text || Shane Jesse Christmass

MUZZLEFLASH.

Mexicans Are Generally Pissed About Miley Cyrus Flossing a Butt with Their Flag. 'Me and Pops on a world adventure!' Justin Bieber shares photo from private jet with his father as he takes his mind off Selena split. She can't stop! Miley Cyrus flashes her black lace bra in a racy sheer shirt as she rocks TINY hotpants at Paloma Faith gig. Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez Dance, Snuggle and Kiss—See Their Cutest Pics! Miley Cyrus shares topless photo looking a little worse for wear after performing ‘hungover’ in Rio de Janeiro. Justin Bieber: Why He Plays Games With Selena Gomez — The Truth. Wild about Argentina! Miley Cyrus stays snug in leopard print coat while loading up on designer duds in rainy Buenos Aires. Selena Gomez Gets Advice From Justin Bieber’s Mom. Miley Cyrus straddles a huge inflatable penis in her wildest show yet. Miley Cyrus Posts Throwback Photo of Her Makeout With "Slut" Katy Perry—See the Pic! Justin Bieber Travels Florence By Vespa With Dad Jeremy! ' Bath-Selfies Are Now A Thing Thanks To Miley Cyrus. Shaved the monster!' Justin Bieber gets rid of his moustache and goes back to his baby face looks in new Twitter post. Miley Cyrus 'Freaked Out' After Her Secret Diary Having Details Of Love Life With Boyfriends Goes Missing—Reports. Justin Bieber shares topless selfie as he hints at collaboration with Chanel designer Karl Lagerfeld. Miley Cyrus Shocks Mexican Fans By Wearing Nose Ring Inspired By Male Private Parts During Mexican Concert. Justin Bieber -- BETTER SKATER THAN LIL WAYNE ... Says Skateboard Pro. Does Miley Cyrus Have A Bottomless Supply Of Penis Props? Apparently The Answer Is Yes (NSFW)…

text || DC DeMarse

Excerpt from MIRACLEPODGE, [new draft]

THIS IS BIG [not the fucking bird, nor non-filial and entirely metaphorical gangsta papa, dead, along with the probably mostly recognizable idioms that sustained and mutating will sustain as different ones the fleeting legends of what I like to call the club of delusive forevers—nor too not big like that famous L: he been, or, is, was won by time, or it's been some shit since he's long been beneath along with gangsta papa [I am a cracker-ass-candyass soldier btw, of the once-glorious Upper West Side, now, in this land of new women and men, a naturally occurring and according to studies quite efficient and sustainable, but completely fucking LARGE aquarium—by the way—for your consideration too I will tell of that submerged, highly Jewish—these days, now known as Norlap—area of old. Most likely if you reared one here for example you were prone to enable, kiss a loneliness to grotesque life, hurt peripherally but badly—since, well, I'm emotionally weak I know [and in the future, fyi—explaining myself as is common for newcomers from the past, before a stupendous family of angels—or at the least judges who bothered to work out enough to look good in a speedo—so, yeah. That uh 'I'm' works, altho introducing the possibility uh that I am actually speaking to a band of speedo aficionados with extensive knowledge of the Law.] For those still back in a stagnating present of whatever I said before, who haven't jumped ahead: everyone's hotter, and like saying 'French Fries' capital punishment has become a new American Pastime. It blossomed, wholesomely, like a flower of death, apparently. People can gaily skip to their own goddamn loo, if you ask me—you’ll see, that statement’ll make sense, it was on my mind about a scene to be described—just, if you do, don't get excrement into places where it might have the chance to trickle into a ubiquitous disarray of the mind's house, especially, that is, if it’s not just you living in the house alone but you rather who live in—house—of the almighty 'rents: at least my parents don't make me pay rent, or pare my nails—o, well—as what I will say might seem obvious when I explain the state of my nails later, I do that already, make it a good clean job, always: I was walking in Futureland, leaving to walk in silly, rainy street twilight, after hearing those dour speedo-guardians [I couldn’t imagine them naked, they were too tall, inhumanly tall—like probably on stilts tall—I left them with an imagined loincloth instead, to rest the spoon awhile in my inscrutable anxiety-stew] after hearing those dour speedo-guardians, clothed in dark down, tell me about capital punishment: I was like some brand-spanking cliché just walking down the street in the rain—to be superfluous—and admittedly somewhat dejected-feeling and like a castaway or some pathetic shit like that—in the rain—and there I was, then, was near one of the prisons, which, really, was still some distance away, but I could tell this gutter I was taking a gander at was connected to it, perhaps spiritually, but definitely sewerpipe-wise: it was bordered by foul-smelling, suspicious mud that two androgynous toddlers—or—maybe, sly dwarfs, impersonating toddlers to get all those delicious—kindly stares—for nothing but gratis—nothing bean—a racket I'm sure it was—conning innocent smiles! Out there they were these dwarf-children or something but probably children ‘cos what grown people would unless way out of their reason’s last blasted niche play like that in such a dirtily putrid snapshot: haha: conning smiles, what nonsense, and if they were kids it all anyway would be few who would and all for nothing bean those hapless few putting forth a least modicum of a gene or strand of energy in a positive glance so innocuous as to as easily transform said smiles—as expected, each tooth and down to the least of the lip—together into a stack of puffy pink pillows—bang, like that—and with the same devastating celerity as one who might spontaneously combust—gene, strand, me an idiot—etc etc I don't know the proper term for whatnow to describe this innocuous to the highest thing’s transformation, itself rather unscientific anyway and probably not a matter of genes if examined—that is, the magical turning of teeth, gum, smile—to pink puffy adorable uh uh metaphors! That’s the transformation, that is, it is figuration, nothing to do with genes, no, nothing to do, no literal breath taken upon understanding that but literally as I write this a breath taken [I spoke the now then]: ahhh, I love you you grating pink pillows: would one even bother to lead themselves down a highly—that is, high as the highest thing—psychologically rattling path in pursuing studying calculating all the recorded or—disgusting!—unrecorded instances of this among other things [high, or no]  human-on-human ersatz-approval from strangers—and such a motive lying in children, if even!—ahhh these nice dwarfs wearing their PADDINGTON BEAR raincoats in the raininess, as they are so wont. The two pint-sized chappies: were splashing and playing in that bloody gutter when suddenly—and what isn't sudden in this world [not a grand statement—was speaking of Futureland—travel is extinct, besides short distances where it would seem superfluous, everyone pushes buttons and then they’re there. Considering I and these figurations were the only ones present on this street, I had no choice but to concur with myself, they were as wayward as I, as homeless, poor souls]—when suddenly, some of the mud and dirt began together a silent campaign against the tiny murthering stomps, relxing their elements and by so doing horrifyingly revealing their masquerade—and I all silent and alone in the rain that instant: too late, said too whisperingly: it's a masquerade! I wasn’t able to spike the first phonetic of a warning to them—too awed, something like that, how odd—and then—the material of what should have been ruff ground earth and sluicing streetslush and formless water got all sticky and tacky: I watched the tackiness: the toddlers, well, I, I couldn't see their faces nor mother for miles and miles of [the] delusive forever [club]—and so then thought, heeding vileness and retreating to a laden gratuity, soaked in defeat, I thought, Good on these independent fuckers either way—had more bravery than I—enough bravery, so much—or, just a persisting ignorance?, the type immanent in all born sloped-headed lackeys. It was this ingenuity I observed, brought these alleged brothers to play, till—well—the milk soured, so to speak: I am plagued with embellishing rotund—richly tho—redundancy, usually, that is, syntactically, but not metaphorically, where it would be powerful, and so then think of the pink pillows again and swerve to the right corner of my darling left hemisphere and write something like uh but maybe only like you know audibly say: uh. METAPHOR-SWERVE THAT TAPS INTO GROSS-ASS MEMORY [tho, I should get back to deceased rappers and waxing on the BIG that began this soon]: so, the nice pie, to be the straightshootking—lord of specificity of detail—a fancy pumpkin, with garnishes of whipped cream and powdered sugar, yum!, grew these large, alive spores made up of these fuzzy green spikes once—overnight, and this happened in the fridge of all things—that is, metaphorically swervingly—and the mud most definitely tho with slowness resembled increasingly a goo that what got me spacing out a thought’s mileage into the realms of that memory: a vile, clotted muck of raw blood and human gack from the latest penal slaughter: and soon, the whole thing was unearthly, so unearthly, enough unearthly, that—and I am ashamed of this [verbally gratuitous, on the one hand, and, literally, stuck in the essence of stuttering, staggering aporia, a perverse haunt] state of mine, seeming dispossessed, tho I was, really, what with being in the Futureland with naught family nor friend: no doubt people who might’ve seen me standing there by this gutter watching damn kids play in thick, brown blood would absently or worried enough to enlarge the brow downward indulge tho mistaken a hunch about me [if that is they had seen, which I still am grappling with speculations about]: a hunch of—preversion—and/or obvious lonerism that if so probable, implied an especially obtuse in this day-future and age-future—obtuseness. Everyone’s hotter, that’s for damn sure; people are also better about keeping their fetishizing under wraps—that is, wrapping it up in a box with pornographic waxpaper, titties strapped and folded across the sides—instead, yes, saving it all up, a grand supply of sacred jism for their these days most likely part-cyborg lover on Christmas Redux, as they these weird peeps call it. Still learning the argot. Used that word already. Ugh. DAmn, I give up. That I became completely deaf to any response in this rainy instance then is sure, stock-still, pelted by droplets in hose-like succession, fascinated by this Show Of The Dwarf—toys—ah, my head is, was, who knows, bringing things out of the treasure chest now, so sorry. Being metaphorical again. So, so wry. Offerings, offerings to I for me to write about—and o them, the toys. Built up for mads, like mads mads decades, years etc etc—such a treasure-chest, so-called—lived patiently, collecting snackfood for what vacant cephalopods [live, slinkingly roaming rhoombas they are] that paid it a visit. Like an aquatic homebody, it was, or something: the chest didn’t like to go out that often, but grew popular amongst the algae nonetheless: the chest of now as I lift it from depths dripping yet also once surrounded heavingly by vague, lore-filled [daveyjones, walk plank, yarr, etc] oceans for eons or something, I felt, had been completely submerged for far too long: the ocean, by the looks of how degraded and seaweed-wed it looks in the light of the now, made quick work of it, huh, eking quickly in, filling thru its cracked perimeter long ago as the bubbles, I'd imagine, exploded upwards and then disappeared with the last airpocket: and all for I to then feel the weight of, now, I, as I lift this nice, fractured metaphor for toying with reality or reaping rewards—with my bare hands—shoulders flexing to hold up this, well, this metaphorical something or other—above my head [watery and heavy, diluted, o course, since no wood is ever even in the future of futures, solely hole-less]: it had forever squatted the non-sentient mastiff of a thing on the sandy bottom of the murkiest longitude of BROADWAY AVE and didn't do chores, no shit, since, uh, obvious, it's an—inanimate object. METAPHORICAL SWERVE. But, yeah, anyway: to have seen . . . to have seen, I declare, both these [and it’s questionable] children scream, scream for their mommy, who was on vacation again [being omniscient, as this is my own lackey-twit homemade narrative, I know this, and know that as an Avid Miniature Umbrella Collector [the said mothr], sacrifices must be made] well, such a seen scene at the least would predictably be heartrending. ANYWAY. To, have seen . . . hmm . . . my guess is this about something else, tho; that is, the capital punishment craze, it happened because over time everybody got too stupid and jaded to pay attention to baseball, seen arduously the more and generation by generation as as saccharine a sport as candyapples—in regards to the candy pyramid, hierarchy—eaten at a fair; or as edgily cruel as videotaping a young girl bobbing for regular ones and what who got her mouth torn up by as if by razor-like things—you guessed it—her dentures (?)]. MAMMY! Generally speaking of myself then—to put all this in an at least measly sort of perspective the outlier to these overly incubated Upper West Side sensibilities I have described to you and I for so long kept agelessly blankly living then freed after millennia to gulp a breath again from that diaphanous ice of The Cryogenic Freezer which uh is an image anyway metaphorical or involved somehow or whatwise in the arc of this half-narrative, ended up being—and wait, I will get to it—this, that is, a memory, ahem; that is, a memory of freedom, sort of, was the least relative outlier to my present future-circumstance I could upon release give my sacred notions of familiarity to, and is fitting and is what keeps me [from] going still: and here's it. As when: I the sparrowass candyfart hot-to-trot man at first I thought I was was at last freed to leave the nest, to the next, and now, thought I—then—not only on the road uh thought I—but on the way to having in my very own, ahem, in my very soft hands, in my heavily washed hands pruned of cuticle and other mess, nonworkers hands [tho my eyes are unbearably dark and tried by the pangs of reality, on reg] a long-treasured, fake independence. And I can hear the applauds now as I land lik’ a bright pissant off the bright yellow slide without scraping my knees or even better scraping my knees bad, really bad, and not crying about it: hah: anyway: choosing to do drugs with your girlfriend in her UCONN apartment complex, amounting to a mounting of cowardice and a humping of it by JUSTICE [or something else that's important enough to put in capes, cripes, CAPS] was escapades nonetheless and amazing into the fresh tundra of life and for an over expensive psychiatrist to whittle down to reductive death, all blasé handing me— again, again, again—the pill papers I am doomed to never be able to extort the contents of for profit or use for recreation: drugs drugs drugs, hugs!: and probably Big L, finally back to mentioning, well, he know by now [just an assumption] all heaven's staircases to the less frequent, lowly chambers, where heaven's only Meth Lab is. METAPHORICAL SWERVE. Whadisdatttttteven? See, ahem, see that cloud next to the sun, there it is, Heaven's Meth Lab, says a kindly and very morbidly caucasian gramps with many of his more shadowed gestures of scary resentment draped from clear seeing from the young child [really a vivid hallucination come finally after gramps’ decades of meth use leads to an early onset of dementia, or perhaps she’s there, really, IRL]: some of the scary resentments, tho under the arthritic stiffness of age, get up from sleep to move and thus promote, despite Hamlet's excellent acting advice, a sawing of the air: then again, the man is illiterate, the last of his kind, so he would nort kno: it's 3049 as I witness this in my headspace’s eye, an instance maybe somewhere once, or now, or some time to come: and, schools are free: and when you go it’s quite a treat because all schools award attendance—absence punishable on the first strike by death, who by this point in my half-flower-half-canker narrative must be rolling his lies—I mean dice—I mean eyes. Anyway: the award is, you get extra chicken wire. Every student, 3 or 70, is expected to belt chicken wire round their privates, 'cos also there was a New Jesus that came to town and everybody loved religion a lot more again because there was cold hard proof of this impossible and absurdly limited shit the old Jesus did just to pass the time: I miss Old Jesus, God would sometimes say to his wife, arms boredly notched at the elbow, to be a right amazing keelson to his chin, and not only, but also his very heavy head, the size of what I'm sure is a shitton of stuff and also it probably resembles in diameter [or something] if stretched out all the way, like, the—Bering Strait L—or something the likes of I don't and wouldn’t know whether to say is where—and anyways regarding the good LORD’s mellifluousness that only baffles, turns every definition into a misnomer, is accurate—but that strait. I think, off the coast of Greece? Damne—well, or you can ask that perfect angel with angel hair if you're so fucking curious, tho, mostly he is bald right now—you forget, I speak in oddity and with more than a few mismatched or hard to realize, or rather coagulate, metaphors—but, so hungry I am, thinking of angel hair, mmmmm, pasta, I could eat mere follicles—yes—kinda like Malloy’s ‘sucking stones’ the likes of whom resembles that incorrigibly smdgy-mascara'd starlet of a gramps: in my or that or whatever region of headspace, I ask him for directions, and try not to think about heaps of pasta: like, I’m talking, like, a whole room full, just pasta mads, horrifyingly everywhere and for no real reason either [there is probably at this moment an entire room filled to the brim with angel hair pasta and if there isn’t I don’t know what we could ever do to fix this country]: he'd kno what to do, the skipper: about directions, that is: ah, should have waited for you to put on wig, I say to that old dragqueen, gramps in his skivvies—pantaloons proudly tight and his junklump mockingly tantalizing in its surprising and somewhat disturbing for his age—bigness—no no, sonny,  he say, sensing my admiration and smiling a few extra tads: come into my office and ask a way, he said: but after all these are my wishes, and really he was not so near, was a call away and dead, my dragqueen paterfamilias: but since like you know like because in Futureland, I could talk to ‘im: that is, via the two cans connected with string that as you well know—if you live in the year 3049—separate, and running along [house to house between the dorky kid and the hot new neighbor with tits the likes of which he will end up finding when he sees them, nonsensically disappointing, especially bc when the two after talking on cans forever meet and she shows him hers, well, they’re a good pair, a regular knockout pair, sitting pertly and large and symmetrical, and some day down the line the dorky kid upon thinking heavily will conclude that bc of this he must be either gay or mad, since since then the tits [cans] he’s seen have looked exactly like hot new neighbor’s ones, and the feeling the same, the likes of which he forces as more papers and reports [grotesque office baggage dead in spite of the deadline met early simply by an ignorance of their existence—and how hard the pangs of feeling literally spit on [that word, doe, 4^th backwards if you count ‘that’] by the briefcaseman—yes, forgotten by supervisor and so then passionately, passionately in a rage that is, crammed crummily] into the overstuffed and already properly lamed briefcase—yes, into an awkward, abridged sinkhole of what this gawky, dorky kid views in his own—and I’ll add it: precious—headspace as deadened quiet, a quiet he frames in lust, oppressive, like a bad fucking painting by a local artist hanging in the café of a local town with an obnoxious name like “The Dreams Of A Purple Horizon”] and the cans running along—anyway, enough with that discard and let it ameliorate like frost from glass—connect the living and dead, after all, between their respective but not necessarily sensibly divided square footage: as the the the ghettos for the living are much, uhm, bigger: this is what the dead called Mortalist! And you can hear them all say it derogatorily—perhaps—in those brief snatches of wind and rain: and then!, hold your breath, and you just might hear your dead Uncle ask you for change for the next deadguy bus—a swept-under affiliate of the ever cheap bus line, you know, the one in real life—MEGABUS—outside the control of this endless Farce, since unlike it it exists plainly and as what it is: well, Jacob's Ladder: that’s all: so then, here’s that old gramps in drag again, since I never got about asking the gadabout methfly he was for directions—you must remember—as I said—it is the future I speak of now, here, on a webpage: so, I said, Well first, coughcough—and as we were in his ‘office’ there was a desk, thankfully, ahem, that separated us, the immediate vision of each other, mostly—Well first [fist, lol, wtf] I said, clandestinely feeling [hand-imagery] clandestinely feeling the snatch of my required, and daily at that, religious sacrament of especially persistent crotchwire—you must remember that—come close to ripping open my precious lockjaw candy, my balls almost—in my head for fear—yet hiding a gulp of throat, brazen, taunting yes indeed uh, taunting the sharp object wrapped around my pelvis with needledick friggin, shrill, sparrowfart—voices: and even the prospect of a ripping of the nutsak, was enough to bring a near-pristinely orbed—the roof of my mouth could tell by the pressure of released air it felt—pearly, pearly, pearly ‘retch-possible’ of bile from the gorge [so wordy, you fuck, DAN] to the early, nascent shallowness of that ‘throat-part’ closest my mouth—it of course, the nausea, still strong, but the ‘throat-part’ as it was, uh—practically—untouched by the pains, those pains of emerged welts from smoking, being shallow, was still smooth and the gagreflex vigilant: and it would put one at unease, really?: that questionmark was not really a questionmark but more my attempt to find some equivalent in punctuation to convey, 'Hi it's Jenny, still exasperated from the disembodied whispers of the dead on the wind the night before decided to make my room a regular butterfly-museum of, each vowel still as if on a pike?': but, anwya, certainly, if like for example a fine, strong female was sacrificed, like Jenny—but don’t tell her, the dead tell me [secret: I don't even know where she is, or who really]—you'd see an equivalent to what I claim unease at without ever having seen human sacrifice myself: remove the balls, remove your footprint, after all, and a sort of sacrifice for New Jesus [we in Futureland call him Sado-Christ, for obvi reasons] sacrificed, yes, for the health of the tribal commonweal and its constituents living in the BIG, BIG house of messy mind: that uh, to distinguish itself is at the top of a big hill. Also, it is made—entirely—out of stones crafted into billions upon trillions of banana-shaped resemblances, the fruit itself now considered a delicacy in this mindfuck hokum of a Futureland, and more than that a symbol for—you guessed it!—uhm—yeah, you guessed it. Like why the fuck should you tell them what you already know man, fuck, already got too many quaint white folk railing on my honky-hating, pureblood Hawaiian Existential Philosopher ass for loving the flaws you express, without this crude elucidating, say this new apparition, before me, or somewhere where I would be unable to see my hands and so then a place not entirely useful—but, ooo, I think to myself, another wisp of ghost for the half-narrative [where’s Freckett, btw] ahem: this particular badly-mannered [uncouth rather. ‘Oof’ I hear him bemoan in a clear, crisp onomatopoeia. I can’t see however that he’s clutching his gut, after a BIG, BIG meal, as the man/apparition [the man, really, I hear myself insist] is dwelling in a place or confusing lapse or hzardous dimension—as I said—where I am handless, thus powerless [to stop indigestion]] Hawaiian, spitting often random grit while saying nonsense thru his nose like, “Mra, muhm muhmra nomnom, a plori [smudgements [that there’s my insertion [could not resist the wordplay]]] jutchents” or “Krant’s Matagorical ‘Mpretive. Yerh.” This of course is a description’f when he talks at table about the cosmos to an venerated arena [Smimposium ‘erks petter, d00th, say Lunching Hawaiian [good advice, but stop with the brackets] or symposium rather—before him, a vast sea of listeners—oh my humble brown wackjob, oh, this deluded correspondent of netherworld, I love you—of, of course, silent dolls of the porcelain variety, [I say that wordier way of it bc in this world, this handless world, everything breaks down to atoms, and ‘of a variety of’ is surer—in being more careful and vaguer and odder—than leaving it at ‘porcelain dolls’ which, if left as descriptively as porcelain, that is, sans at least an attempt to crimp the reality of meanings and acquiesce, tho blind, to doubt, would risk the material dissipate [disappear’s better] into a sea or abyss of a sameness that in reality everything is—of course, bc otherwise there wouldn’t be an idea called ‘everything’—supposition that, but eh, all in the name of fun, eh?] cracked yet also alarmingly well-preserved with daily-attended polishment, which is not a word, and with [bandwidth], in place of the button-eyes and creepy smiles, two magnificently rendered, lively clichés: the button-eyes nshit, yeah, bravo, bravo: fuck: these dolls, doe: whom, most definitely, never actually consider eating the miniature—and poorly painted at that—representations of plastic chicken legs and peas on these miniature plates. He say, this thing or apparition or whatever, or character—with a casual disgust that, really, admirably, has, somewhat, a flavor of maturity and even theatrical gravitas . . . “How rude!, damnable!, his only friends anymore, to think.” O Literate Hawaiian—“Innisher meal ammmith!?” He say, pounding table, disturbing a few of the dolls to the ground, effectively killing the fantasy—for today, at least—anyway, anyway—he is a flaw-fetishist, confessedly [ah, that explains the honky-hating, since we’re perfect and flawless—he should treat them white dolls better, yes sir—screams the curious, erudite and open-minded [lol! What a riot] Aryan Neo Nazi who will never read this and hasn’t been to Iraq and also eats shit for breakfast, you know, keeping his digestive tract redundant for the kids. And this is me: and, if you are, dear friend, shoot yer stupid self]: the Hawaiian guy fetishizes JEAN PAUL SARTRE'S beetle-like lips [as he is as I said a philosophic sort], at least, what he can see in pics—right-o—but, oddly enough not the lazy eye!: why, hell, I mean, from what I can understand of where I am now to liv out the rest of my days, forgetting all the nestled aspects of drugs and UCONN: well, among the metal-clad [by now you get my drift with that [chicken wire] way over back there, before the beginning of this whole damned rant about an ill-mannered, educated, completely deranged Hawaiian that plays with dolls and probably doesn’t exist a lot more these days—being a dweeb, a choiceless occupation in Futureland expressly, mortally forbidden: except—and here is my empathy for creating this weird fucking character [o and the plight of this all!], just in case he actually exists—except, that is, in a place [headspace, etc] where I can’t see my hands etc] [repeat, please, for the sake of clarity, d00th] well, among the metal-clad populace of flaw-fetishists, by the way a big percentage, THAT [SARTRE’S lazy eye] was the more prominent oddity: and the one more often seen as overlooked: as there had been a big boom of SARTRE-LIP-CORTISONE already and that form of idolizing became more like a tired fad for wannabes—in the old days, that is, which from my viewpoint is still expressly ages ahead starting from when I write this, speaking for a sec IRL, in 2014, and in terms of the frank, frill-less now—when dweebs were more hauntingly invested in it all: back to the future: once there, they, infesting all the day clubs, drove out all the cool school-prisoners who liked Sartre's Lazy Eye, and ‘really chafed their wires’ as the saying, absurdly enough, goes: day clubs are still the only places allowed outside of schools to go to: luckily everwhere else is a day club besides schools. As I am at present [?] on the street watching dwarves in the rain scream at the slurry of guts and blood emerging from the gutter connected to the local prison, I can assume this, as neither I nor thay ar being accosted/yelled at by cops with flat [BIG] noses: are, at least, were, not anymore, that is, coughcough, who knows, and what time it is: METAPHORICAL SWE- and thus the golden tho predictably difficult rule [metaphorical, tho why even clarify anything, anymore] is broken, and I’m left in a tide of narrative I try to get back, while everyone, every character in this sweeping mind's grid, tells me to get off theirs, entering in and out of my bedroom cruelly, without knocking [IRL[?]]: and that my motives are questionable: that's what I'm thinking about: that’s the speaker of the now, somewhat like the METAPHORICAL SWERVE. I have good motives, says this other whisperer through the can from a cramped, measly five-soul suite [damned soul-segregation] about the size of the smallest mote of divine matter, to no one on the other line: to make a diagram of the location of welts on throat that would’ve had me gagging forth a ‘retch-possible’ into a ‘definite [wretch] retch’ would be nice for a reassurance that I wouldn't gag out lumpy green shit in front of queeny gramps, in that moment asking for directions that is or was or never was; in fact, I wish I might could get someone to take a throat from the air, maybe Jenny's, and ceremoniously slice it open, you know, for accuracy: I think she smoked: so it is wished, so it shall be done, specifically by the blind lady in the mitred glint of a tankass headdress [all the people in the future are tribal, forgot to mention that and then bring it back [back, hm, back = leitmotif?] to mentioning, you know, to really make it permanent—but also violently syllogistic. Ah, the god [ooops, oops, good] ol' days. Unclearly-colored in my view, besides—a dull fleshtone—lumps. And then I think of that. Come soon enough: and, besides throat, on the lungs too—cancer/emphysema, man, no fun, luckless ducky-depressive, you, bobbing in the good lord's bubblebath—I’d imagine not me but ol’ deranged Hawaiian guy spinnin that glib yarn of complete droning gibber [glone]: ok stop: and now, to gramps again, upon expressing the first request: Next said I to the draggy, smudgy gramps, wishing the nearest and most obvious spinnable globe zoom right up next to me. Next, I need a place to buy hard drugs, I said, with a smile, as my tie shifted on to a tighter notch on my neck of its own accord, not because 'God Willed It" but just 'cos it'd never happen, because in essence it is magic and magic doesn't exist except here, except that Johnson guy: you know, the guy, whatever—that guy Mxwell Shears Johnson who impregnated fifteen million shallow-cheeked, uppity women using a time machine: guess it was his thing: I think to myself, that'd be more an argument to which one should lend some of these myriad thoughts: that is, to science: all this magicalness should be for it to figure, or in threes, patiently: I’m thinking about somewheres way liminal you see or summed into a shape of grace to stun St Peter upstairs. This BIG shit here tho did cool stuff for awhile like turn stuff into different stuff—but—you guessed it!—the Futureland version of 'crown of thorns' is a wee more sadistic than I can do with, or rather more sadistic to the wee: compromising its state as a permanent attachment as I’m sure it did by the end of New Sado-Jesus' sojourn—throughout accused wrongly by Norlap onlookers, yes, his poor, emotionally sensitive legs even seen to move as a guileless saunter. METAPHORICAL SWERVE.

poem || Sheila E. Murphy

Tend Need

Tend need

not be

probable.

Relax into

the white

blush

open to

continuo

carved sounding

accident

astride

a practice.

poem || Jeff Harrison

Thistles

the slouch thief's here, oh
to skull him impossibly
hissing red between leaves

how to shroud, ah, uh
how to dull him, his
mouth strikingly mumbling:

picture me in a paralysis translucent
jachu-jachu dancers scrub my number
though initially these dancers

devised wings for any given thief's narration
what else lies in back of thistles?
what dazzlement... another new-gagged play?

text || Volodymyr Bilyk

Don’t Think About It,do It-do N’tta Lkabo Utit, Doit- Doit, 

Doit- Don’t Lieab Outit ,doit -doit ,doit -talk About Yours  

Ickma N-sog Ood,y Ougot Todoi T,doi T-doi T,doi T,doi T,doi  

T,doi T,doi T-doi T,doi T,doi T,doi T-don ‘tlie About It,do  

It-wh Ygive Afuck About It,ma N?doi T,doi T-the Re’sa Lawbu  

Twhoc Ares- Doit, Doit- Don’t Ripme Off,m An,ju Stdoi T-doi  

T,doi T,doi T-doi T,doi T,doi T,doi T-doi T,doi T,doi T,doi  

T-don ‘ttal Kabou Tit,d Oit,d Oit-d On’tl Ieabo Utit, Doit,  

Doit- Don’t Cover Itwit Halie ,man- Doitd Oit,j Ustdo It,ju  

Stdoi T-doi T,doi T,doi T,doi T-doi T,doi T,doi T,doi T

|op-_i_ 0aoq -1w J40 ! !0P‘1 Aqeen

jop‘1 l.UOQ |op‘i 0 0P6N jop‘1 ‘poo l.UOQ

!°P‘l _l!°0 !°P‘l Liidjy biu‘h jop‘i 60s -uoq !°P‘l lioa !°P‘l I.uoq \ !op-i-N e ‘uoq !op-l ‘lllfl !op-l -VPQ noqv jop‘1 uj>|0| -uoq |opisoqB0| |op‘i ‘i|oa>|on;v !op‘l s ‘inn nf‘i| |i(uo !op‘i-S0JV0A|6A !op‘j_ jnoA o o p-iio |op‘i 0 L|M-n jop‘1 1 qB>n Pisn P‘l!0 jop-i oq/wi op‘i| jop’i noqv bh.n f‘l!0 Pill !°P‘± n 1 |op-i >||Bi op-n 1 piioa n |op‘i qMB“| noqv jop‘1- l!op‘op‘n 1 !OP‘i-ublu‘ oqB>j jop-iBS^y ©m, jopoj. ijop noqv !op‘l 0||Bh |BH, jopis ©m-l uop 1- nop‘ ^miu !op‘ll!Mi| j uop nf‘uv |op‘i -1 o6no l!ino I.uoq

3 poems || John Pursch

Calm Penumbral Flues

Requital rocks,

recoils in hearsay error,

plummets blank, and blogs

to boggled shrubbery.

Handrails seize an altered flock

of woven tambourines

with scientific palmistry.

Bungee sellers bury leisure antics

in chary mist interpretation’s foghorn lace,

bumming stray incisors off manacled threads.

Threatening to pray,

glowering crud decays

in sill contraption jungles,

coasting to ricochet decrees

for tessellated sock hop quintets.

Wooden mates engorge free-falling esophagi,

piling sardonic caskets down calm penumbral flues,

chopping woolen quadratures to mincemeat.

Yokels ogle yodeling youths,

yearning yellow yammerers ululating

till uxorious yogis yank jugular jocularity.

Effortless coverage,

strung from rocks to mesquite tree

to bushel alley donut widget picket faucet,

henceforth soaring when by wan imputed blur,

whence anon again and under tunnel,

within debauchery’s historic meaning.

Tidal Marmalade

Where there’s quiet blackout ogling

in porpoise veneration mist,

quenched ossifiers soften scenes

to geriatric nuisance rites

of hitching skies,

postal oldie garrison skits,

and cool dynamic bungee ingots,

shuffling starboard pinchers

into incandescent karma sleeves,

bent as nail-hive hairdo ignition queries

might appear to flan corrector floods.

Mottled hometown vats of cured

lobotic crease charades conspire

to float effluvial and barely hammered

down the sartorial runaway explosion moth’s

swinging sidelong shake-alike cramfest

for tidal marmalade interpolation’s compelling sneeze,

held to tickled undercarriage rivulet conveyance blurts

of feckless flirting’s ghastly crustacean

tenterhook asymmetry.

Motown munchkins tamper with

damply humping dumpling shrews,

tattered to dandelion Torquemada

pests by pestilence,

imputed portents of lobster etchings

in equestrian hedgerow falls,

and stentorian iguanas

on sabotaged heretical nooners

from mashed rotation guff diffusion,

deferred to coupled dignity

in moldy lawn cherubim jowls.

Howdy Tutti-Frutti

Lola punches through

hairline locket strong-arm barrier,

fresh to Your Nuke’s Concordance Hey,

lung wit millions of newly dishrag barkers,

plunked to Dearth on fade return

from MM-50’s indecent implosion,

unexpected blight halibut

the mossy prescient precogs

in the cratered galactic hubris.

Hit’s fairly subdued, this slanting,

wad with known parity preppily notarized

of impinging survival, so noon’s nut weighted,

nor anticipating show mangy trundlers.

Ewe mired wander whey die authorities

sin tend toupee or putt haul tease gnu survivors,

but pleas dismember tat Dearth hash bean seizing emptied

ground tea cluck fear thigh spatter spurt for tan yearlings,

hand dishes chest swoon schlep returning unannounced.

Surly tare mosh bay polenta

of groom tea stanch the fellows

what bust me sodden spurting

howdy tutti-frutti this soil

end lea divergent vesicle.

“Indie dunno prawn blem,”

he’s stall tea poor tattered oratories

hat touche windy wherein formed

of die encroaching schlep.

Pie theta eye him Lola sad food

in Groin Zorro’s familial laser wand,

merely null of die countless pushy germs

hat hall ratty peen deliberately

save hand found two

their eerie flown privy squatters,

flopped down the furtively nude fleece,

hand bygone due drool savor canny

ova douse ant trammels of sangfroid ankle

morphographic delectations,

sneeringly sawed-off tempt

imbibing snaking curls ant poi-pourri,

extra vagrancies nod replete wit

chipped dreams sand dirty tumblings,

sun-strictured shoestring cheese,

hand mangy dings water

dimply fun mentionable.

3 poems || Shane Allison

Forceful Compulsion

Forceful compulsion

Mouth-penis

Forceful

Compulsion

Mouth

Penis

Penis

Forceful compulsion

Mouth

Mouth-penis

Compulsion

Forceful

Forceful

Penis

Compulsion

Forceful compulsion

Mouth-penis

Mouth

Mouth

Forceful

Mouth-penis

Penis

Forceful-compulsion

Compulsion

Compulsion

Mouth

Forceful-compulsion

Forceful

Penis

Mouth-penis

Mouth-penis

Compulsion

Penis

Mouth

Forceful

Forceful compulsion

Forceful compulsion,

Forceful, mouth

Penis, mouth-penis

At Andy’s Deli

‘Bout lost my mind when I didn’t see the usual.
Where the pies at? I asked the cute, East Indian man
Standing behind the counter.
We sold out, he said.
I didn’t know Hostess Apple Pies were so popular
Among the masses of Greenwich Village.
He knows how much I like my real fruit filling,
The preservatives and artificial flavors.
My world ain’t nothin’ but a flaky crust,
A cream-filled Twinkie.

Gotta get somethin’.
My sweet tooth is killin’ me.
What’s it going to be:
Snowballs?
Ho Ho’s?
Zingers?
Crumb Coffee Cakes?
None of this I like.
Wait, this look good:
Coconut Crunch Donut Delites.
Six in a row.
I’ll take these, I told the clerk.
Placed two quarters in his hand.
Pulled open the wrapper,
Took the first one out for a taste test,
And right then I knew, this was the last snack cake
That was going to take the place of my everyday routine.


For Vytautas 

Sorry I didn’t call as much

Sorry I didn’t get your new address

Sorry you had to move so much

Sorry, but I called that number and they said they’ve never heard of you

Sorry I moved without telling you

Sorry all the letters were returned to sender

Sorry, but I had no choice but to go home for the summer

Sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you why

Sorry the traffic of our lives stopped

Sorry the poems ceased

Sorry for my depression

Sorry for taking it out on you

Sorry for being scared

Sorry for feeling overwhelmed

Sorry for the chipped piece of tooth I lost

Sorry for my bleeding gums

Sorry that my heart wasn’t in it

Sorry I wasn’t more grounded as you had thought

Sorry my head is up my ass

Sorry I lost track

Sorry I didn’t depend on your new whereabouts

Sorry, but I tried like hell on wheels to reach you

Sorry a lot has been going on

Sorry for the sex booths that smelled of poppers and ass

Sorry for the ten buck blow jobs

Sorry my Daddy got arrested

Sorry the U.S. Marshals busted down the door to get to him

Sorry they held guns to his head five feet away from my four yr old niece

Sorry they dragged him on the heels of his feet out the door

Sorry my Mama screamed, NO DON’T SHOOT ‘EM

Sorry that this has been on my mind

Sorry, but he’s been in jail for two months

Sorry, but it was only a matter of time

Sorry, but he could be looking at four years in prison

Sorry, but the lawyer is suing Winn-Dixie

Sorry, but that was a lie

when they said he hit the store manager in the back of the head

Sorry, but that’s what the papers said

Sorry they said he sped off in a Lincoln Town car

Sorry, but that was a lie

Sorry he would lock the gate every night

Sorry he walked around in his underwear every night

Sorry I ate like a hog over the summer

Sorry I wrote poems, sucked cock, and cruised parks for ass

Sorry, but he was horny as hell

Sorry, but I couldn’t resist his blue eyes

Sorry the other guy watched

Sorry that my return to New York was a sad one

Sorry that I’m on 61 Grove now

Sorry my roommates are gay

Sorry Daniel is the straight Russian who calls women chics

Sorry there’s a rat in the kitchen

Sorry, I mean mouse in the kitchen

Sorry I caught up on all my shows over the summer

Sorry that I don’t have cable in this new building

Sorry I don’t have a phone

Sorry I don’t have a job yet

Sorry I don’t have my TV with me

Sorry I don’t have a cell phone like everyone else

Sorry the homeless keep asking me for change

Sorry my mail should be getting forwarded any minute now

Sorry I don’t eat sushi

Sorry I got my ass eaten out by a Jeff Daniels look-alike

Sorry I fucked a fireman without a rubber

Sorry the poet David Trinidad threatened to get me kicked out of school

Sorry he saw the poem online I wrote about him

Sorry I had to have it removed from the site or else

Sorry I was saving my own ass

Sorry the editor was pissed for weeks

Sorry I got more poems coming out in more anthologies

Sorry my first story is going to be published in Velvet Mafia

Sorry I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize

Sorry I haven’t sent a postcard

Sorry our bathroom is filthy

Sorry for the hardwood floors

Sorry that Robert Polito, the Director of the Creative Writing Program

is demanding I take the poems off the website

Sorry the two yr MFA candidates are such fucking teenagers

Sorry for feeling like I’m in high school again

Sorry for the cliques

Sorry I’m such a slut

Sorry I’m so easy

Sorry, but I’m going to see a lawyer about my rights

Sorry I moved out of Williams Street

Sorry, but I’m living in the Village now

Sorry he wants me to dress up like a woman and suck him off

in the Meat Packing District

Sorry he talks about his cock so poetically

Sorry I have a crush on the Assistant Director of the Writing Program

Sorry I have a crush on the projectionist at Two Boots movie theatre

Sorry, but I read twice at the Nuyorican Poet’s Café

Sorry, but it went well

Sorry that I’ve been lonely

poem || Daniel Ian

(no subject)

late birthday gift born a finger

my afternoon porn poke breast 

Apromise to my soul

so blueblue she hears green

sandals uploaded, bet you're well ha!P 

12,224 likes in 11 minutes

broken speech heart list on the hour 

Russian earlobe forced on dissidents 

that's an old photo

discuss

poem || Lawrence Upton

Liebestod

                                                        Polyvocal

                                                                                             for various socially mobile

                                                                                             shepherds, steersmen, and sailors

                                                                                             in satirical mood, in drag for women's roles

If we were familiar,

cloned of each other --

But we are not,

speaking rhetorically,

knowing the fear of chaos

in which we live.

It would not be so rewarding

as fantasised,

a fondant dream

not fondness.

Gooey as we both are

when we are talking,

we do not take off

but tack and copy,

stuck where we are

to our papers, and dream of flying

in which we do not believe

We imitate each other,

sweet in our isolation,

feeding each other with feared words;

leaving the risks of  romance

to silence when we've rung off

Might as well put faith

in reflections, muddling

excitement and creativity

or a fire with the warmth it gives.

Peers demonstrate their liberty

in very small spaces,

in their limited Arcadia,

pursuing pursuant bare necessities.

Beyond one's property

propriety matters,

to avoid guns

The individual standing out

lets the world move  yet

against him:

political animals --

and this flatters men --

devour one's idiolect.

One breaks fast.

Hercules sucks yoghurt

and acts cagey

poem || Matt Margo

sunkist ayn rand

ajax text gone tralala

constant heavy but significant stink

newspaperish oulipo jelly

my tongue you hatred

and them bees buzz blzzz

camera come and camera go

each day is different and the same as cocks

no more petting zoo blues

on this journey to the end of the poem

congratulations to the frogman

he swim a lil before croak

she spin in ivy ivory forecast

sword in hand is sword through hand

blinking the blankness away

poem || Lawrence Upton

silence held and cut down

Violence edited by cultural ears.

The English sounds choppy. We murder

to be reportage. Impossible

persons in a context of sin, invisible

champions, a characteristic answer.

It is hoping time once more.

Language deprives dialogue

relating to jealousies,

documentarily stuck objectively,

that regime of verbal history,

love, not scientific,

fluid inside experience,

the body of delusions,

all upturned, no idea;

quick face repeats the enormity of following,

pictures the massacre,

fact nothing, slashed,

the Christ meat and drippy trash,

human fragmented,

repetition using my head

repeats fear,

body verbs for warmth and light,

connecting words to perverse impulses,

an old music,

instruments known as news,

words together,

sensuality not instant,

not taking position,

silence held and cut down