Friday, November 29, 2013

Cemetery Poem (for my love)

Michy McDannold

Cemetery Poem (for my love)

i'm sitting here at the 
talking to myself
i think i'll probably
be here awhile
be doing this
wondering all along
if it will be enough

this is where i go
when none of it makes sense
just so you know

where it is quiet
my mind quiets
there is some sort of peace
in the finality

i think of papa
his letters
sent home while
out on the river
or out to sea
for months
and months on end
starting the letter, stopping
and beginning again
if only a sentence or two
in between the work
that keeps him away

how he called her
my love
and still she
drank just a little too much
a little too often

all this i learn from old letters
see in yellowed photographs

how she stared off-center
with a sadness around
the eyes
only laughing in the
photo when
he's seated next to her
and all those years
since she died
he lived on, puttering
through life

i wonder if he
pretended she was there
for the rest of it
for the baseball games
over the radio
the mornings in the garden
the looking out over
what does it matter

today on duncan ave
in diamond grove cemetery
it does not matter
i talk to myself
i will lie down in the
earth by myself
search for you in the next
and hope 
it will be easier

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Bury Gun Loving Jesus / Force Fed Doom / Her hot wet pink diamond

Matthew Sradeja lives in Toledo,Ohio with his wife and one cat. He has worked in the glass and the automotive industries. You can find a few of his poems on the internet at Red Fez, Full of Crow, CFDL, rusty truck and here at ppigpenn

Bury Gun Loving Jesus

Anyone from anywhere
Can create an image
Of the whipped and beaten
Gun loving Jesus
Hanging on the cross
Head lowered under the weight
Of that crown of thorns
And his long hippy hair
Caked with sweat and blood
Dried and baking under the setting sun
Sinewy muscled gun loving Jesus
Up on the cross waiting to die
Everyone from everywhere
Has seen this scene
Gun loving Jesus’ body
Starving covered in runnels
Of spit, blood, and sweat
Speared in the heart
Bleeding out
Dead and gross
Although for our sanity
Everyone from everywhere
Always puts gun loving Jesus
In a diaper a filthy rag
A plague infested rag
The type of garment that
The Pilgrims will later give
To the Native Americans
To spread the small pox
Sure that must be it
Gun loving Jesus
On his death cross
With undies full of
Indian slaughtering germs
I had been so whimsically
Uninformed before
In my ignorance I was certain
That someone from somewhere
Was a gun loving Jesus censor
Protecting us from 
Gun loving Jesus’ shriveled up
Cock looking as dried up as
Earthworm on a hot sidewalk
No one from no place wants
To see that
But, I love gun loving Jesus
He gave me a bazooka in my pants

Force Fed Doom

So much doom
Not enough “DO!”
Boom! Mushroom cloud
Napalm slash
Here comes the burn
Anthrax scare
Poorly planned
Oil rig crash
Too much Boom!
Not enough food
Hunger doom
Human drool
Worship cheeseburger
Cook power sandwich
Chocolate flavored
Meat honey
I the walrus eating
Yoda and a bare bunny butt too!
Repulsive but I ate it
Nom, Nom, Nom!

Her hot wet pink diamond
The holiest of holes
The real family jewel
Her hot wet pink diamond

Sunday, November 24, 2013

10 Questions

Alexis Rhone Fancher

1. Where do you live, city & country or state? Los Angeles, CA

2. From your country what is the most unusual food you like, that most foreigners would hate? Raw oysters.

3.  If you had to live in any country besides yours, what would be your favorite & least favorite, in that order? New Zealand/any Arabic Country, ditto Middle East

4. If you were stranded naked on a deserted island & were allowed one thing, what would it be? (no transportation allowed) Neosporin

5.  If you could only choose one book as your favorite, what would it be? Donna Tartt’s The Secret History

6. If you could have a conversation with anyone, dead & alive, who would it be, in that order? Dead: my mother. Alive: Natalie Diaz

7. If you could have sex with anyone, dead & alive, who would it be, in that order? Dead: Marcello Mastroianni, Alive: Catherine Deneuve.

8. What is your favorite movie & television show, in that order? Movie: Crimes & Misdemeanors. TV Show: Dexter

9. If you could only have one super power, what would it be? the ability to fly.

10. If you found a magic lamp & got three wishes, what would they be? Perfect Health. Longevity. Whirled Peas.


An Erasure Poem from 
To Fuck With Love, by Lenore Kandel

by Alexis Rhone Fancher

To fuck, with all the heat and wild of fuck
all my secrets and my alibis burned
the sweetness UNENDURABLE.

We touched, transfixed
the energy indescribable.
The balance of forces

And it reeks of lust, of erotic angels and
their insatiable joy over
the lust 
the lust
doing inconceivable things to each other
our bodies wet and burning.

I have whispered love into every orifice of your body
As you have done to me
the energy almost unendurable

at night sometimes I see our bodies glow.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Lost Highway / And now she goes by some other name

Michele McDannold has an extensive collection of flannel and rubber chicken heads. She is the editor/publisher of Citizens for Decent Literature, a project of The Literary Underground.

Lost Highway

this is the straight to hell version
your mother warned you about
an addiction
that you will serve
right up to the bitter end
when things have gone awry
many, many miles back

the top left open
the controls unmanned
one hour
in a roadside motel
at noon

there was a secret compartment
in the floor
off to the corner
where the carpet
was clearly cut

the place is clean
i'll give it that

the man at check-out
hands me a goofy smile
with a comment card
"everything okay?"
he asks
in his broken english

pausing too long
a moment here
could be disastrous
"yes, just fine."

i am on the lost highway
no cell reception
no rest stops
no one asking the wrong questions
and only one
thought --

And now she goes by some other name

trina was the skinniest girl i had ever seen
hip bones sticking out
pale, yellowish skin
and terrible hair
she had a kindness
a mystical way about her
that was captivating

for a while
she was wiccan
a couple times a buddhist
always with the tarot cards

she took me to my first
rocky horror show
we formed a coven
the boys brought flowers
mowed the lawn
wrote poems
sketches, long into the night
acid trips in the park
and no need for explanations

the worst and most harmful
was the multiple personality disorder
i never did believe it

it didn't really matter
after the third abortion
when she told me
"i went into the bathroom
when he was done.
took the condom out of the trash
and shoved it up there."

one could fairly say
her mind broke then
in some abortion clinic
out west
where he held her hand
watching the light fade
right out of her

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Times like this

Subhankar Das

Times like this
Typing in a mobile device
is always so easy
when you have only
one eye working.
Because you can move the device
as close to the working eye
as you want,
while peeing, in half sleep,
fantasizing of a sexy babe
with wild red fire for hair.
Actually you do not have to
move your fucking eye
towards your computer screen
at all the creepy angles as possible
for a better view,
like you do
when you try to put it in sometimes
in a waiting hungry juicy pussy
that poor sad limp dick
of yours who does not want to listen to you.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Coming out to Bacon / Dance / The sinking / Hey, Sinclair! / Recharge

Gary Cummiskey

Gary Cummiskey is a South African poet and publisher living in Johannesburg. He is the editor of Dye Hard Press, which he started in 1994. He is the author of several poetry chapbooks, most recently Sky Dreaming (Graffiti Kolkata, India, 2011) and I Remain Indoors
(Tearoom Books, Stockholm, 2013). In 2009, he published Who was Sinclair Beiles? a collection of writings about the South African Beat poet, co-edited with Eva Kowalska.  His debut collection of short fiction, Off-ramp, was published in October 2013. 

Coming out to Bacon

What are you planning
to do, suddenly
announce to the whole
world you've turned
He stared hard
at the torn face
in the mirror.


The families dance
in a circle.
They are naked – the
brothers and sisters
and even the
ageing parents.
It’s difficult to tell
whether they belong in
a colourful Matisse
or a hell by Bosch.

The sinking
I put my hand in the bath and the water turns black. The doctor caresses my foot as she asks about the mining disaster. I know nothing about it, I know only about the torpedoed ship, the old ones who drowned and the aborted four-hour epic devoted to the event.
It’s true my name appeared in a book of poetry published in 1936.

Hey, Sinclair!

There is a lost poem
By sinclair beiles which
When read aloud
Comes alive
And moves like
A lawnmower.
You stroll into the next room
and lay on the floor naked.


I keep my cellphone
on the bedside table
at nights, that's when
I recharge it and read for an
hour before lights out
or write in my journal, do
some drawing, take
pills, or write poems.
I prefer taking pills to
writing poems these days,
it's more productive
and my cellphone recharges
while I sleep.