I still craved it. Bad girl with a bad habit. Very, very bad.

I clutched the camera, watched the dust particles swirl in the light shafts from the open door. I could leave, follow the light right out to Lakewood Blvd. Get away this time, before I got in past my depth. Instead I looked inside to where the light ended, where it spotlighted the Rigid Tool calendar with a naked “Miss July” hanging in the place of honor behind the cash register. Someone had given her a mustache. My head hurt from the loud banging, rhythmic, like a clock striking, going all the time. Wayne’s two Mexicans pounded metal out back, competing with 40 mph traffic on the street. The Golden Oldies station blared out the hits.

I couldn’t hear myself think except to think that Wayne was waiting for an answer. To think that I should get out now, be that lady my mother raised me to be. Cold hands. Cold heart. My mother. I could never tell her, she’d never understand about this. About why I do this. Over and over! About how crazy I get around the wrong kind of man, a man like Wayne, so crazy when he smoothed his black hair back from his face and wiped the sweat on his greasy jeans. Slumming, that’s what she’d call it.

But me, I never listened, I was too busy dreaming about how his blue work shirt was half unbuttoned. I could see the thick hair on his chest and the pocket of his shirt that said “Wayne” in big red letters. Crazy for his smell—his hands—big hands, calloused, black in the creases. I wondered what they’d feel like on my skin. I wondered what he meant by “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Wayne looked right at me as he hung up the phone. “Well,” he said. “What’s it gonna be?”

Thursday, October 24, 2013


Alexis Rhone Fancher

Find Alexis Rhone Fancher’s work in The MacGuffin, Rattle, Fjords Review, BoySlut, High Coupe, Gutter Eloquence, Good Men Project, Bare Hands, Poetry Super Highway, numerous anthologies, and elsewhere. Her photographs, published world-wide, include the covers of Witness and The Mas Tequila Review. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013, she is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly.

MAYONNAISE - (Published originally in Gutter Eloquence Magazine)

the lotion spurts out of the bottle like mayonnaise,

like your thick white cum shoots between my breasts & across

my face.

it’s good for the complexion, you say.

I rub it in. lick the alabaster bitter from my



never enough times will I lie with you here, ocean’s cool wafting from

the half-cracked window,

Etta James crooning from those high-end

speakers, the air like

jasmine, and me, open mouthed, ready, today’s blue plate

special, all smooth & creamy; calibrated for your dining


A toast, my precious darling: I give you mine.

you give me yours. mingled.

melded into mmmmmmmmmmm.

our penis, our balls, our succulent breasts, our absolutely famished





LOVE SONG FOR MY BABY (originally published in The Mas Tequila Review, 2012)


If I could catch my breath I’d suck your cock but I’m so overcome by your studly chest,

your hairy thighs, your endearingly bony knees that I’m afraid I’d choke on it. Anyway,

forget the preliminaries, I just want to jump your bones, throw a saddle over your rump 

and ride, pony, ride. I want to blog on your biceps, write erotica on your elbows, I want

to tattoo my memoirs on your ass. I want to lead you out of the stable, trot you around, 

give you your head, then rein you in. I want you to taste the bit in your mouth, and have 

it taste sweet like Tic Tacs, like summer time, like ginger-ale. Just like you taste to me. I 

want to corral you in my arms, cavort in the moonlight, dos si dos with the best of ‘em. 

I could put you on the stage in Tijuana. That donkey’s dick’s got nothing on you, babe. 

Nada. Niet. Rien. My very own John Holmes. I woke yesterday in a pool of you and me.

Your lips fastened on my pussy, your hot breath steaming up my thighs. You were 

humming the theme from Dr. Zhivago and the dark buzz made my clitty hard like a 

little dick. So kiss me already, and then let’s stick it in, this is L.A. for Chrissakes, 

and the livin’ is on the beach, on the fly, on the installment plan. Do ya wanna

know how I see it? Each of us teeters on the totter, a paycheck away from homeless, 

from ruin, just one pitch away from a shut-out, one sweet fuck away from the end.  





HAPPY DICK - A 100 Word Story (Originally published in 100-Word Stories, 2013)

I fell hard for Johnny Carvello. Dagos got me wet. He preferred strippers, ringside tables, hand on crotch, watching them work the pole. Called it “happy dick.” We were the perfect pair, the ex-Mafioso and the car crash cripple. Both, second rate goods. He had a thing for my still-perfect feet, bathed them in rosewater, sucked the toes, jacked himself off all over them. He’d pose me naked, on the bed, do tai chi by candlelight, his eyes on mine. Months into it when he tried to fuck me, I broke it off. The relationship, not the dick.





I WANT LOUBOUTIN HEELS (Originally published in BoySlut, 2013)


I want Louboutin

heels with those trademark red soles,

I want them sexy, I want them high, I  

want to wear them out of the store, just 

you try and stop me.  


I want them slingback and peep-toed  

so I can flash the purple polish  

on my tootsies. I want to wow them on  

Washington, saunter past C&O Trattoria   

and Nick’s Liquor Mart, those bottles of Stoli 

stacked in the window, calling my name, past the  

summer-clad tourists in December, shivering,   

barefoot, like LA has no winter. 


In those shoes I’m hot,   

stop-a-truck hot, prettiest  

girl in school hot, and this 

time, I know it.  

Flaunt it. Hell, I own it. In those shoes I can   

pick and choose, not settle for some loser.   

Not drink away regrets, pound back Stoli at   

Chez Jay’s, flash their scarlet bottoms when I kneel.  


I’ll wear them like my own flesh, 

like hooves, like sin.

I’ll keep their secrets, won’t spill 

where they’ve been.


Better those shoes with their lurid soles 

than you with yours. 

Friday, October 18, 2013

Pink Gladiators

David S. Pointer has a new poetry book entitled “Oncoming Crime Facts” available through He has work in many new anthologies including the Bukowski anthology at Silver Birch Press” and Cellar Door” anthology.

Pink Gladiators

At the open model
call for lady mud
wrestlers with
bitable flesh the
bartender told them
to wear wet tee-
shirts, but they
peeled them off
to strangle all
comers even
donkey punching
men before any
could occur



Monday, October 14, 2013

Bloody Mary

Tony Pena


I have had things published online in  Red Fez, Full of Crow, Gutter Eloquence, Underground Voices and Zygote in my coffee. I also have posted some poems and songs at


Bloody Mary


Baby blue July morning

brunch at the boathouse

thirty years after graduating

high school and armed with pieces

of little girl dreams that managed

to find bits of truth here and there.

Mostly material, maternal and manic.


Great to see the gals again and drink

something fancier than kamikazes,

Alabama slammers and PBR

drafts of days gone by so fuck

Eggs Benedict and Belgian waffles,

this morning's all about reliving

the glorious days of youth.


Gloating about her housekeepers,

her golf game and what a good fuck

the house pro is for somebody

with broken dreams and a small dick.

And the poor Mexican bus boys

can't keep up with the empty glasses

and the fat bartender with the bad

toupee might be fuckable so long as

she's on top and she can wipe her cunt

with his wig when she comes.


And the girls start with their excuses

for snipping the soiree in the bud

so she makes a big show of paying

the five hundred dollar tab,

blowing kisses like a red carpet

starlet and stumbling

into the arms of the valet,

Frenching him in lieu of tip

before taking the keys

to this year's BMW and away

she goes zig zagging and scouting

the drag for one more for the road.


“Fuck this dry town Sunday shit,

talk to me, Siri, find me a bar

on what's this road called,

what the fuck is this road called,

where's my Madonna cd,

the one with 'Like a virgin' on it,

what the fuck is this road called,

where's my gum in this damn purse,

what the fuck is this road called,

what the fuck are these people

doing on my fucking . . .”


Flames burning a family

of five alive on their way

to Six Flags for summer fun.

Mary puking liquor and excuses

on any cop who might listen,

batting eye lashes

but only fanning

the fires of hell.


Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Making it up

Subhankar Das

Poet,Producer,Publisher of Bangla experimental stuff.Produced 6 short films with more than 16 international film festival fame and appreciation.Has 16 published books of Bangla and English poetry.Translator Of Allen Ginsberg’s poems and Charles Bukowski’s poems in Bangla.Book Store owner. Associated with Graffiti Kolkata. Planning a new joint chap book of poetry with Catfish Mcdaris.

 Making it up

I was trying to make this poem

playing with a page of words

and laughed to find this tough dic

wetting his toilet seat while peeing.

Though he aimed it all right

but failed as we all do.


At least he followed the norms

mopping it up with a piece of toilet paper.

I seldom do so,

either it dries up by itself

or else I curse myself while crapping.


I only clean my toilet once a week

the day my girl friend visits me

for that weekly fuck. 



Monday, October 7, 2013

No Good / Stuck in Christmas Past

Conrad Schafman is from Houston, Texas.

No Good

“You’re no good for me.”

she laments with a smile

as I roll off of her,

huffing and puffing

like the big bad wolf, naked

except for the sheep’s clothing.


She’s right, though, I’m no good.

Her caked make-up turns to dust

at the corners of her mouth

where her smile used to reach,

eyes searching for a reason to leave.

No good. The feeling is mutual.


I should’ve cut myself loose,

caught that flight back to New York

and left all this squalor behind.

Her longing hands took mine, pulling

me back to her under the guise of romance.

I was in love until the boredom hit.


The Kitchen is filthy.

I can hear her packing up as I snatch

a glass from the cabinet, ice cubes clinking

against the crystal, muffling

the clip-clop of her high heels.

The whiskey drowns the ice cubes,

crackling like an extinguished fire

as they break down to water.


Time to say goodbye.

I walk past the mirror

and catch a glimpse of Charles Bukowski

smiling back at me, yellowed teeth

and weathered skin giving me a wink,

content to chase the unattainable.

I raise my glass and toast

the disheveled man in the mirror.

He’s not as despicable as I remember.


Stuck in Christmas Past

Each detail of your memory haunts my subconscious.

The ghost of your voice, soft, tender, and tragic,

echoes off the walls in my mind.

The smell of your mango detergent,

a ghost clinging to the threads of the quilt

you sewed for me with your bare hands.


The ghost of your figure,

tight jeans scaling the mountain of your legs,

smooth and gracious as silk as you wiggle

until they reach the summit’s tippy-top,

finally coming to rest when the jeans drop anchor,

floating at peace adrift your lower back,

stretching at the seams to shroud your salacious,

magnetic hips from the eyes of less worthy men.


The ghost of your warm skin against mine,

shoulder blades resting on my chest,

sopping up the beads of sweat running down your neck,

fueling the fire started by the spark

of your body’s sugary friction

against mine on freezing winter nights.


I dream of these sensations every night,

waking up caressing the ghost of your memory,

whispering to the past,

and I know I was alive,

at least for a little while.



Sunday, October 6, 2013

Catfish talking trash on the airwaves (from Michy McDannold)

mornin' Cat,

the episode with your interview is a BlogTalk Radio staff pick today which means it is listed as "today's best episodes" on the front page of blogtalk and sent out in notification emails like this one i'm forwarding. :)

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: BlogTalkRadio Today <>
Sent: Sunday, October 6, 2013 5:42 AM
Subject: Top picks for redfez: Playing Violin with Lady Gaga

5 shows you may like: Playing Violin with Lady Gaga, Poet Catfish McDaris, Hollywood Studio Exec David Picker, Actress Christian Pitre, Roundtable Sports Debate

October 06, 2013

Hi redfez,

Our best shows picked just for you
See More

Playing Violin with Lady Gaga

By Cheval John in Music
Violinist Judy Kang discusses playing on stage for Lady Gaga on her "Monster Ball" tour.
Listen Now »

Poet Catfish McDaris

By theliteraryunderground in Entertainment
Published poet Catfish McDaris talks about his work, and showcases some new writing.
Listen Now »

Hollywood Studio Exec David Picker

By Milling About in Entertainment
Veteran Hollywood executive David Picker discusses his book "Musts, Maybes And Nevers," an inside look at movies like "James Bond" and Beatles film "A Hard Days Night."
Listen Now »

Actress Christian Pitre

By Those Diner n Motorcycle Guys in Lifestyle
Actress Christian Pitre discusses her new movie, the highly anticipated "Bounty Killer."
Listen Now »

Roundtable Sports Debate

By TSCRN in Sports
Guest sports writers and analysts from across the country discuss the latest sports news stories.
Listen Now »

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