May 18, 2009
I don’t blame you / Well maybe a little / Another reason I keep talking / Like I had a theory of everything / And why you think to live for ever / No great shakes / Too many full moons you say. By Paul Perry.
April 20, 2009
You mistake my head for a cantaloupe. Your mouth is speed metal against dry chalkboards. I dig your inner thighs out of my ears. I wear what’s left of you. By J. Bradley.
April 3, 2009
Discombobulated, prone, alone, facing up, errant wafts of aerosol lilies, I, having used up every organ and passing on the post-mortem, wonder, who chose the music? Goddammit, I said when I was dead I wanted a feast in a field with pissed people pissing around swilling whiskey to the dulcet sounds of Bobbie Gentry and the Grateful Dead, instead, I have Mozart, Chopin, Brahms, and some poor bastard I can't even name: I would've preferred Wagner, loud. By Dave Oprava.
March 18, 2009
I would have settled for getting through a poem without mentioning myself or writing poems. Again I set my sights too high. By Miles J. Bell.
March 16, 2009
i had long harboured fantasies of impotence; but i wasn’t sure how to act on them. there is always a risk of sabotage / a deep distrust but it fits perfectly in my hand; if i need to hold on to something i will hold on to that. the best answer to power is suspicion, so if you stand over me like that i will think dark thoughts. By Colin Herd.
March 6, 2009
He won't let me touch him. On the back of his leg there is a tattoo of a geisha's head cut off, blood spilling from the base of her neck, there to remind him. I rest my head on his knee. The girl he trusted that cheated on him. Calypso. He runs his finger along one of my eyebrows. It feels rough. I tell him I cheated once. Kissed the wrong guy. He pulls his earring out and rubs it against the skin below his nostrils. He wears a solid black shirt and red striped boxers. There's a wet stain to the left of his crotch. By Brandi Wells.