Scud
14 October 2024
Wax Paper, by Pravasan Pillay
10 October 2024
Four Poems by Mark Young
a small gazetteer for harry k stammer
It is a bipolar re-
ordering, unencom-
passed by direction.
South is elsewhen —
places you came
from, been, are.
North is the point
you move towards.
Bosch's oranges,
dreaming giraffes.
re: verse
rage road
unseen sight
example shining
mail express
paper daily
charge static
card credit
merchant dream
stones rolling
pot chimney
fire open
cabin holiday
shave close
fight title
water open
pole south
chapter final
sequins / sequence
appear
fruit
of the
loom
the punched card
programmed
loom
the fruit
of
Joseph Marie Jacquard
who was
the apple of
Babbage's
eye
lum-
inary
for
Turing
enigma
Badiou’s Bad IOU Blues
aka A line from Alain Badiou
The word as notion. Love is.
Don't the moon look lonesome
shining through the trees? Who
does Badiou owe? Why does he
wish to pay them back? Noun as
an oddment, the minimal form of
communism. 33 words unscram-
bled from the letters in NOTION.
Sent for you yesterday & here you
come today. What is the reason
for his ill will & when did it come
about? Evil is the interruption of
a truth. Can it be comprehended
through listening &/or reading?
How will he achieve his desires?
What use user avatar or wiki user?
26 September 2024
Two Poems by John Grey
Noise won’t leave me alone.
I step outside and I’m suddenly
in the belly of a drum.
Sounds thump and deafen
and I’m a small boy again
at some rock and roll concert.
Or I walk into a bar
where there’s this band playing.
I order a drink
but the bartender can’t hear me
over the cacophony.
I go thirsty until the set ends.
It doesn’t end.
I’m out on the street
and every passing car
is booming whatever it takes
to burst my ear drum.
Some gang defends their turf
with a knee to my groin
and a mix-tape implanted
in my head.
I stumble home
just as storm rolls in,
no thunder,
just a Ginger Baker solo
from somewhere in the heavens.
I crawl under the blankets
with my hands pressed hard
against the sides of my head.
But my temples are pigskin.
My fingers don’t miss a beat.
ONE GOOD PRESENCE DESERVES ANOTHER
His face is marble.
You peer in his eyes.
They're marble too.
There's no way to waken
the hermit in his cave of a head.
He can't recognize you
let alone
laugh at your jokes,
or praise you
for all you've done in life.
But he does eat
what they put before him.
A nibble here.
a nibble there.
Like a sparrow
rather than a vulture.
So, apparently,
he's invested in
prolonging his existence.
His expressions just haven't
caught up in that emotion.
They're still back there
in that "nobody cares
if I live or die" routine.
You sit beside him,
hand resting on his withered arm.
You feel like one more
of those tubes
delivering fuel
to his laggard bloodstream.
You're not ashamed of his
being in this state.
But there's nothing
to celebrate either.
His body has discharged
all that you remember.
You have to love
what's left.
Or you don't know
what you're doing here.
Just like him.
16 September 2024
13 Poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh
Suck my death
an unborn kitten is knocking at the church of a torn belly
the future flows like sperm from the wall of the gateway
my dead lover gets stuck in my throat where his cock used to hide during
blowjob
I dream of having my throat fucked by a nuclear bomb
I dream in my dreams that instead of a strap-on a hydrogen bomb will stick out
of my ass
I know that god will not pour anything into my balls during a handjob
mosquitoes and military pilots meanwhile fly towards the scent of blood
not a single military man gave me flowers
only somewhere in the dark a muscular sergeant said: hey fag suck my dick
like before death
what if the ammunition depot where I'm already being fucked by a group
of soldiers will explode from the fact that I'm so hot and sexy
suddenly I will destroy the army and piss all the military factories
with my blood
suddenly I really will be fucked in a minute by the last soldier in the history
of mankind
in the meantime they fuck me in all the cracks and call me a fag
I wonder if the soldiers have wives
I wonder how many lovers smeared the mouths of soldiers' wives with sperm
I wonder how many soldiers kissed their wives on the lips after that
I wonder how many nuclear bombs are produced in secrecy
I would like to grow longer hair and dye it blonde
the truth is hidden in the details of my anus
god fuck us all with your voice
we are tired of the silence of the red buttons
after which a nuclear explosion will follow
after fucking a new nuclear bomb will be born in me [?]
Brown town
In the heart of earthy hues,
Brown town,
A needle threads life's tapestry,
Brown town,
A need, a yearning palpable.
People encircle, form clay figures,
Silent echoes of existence,
Seated, molded by time's unseen hands.
Within, dwell stories untold,
Brown town,
Clay figures poised in quiet contemplation,
Sculpted reflections of shared moments.
Basement
Human is the basement of the toilet room
Tenement maze of history and stories
No animal in the world has ever died for its cage before
No animal has invented aerial bombs
my lover asked
my lover asked me when i first saw porn
it would be better if he asked something simpler, like how many times
we quarrel with my husband
(sometimes it seems to me that love is too abstract a word for our painfully
non-abstract world)
my lover finally pissed me off when he started talking about the non-binary
nature of human nature
- I call you bitch to suck and not destroy our homosexual intimacy
with the philosophy, fag, - I said to my lover while he turned into a statue
my lover is a beautiful antique statue but alas the statues don't have blood
my professional skills as a bloodsucker are now in question
my lover its: not reacted to my bites and slaps for a day
it seems to me that he sailed away into the cast-iron tunnel of the night
it seems to me that my lover dreams of flowers in ball gowns
and without graves
death knocked on the back of the room and asked: whose house is this?
and this ruined house is now a ruin
the anti-missile installation of the heart has failed
the night in the eyes of my dead dead man will no longer dissolve
even explosions won't wake my lover
red sky like a bud revealed death
god's assistant pressed the wrong button again
аll in vain
We
Free
Freends
Friends
French fries
With self burger
We distance
We running
Running away from each other
vegetable garden
my body is a vegetable garden in which nothing grows
we're all hungry without the smell of fresh meat and cum
generals fuck tomorrow's dead for free saving on prostitutes
sun umbrellas and winter sleighs are in vain
warning
a storm warning
the butterflies in my stomach
announced the summer plan to intercept
15 September 2024
Two Poems by Vern Fein
Our leaders sword fight with nuclear bombs,
sling arrows laden with bio poison.
We have progressed to lethal injections
from stone axes. The pendulum
swings in one direction,
higher and higher till all dead.
Some dress well, reside in mansions,
scoot around in fancy cars, dine gourmet,
wine themselves, but infantile,
ODE TO MABEL'S BLACK LABEL
You are gone, my brew,
along with whistling at waitresses
by dungareed men
in their favorite bar.
Gone with the others--
Falstaff, Pete's Wicked Ale,
Brown Derby, Red, White and Blue,
to name a few.
But you were my favorite,
braced me through teen years.
I snuck you behind the barn,
when you were not allowed.
As the jingle went:
The premium beer,
at a popular price,
enjoy the best!
I drank you with delight
before you failed me
one hot Florida night,
on that Ft. Lauderdale beach.
Drunk as skunks
and broke as punks,
we staggered into
the store's garish lights.
But not blinded enough,
able to count our change,
gather the $1.30
to buy you Mabel.
Hug your sweaty sides,
as we began to quaff
by the rusty garbage can
on that starlit beach.
Blech! I will never forget.
You tasted like gas.
I retched and coughed
Threw the six pack into the can.
Now older, richer and wiser,
I sip my fancy brews,
remember you as the girl
I left behind so long ago.
Oh, Mabel, such a different time,
an America now gone,
cheap beer the boon and doggle
of all those thirsty men.