Retro videos of group sex

by Eli Halpern


Mike "when you got off the elevator
and said see you later........ i never thought
that later would mean 'in heaven'..."

of which my mom's daily pun "no double
click Asian!" close call homes. "I live in one"
we greeted her cream pies
with steel and fire I lost almost
weight in the mayhem. thank god
is still with me
while her faith is dolphins
who mutilate porpoises. it comes
out in the wash

told a fact about German
inflection "apocryphal? sexual"
they must flex something
to make that history
as if in reply
to "bizarre vagina query" she pulls out
every red oil
who eerily heed her. mouth like that

"telethon time!" its month. we lie
down in the fire and receive
myspace profiles. it's next best
scar to battle mangles.
about our mellotron
we feed her egos I want to know
who does your
ambiguous curtain
Godspeed buddy

is usually a lack
or facing away a maid's slack
suit. she carts down into Devil Alley unisex

Missing

by Larry O. Dean

Small Siamese cat
brown with black ears
Answers to “Matilda”
Her family and sister
miss her!




Larry O. Dean was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. He attended the University of Michigan, during which time he won three Hopwood Awards in Creative Writing, an honor shared with fellow poets Robert Hayden, Jane Kenyon, and Frank O'Hara, among others. He is author of numerous chapbooks, including I Am Spam (2004), a series of poems “inspired” by junk email; his poetry has also been internationally anthologized. In addition to writing, he is a singer-songwriter, performing solo as well as with several pop bands, currently, The Injured Parties; he has released several critically-acclaimed CD’s, including Fables in Slang (2001) with Post Office, and Gentrification is Theft (2002) with The Me Decade. Dean was a 2004 recipient of the Hands on Stanzas Gwendolyn Brooks Award, presented by the Poetry Center of Chicago. Contact him at larryodean.com

[untitled]

By Alex Sears


All of my friends killed themselves last Wednesday, and I wrote seven
villanelles. Not only about my sadness, but about the color of the
flowers at their memorial services, and what I was wearing as their
parents cried, clutching family photographs and stuffed bears. I also
wore polka dots when I last had an abortion. I drew a heart on my
calendar in permanent pen, and the nurse told me she loved my shoes
and matching handbag as she siphoned my unborn child. I sighed and
wondered, what do stilettos matter when you've lost your virtue in
someone else's clawfoot tub. But who doesn't get raped after bubble
baths are promised over Happy Hour. And it was likely what I was
wearing: pearls. You can't buy a rape kit at an art supply store, but
you can sometimes buy knitting needles, which I shoved down my throat
after cupcakes. I read that this is not a good idea, and then broke
up with my boyfriend after he accidentally pushed me into a china
cabinet. I wrote a sestina before calling my parents, who divorced
when I was three and disowned me because I occasionally enjoyed
sticking my fingers inside other girls in college.

the fine art of dying well, a poem

tv's not working.
damnit.

[Untitled]

Denyer's

a bankteller.
Hopscotch player
and .38 bedwetter

(He swallows).

Furthermore,
His middle name
appears blurred on
his ID,
but still uses it
to impress older
single sapiens
of macroorgasmics
capabilities and/or
innocent bystanders.


--L. Chávez Miranda
has more here

Concerning Angels

The following is a piece from the think
tank of Michael Stewart. More of Stewart's
work can be found here


They are terrible with their unused teeth, sharp and small
like a child's, and their new skin. The navel-less bellies.

Of halos I am uncertain. Perhaps they shimmer in their
magnitude, but this myth of wings is ridiculous and
unnecessary. They are light enough to be carried on the
least of things, being merely the breath of God, made in
His mouth and emerging from His lips thin and improbable.

When we meet them in our trailers and used bookstores they
bring only proof of our neglect. They make evident our
unclean teeth, our petty shifting, the horrible movements
of our tongues.

They are full and we are not. They give no place to enter.
The force of their voice is such as to not admit another
tongue in their mouths. Their other lips when parted lead
nowhere.
                                    

                                        --Michael Stewart

publique

This is a new "literary" mag I'm starting up. Submit at: funkmasser at yahoo dot (you know the rest) com.