BUT IT IS SLEEPING
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Issue eleven// Eche Udeze
#4
dismember all important parts
leave him a bloodied mess of thick glass
shattered in sunlight ---------disorganized in fragments
of hurt
all connected atop of neck is disheveled
a bum head ---------derelict daze ---------thick matted
hairy knots of flesh
and when cleaning
make sure not to dirty your own
clean hands
leave all in pails w/amber soaked mop
wring out all traces of emotion from frame
and no lights on in the rooms where
he spent his life
#6
her coronation ---------speaks
of ariel dancing on the sun
when my in drifts ---------towards her
now as if dirt rallied by wind
the triumph is ---------oblivion w/my
right hand
her dissension
is the freefall of a ---------liquor bottle
shattering into glint ---------off sun
ariel has landed
sinking into a stare as ---------empty
as an idiot ---------who refuses to take in
the last gust of the muses harp
her memory a scattering clutter
in a vacuous free space ---------I cannot forget
dismember all important parts
leave him a bloodied mess of thick glass
shattered in sunlight ---------disorganized in fragments
of hurt
all connected atop of neck is disheveled
a bum head ---------derelict daze ---------thick matted
hairy knots of flesh
and when cleaning
make sure not to dirty your own
clean hands
leave all in pails w/amber soaked mop
wring out all traces of emotion from frame
and no lights on in the rooms where
he spent his life
#6
her coronation ---------speaks
of ariel dancing on the sun
when my in drifts ---------towards her
now as if dirt rallied by wind
the triumph is ---------oblivion w/my
right hand
her dissension
is the freefall of a ---------liquor bottle
shattering into glint ---------off sun
ariel has landed
sinking into a stare as ---------empty
as an idiot ---------who refuses to take in
the last gust of the muses harp
her memory a scattering clutter
in a vacuous free space ---------I cannot forget
© Eche Udeze 2011
Issue eleven// Frank C. Praeger
A Question
A question,
subsequently, another,
pondering
the solemnity to the passage of days,
as even now riots of tansy, knapweed, Queen Ann's lace
make time decay as much an artifact
as unsubstantiated last
sundown's furtherest gleam, or grossest crackle,
cheep or to-wit-to-woo melange
of what -
bird songs,
grace?
Where goest thou who on another day
was I but am not but now
listed as missing,
yet, rested.
Enough.
A scattering of sounds
and further on, ----ashes.
A question,
subsequently, another,
pondering
the solemnity to the passage of days,
as even now riots of tansy, knapweed, Queen Ann's lace
make time decay as much an artifact
as unsubstantiated last
sundown's furtherest gleam, or grossest crackle,
cheep or to-wit-to-woo melange
of what -
bird songs,
grace?
Where goest thou who on another day
was I but am not but now
listed as missing,
yet, rested.
Enough.
A scattering of sounds
and further on, ----ashes.
© Frank C. Praeger 2011
Issue eleven// Ted Jean
Rectification
---… construction on the Hawthorne Bridge
---has things backed up to the Central Ex …
You found again love long mislaid,
where last you left it, home,
bringing a ring to bind what was ever bound.
---… bleeding in the 400 block of SW Mill;
---police are looking for a Hispanic man in his …
Betrayal, it seems, once practiced, is everywhere
apprehended. But, without a hitch,
the golden yoke I greeted, glad, and fastened.
---… an alternate route is advised. On a more
---upbeat note, today marks the kick-off of …
Regret is an astringent rinse, has sharpened
your sight, my sweet, of old love in a new light.
---… construction on the Hawthorne Bridge
---has things backed up to the Central Ex …
You found again love long mislaid,
where last you left it, home,
bringing a ring to bind what was ever bound.
---… bleeding in the 400 block of SW Mill;
---police are looking for a Hispanic man in his …
Betrayal, it seems, once practiced, is everywhere
apprehended. But, without a hitch,
the golden yoke I greeted, glad, and fastened.
---… an alternate route is advised. On a more
---upbeat note, today marks the kick-off of …
Regret is an astringent rinse, has sharpened
your sight, my sweet, of old love in a new light.
© Ted Jean 2011
-----
Ted Jean is a recently retired AIG executive. He writes, paints, plays lots of tennis. In the past year, his work has appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Denver Syntax, Blue Earth Review, Cirque, The Centrifugal Eye and several other publications.
Ted Jean is a recently retired AIG executive. He writes, paints, plays lots of tennis. In the past year, his work has appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Denver Syntax, Blue Earth Review, Cirque, The Centrifugal Eye and several other publications.
Issue eleven// Felino A. Soriano
This is the first of three pieces by Felino A. Soriano for Disingenuous Twaddle.
Look out for the next two in subsequent issues.
Approbations 683
—after Archie Shepp’s 'A Prayer'
Predicated on faithful fingers’
clawing ascended skin of air’s
scaly modification.
----------------------------------------Reach
with voice of swollen child
--------------------------------------------------aching
from primitive hankering of
sedentary movement
----------------------------therefore
absent
---------from
flailing revolutions of
second hand’s
cured notion:
----------------------------time of timid occultation
hurried hands across eyes’
miniscule acronyms
respelling interpreted follies
--------------------------------------------------known by name and
bodily position
isolated by kneeling and
faith’s current alteration.
Look out for the next two in subsequent issues.
Approbations 683
—after Archie Shepp’s 'A Prayer'
Predicated on faithful fingers’
clawing ascended skin of air’s
scaly modification.
----------------------------------------Reach
with voice of swollen child
--------------------------------------------------aching
from primitive hankering of
sedentary movement
----------------------------therefore
absent
---------from
flailing revolutions of
second hand’s
cured notion:
----------------------------time of timid occultation
hurried hands across eyes’
miniscule acronyms
respelling interpreted follies
--------------------------------------------------known by name and
bodily position
isolated by kneeling and
faith’s current alteration.
© Felino A. Soriano 2011
-----
Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He has authored 34 collections of poetry, including In Praise of Absolute Interpretation (Desperanto, 2010) and Realities of Bifocal Translations (Blue & Yellow Dog Press, 2010). He edits & publishes Counterexample Poetics, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. His website explains further.
Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He has authored 34 collections of poetry, including In Praise of Absolute Interpretation (Desperanto, 2010) and Realities of Bifocal Translations (Blue & Yellow Dog Press, 2010). He edits & publishes Counterexample Poetics, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. His website explains further.
Issue eleven// Howie Good
YELLOW
1
Everybody’s
morning
is different.
A seagull
doesn’t know
that it’s
a seagull,
only we
know that
and that its lidless
yellow eyes
are empty.
2
Only in old movies
do lovers escape
on an ice floe.
Your mind
whispers
to you
something
I can’t hear.
Later,
you’ll use
the worn
rubber nub
of a yellow
no. 2 pencil
to erase what
you’ve just
written.
1
Everybody’s
morning
is different.
A seagull
doesn’t know
that it’s
a seagull,
only we
know that
and that its lidless
yellow eyes
are empty.
2
Only in old movies
do lovers escape
on an ice floe.
Your mind
whispers
to you
something
I can’t hear.
Later,
you’ll use
the worn
rubber nub
of a yellow
no. 2 pencil
to erase what
you’ve just
written.
© Howie Good 2011
-----
Howie Good is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks. With Dale Wisely, he is the co-founder of
White Knuckle Press.
Howie Good is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks. With Dale Wisely, he is the co-founder of
White Knuckle Press.
Issue eleven// Jack C. Buck
A girl named Savannah
Savannah used to have a fella who would come through her apartment door with an anxious to see you smile. They met at the university. The friends and families celebrated with the two at their summer wedding four years back. They were so excited about life, all the possibilities it had. They even bought a nice home on Elk St. to call their own. Her husband no longer greets her with the boyish smile of excitement when he steps through the door. The door slams shut at 5:21, unless he stops after work to purchase some milk - then it’s around 5:33; depending on who is working behind the cash register on that particular day. Men drive cars. Men watch television. Men drink beers instead of splitting red wine with their once adored wives. Men fuck 19-year-old Asian girls with their right hand in front of the glow of a computer screen. Men stay busy.
Savannah used to have a fella who would come through her apartment door with an anxious to see you smile. They met at the university. The friends and families celebrated with the two at their summer wedding four years back. They were so excited about life, all the possibilities it had. They even bought a nice home on Elk St. to call their own. Her husband no longer greets her with the boyish smile of excitement when he steps through the door. The door slams shut at 5:21, unless he stops after work to purchase some milk - then it’s around 5:33; depending on who is working behind the cash register on that particular day. Men drive cars. Men watch television. Men drink beers instead of splitting red wine with their once adored wives. Men fuck 19-year-old Asian girls with their right hand in front of the glow of a computer screen. Men stay busy.
© Jack C. Buck 2011
-----
Jack C. Buck’s three favorite things in life are baseball, summers in Michigan, and literature. Especially by a man with the last name Fitzgerald. He is currently trying to figure out where to go next in the grand play of life. After attending Central Michigan University where he studied the art of greed and the illusion of democracy of Political Science, he realised thereafter the importance of not getting in a huff and puff about what you can't control.
Jack C. Buck’s three favorite things in life are baseball, summers in Michigan, and literature. Especially by a man with the last name Fitzgerald. He is currently trying to figure out where to go next in the grand play of life. After attending Central Michigan University where he studied the art of greed and the illusion of democracy of Political Science, he realised thereafter the importance of not getting in a huff and puff about what you can't control.
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Issue ten// Rani M. Moesq
Wastage
Dead
Twen
ty
th
ree
Splat
turd
a fly
on
a swat
splat
ter
dead!
A
step
too
far
Gone!
Left
loose
thread
caught
in
wind
from reaper
Cruel
cut!
© Rani M. Moesq 2011
-----
Rani M. Moesq has taught English language in a number of countries. She has lectured on aspects of English Literature, has written the book, lyrics and music for two musical comedies and had poetry, short stories, essays and books for children published in Singapore, Australia and New Zealand. A member of the New Zealand Society of Authors, she is a full-time writer and is at present working on a novel set in pre and post-war Singapore.
Rani M. Moesq has taught English language in a number of countries. She has lectured on aspects of English Literature, has written the book, lyrics and music for two musical comedies and had poetry, short stories, essays and books for children published in Singapore, Australia and New Zealand. A member of the New Zealand Society of Authors, she is a full-time writer and is at present working on a novel set in pre and post-war Singapore.
Issue ten// Phylinda Moore
Just Before
the air turns green, pink, or sometimes yellow
like a bruise
animals still, birds quiet
listen
in heavy waiting air
watch
steel grey clouds wall across the sky
the animal in you is wary
look
the hook snares the ground
if it comes
sound runs a freightliner over paper
you throw
to the ground– your only,
tenuous hope
and pray
God spare you
this destruction
© Phylinda Moore 2011
-----
Phylinda Moore lives in Philadelphia. Journals where her work has
been published include: Bogg, The Rambler, RiverSedge, and Sierra Nevada College Review.
Phylinda Moore lives in Philadelphia. Journals where her work has
been published include: Bogg, The Rambler, RiverSedge, and Sierra Nevada College Review.
Issue ten// Donal Mahoney
Sitting Shiva in a Hotel Lobby
For a year this image has haunted me.
Over and over I hear on the gramophone
Cohen put in my ear
“Feature this:
On a crowded elevator
a strange woman in a baseball cap
unbuttons your fly.”
That image is on the ceiling every night
as I sit shiva in the lobby
of this small hotel,
a hookah, like a tired cobra,
coiled at my feet,
a shamrock in my buttonhole
dead from the last parade.
Night after night,
I think about this strange woman
as each hour I watch
the doors of the elevator
part and give birth.
I observe each new guest carefully,
hoping the woman in the baseball cap
will tire of the rain and ride up
in the elevator and register.
I want her to sit in the lobby
and talk with us.
We who are guests here forever
have eons to hear
what she has to say.
We have paid our rent in advance.
We can afford to sit here and see.
© Donal Mahoney 2011
-----
Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for the Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria) and Revival (Ireland).
Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for the Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria) and Revival (Ireland).
Issue ten// Garrett Ashley
Nell
He says, "Plans are only ruined as they are made."
I say, "We have a week to worry, long enough to rest."
They say, "But it may rain, or something. The wind
Will pick up and catch us having fun."
I say, "So we will reschedule."
They say, "We shouldn't make plans at all."
He says, "Plans are only ruined as they are made."
She says, "The tents are packed and the wind will blow
Them away.
I say, "Let the wind blow, that is the way of nature."
They say, "We'll have blankets, and a fire if it's too cold."
I say, "And darkness to protect us from the animal and the stranger."
My mother comes into the room, tears on her cheeks, she says,
"Nell is dead; there was a gas leak, now they're all gone."
I say, no I think—we think—maybe it's better
That we never make any plans at all.
Reflection
Blue is the ugliest color, mercury
Blue with a hint of delight
And a fusion of circumstances
I have not controlled.
The color of an eye—not a pair, one
Open pupil wide, seeing
Through the angry lines, but
Never hearing, it turns white,
And loses sight, deserving, probably.
I hope that eye never loses
The memory of the things it has seen.
© Garrett Ashley 2011
-----
Garrett Ashley lives in MS and studies English at The University of Southern Mississippi. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in more than a dozen publications including Brain Harvest, The Bloody Bridge Review, The Smoking Poet, and M Brane SF. Currently he enjoys juggling cats.
Garrett Ashley lives in MS and studies English at The University of Southern Mississippi. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in more than a dozen publications including Brain Harvest, The Bloody Bridge Review, The Smoking Poet, and M Brane SF. Currently he enjoys juggling cats.
Issue ten// Brandon Copeland
On this banal plain
what is that saying?
oh.
darkest before dawn?
and i will keep
holding out my tongue
because each ending
is a different flavor of darkness
no abyss or bliss
just shades of existence,
in the twilight
and the morning repeating
© Brandon Copeland 2011
-----
Brandon Copeland, 29, is a social justice activist and writer
originally from Kentucky. His website, Nascence, can be visited here.
Brandon Copeland, 29, is a social justice activist and writer
originally from Kentucky. His website, Nascence, can be visited here.
Issue ten //Derrick A. Paulson
Scribbled Extinct
This morning at the corner coffee shop I overheard the tail
end of a heated conversation in a booth adjacent to mine
between a triceratops and an astronomer. I had assumed
they were discussing their choices in beverages when I first
sat down, had even snickered to myself at the ironic thought
that this armored dinosaur could be drinking a turtle mocha. I
had also quickly stifled a laugh into the crossword section of
my newspaper at the association between “stargazer”
and “Starbucks” (as well as at the coincidence that the
former was the answer to four across). “It doesn’t matter how
cold it is,” the astronomer said, exasperated. “What’s
important is the size of the thing.” “I, for one, am opposed”
snorted the triceratops, “whole textbooks will have to be
overhauled, forthcoming ones recalled, all because of a
minor classification discrepancy.” “Minor?” repeated the
astronomer, “there’re tons of things that would’ve had to be
considered planetary in our galaxy alone, including some
asteroids, if Pluto had stayed a planet.” “Don’t mention
asteroids,” shivered the triceratops. Then, to regain his
composure, he said coolly: “I thought the term ‘dwarf’ was
dysphemistic in contemporary times?” I sipped my cold
coffee, scribbled “extinct” into fifteen across. “It’s completely
fine to call Pluto a dwarf planet,” said the astronomer, “it’s
not going to get offended and start protesting the IAU
committee’s decision—leave it to the misinformed mass to
do that.” His remark was as pointed as his companion’s
horn’s. “Do you imply that I am missing something?” the
triceratops asked as he rubbed the thinning bone of his frill,
unable to check the agitation in his voice. “Your tenure
doesn’t ensure your competence,” replied the astronomer.
Even I could sense there was something akin to an elephant
in the room. I tried to focus on my crossword, to ignore the
silence that followed. The clue for fifteen down: “Cretaceous
ceratopsid” seemed so familiar, yet, for the life of me I
couldn’t place it. When I looked up again the astronomer
was turning a melting ice cube from his emptied glass over
and over in his hand, and the triceratops was gone.
© Derrick A. Paulson 2011
-----
Derrick A. Paulson (26) is a M.F.A. candidate in creative writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His previous works of poetry and prose have been included in Lovechild, Red Weather, and the Gander Press Review.
Derrick A. Paulson (26) is a M.F.A. candidate in creative writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His previous works of poetry and prose have been included in Lovechild, Red Weather, and the Gander Press Review.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Issue nine// Paul Handley
Poetry Loves Genius
___+03=standing water
-------By Homer
___+03=standing water
-------By Homer
© Paul Handley 2010
-----
Paul Handley has poems included or forthcoming in publications such as Anemone Sidecar, Carcinogenic Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Pemmican and others.
Paul Handley has poems included or forthcoming in publications such as Anemone Sidecar, Carcinogenic Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Pemmican and others.
Issue nine// Tom Sheehan
Rimnents (on cudi, but not y)
My grendfethir ren thi coty damp,
barnid clonkirs on e lottli huasi
hi medi uf screp. Un culd noghts dranks
slipt on thet meki-shoft hevin.
Thiy kniw thi wolcumi uf hos fori,
thi mingir’s stuvi tu wrep eruand,
hut carbong tu prup culd fiit,
qaock doffirinci frum thi fruzin eor,
wond-swipt reolrued trecks, beri intry weys,
derkniss whiri huwlong ghusts ebodi
ur, lest risurt, slom cerdbuerd wrep.
Thi lust, lunily bords cemi tu ruust,
fliw on et dask. Hi stukid thi fori
tu stor ap flemis, droid thior fiethers uff.
Jast es uftin hi lift hos lanch ebuat
loki testy sait hengong on thi yerd.
Un Setardeys O bruaght hos lanch,
dinsi lemonetis uf miet end bried,
thock end hievy end cuersi es son,
bruwn benene wi wuald nut iet,
mulessis-bruwn cuffii on whoskiy buttlis
wuand ebuat woth pepir begs.
O nivir sew ivin uni pont buttli
fonoshid uff wothon hos gresp,
rerily sew hos smell bint hend fiilong
onsodi e pepir big. Hos bords
dod thi pockong, hed sait chuoci,
hins donong bifuri thi cuck.
Whin hi doid thiy cemi tu groivi
thi sevouar uf thior noghts,
thi drankin, bisuttid, bruthirid bend
whu su uftin dreonid hos cap,
thi muttli-skonnid, thi suarid uf lofi,
peli hust, thi werrid apun end bietin,
thiy cemi tu cechi thi lottli men
whu uffirid whet wes lift uf Gud.
My grendfethir ren thi coty damp,
barnid clonkirs on e lottli huasi
hi medi uf screp. Un culd noghts dranks
slipt on thet meki-shoft hevin.
Thiy kniw thi wolcumi uf hos fori,
thi mingir’s stuvi tu wrep eruand,
hut carbong tu prup culd fiit,
qaock doffirinci frum thi fruzin eor,
wond-swipt reolrued trecks, beri intry weys,
derkniss whiri huwlong ghusts ebodi
ur, lest risurt, slom cerdbuerd wrep.
Thi lust, lunily bords cemi tu ruust,
fliw on et dask. Hi stukid thi fori
tu stor ap flemis, droid thior fiethers uff.
Jast es uftin hi lift hos lanch ebuat
loki testy sait hengong on thi yerd.
Un Setardeys O bruaght hos lanch,
dinsi lemonetis uf miet end bried,
thock end hievy end cuersi es son,
bruwn benene wi wuald nut iet,
mulessis-bruwn cuffii on whoskiy buttlis
wuand ebuat woth pepir begs.
O nivir sew ivin uni pont buttli
fonoshid uff wothon hos gresp,
rerily sew hos smell bint hend fiilong
onsodi e pepir big. Hos bords
dod thi pockong, hed sait chuoci,
hins donong bifuri thi cuck.
Whin hi doid thiy cemi tu groivi
thi sevouar uf thior noghts,
thi drankin, bisuttid, bruthirid bend
whu su uftin dreonid hos cap,
thi muttli-skonnid, thi suarid uf lofi,
peli hust, thi werrid apun end bietin,
thiy cemi tu cechi thi lottli men
whu uffirid whet wes lift uf Gud.
© Tom Sheehan 2010
-----
Tom Sheehan’s books are Epic Cures and Brief Cases, Short Spans, Press 53; A Collection of Friends and From the Quickening, Pocol Press. Poetry collections include The Saugus Book; Ah, Devon Unbowed; and This Rare Earth & Other Flights. He served with the 31st Infantry Regiment in Korea in 1951. He has 14 Pushcart nominations, the Georges Simenon Award for fiction, included in the Dzanc Best of the Web Anthology for 2009 and nominated for Best of the Web 2010.
Tom Sheehan’s books are Epic Cures and Brief Cases, Short Spans, Press 53; A Collection of Friends and From the Quickening, Pocol Press. Poetry collections include The Saugus Book; Ah, Devon Unbowed; and This Rare Earth & Other Flights. He served with the 31st Infantry Regiment in Korea in 1951. He has 14 Pushcart nominations, the Georges Simenon Award for fiction, included in the Dzanc Best of the Web Anthology for 2009 and nominated for Best of the Web 2010.
Issue nine// Mike Berger
Dead Poets
Champagne skies crash down;
revealing the realms of dead poets.
All reciting lines; the lyrical blend
is a rancorous chorus.
Sitting at the massive elliptical table,
they indulge in cheese and wine. Each
struggles to be heard above the din.
Humble poets all; reciting their well
crafted lines. Each thinking the others
don't compare. Sitting back you can't
help but smile, impressed by their
profound sense of humility.
Only the bard sits silent, he has nothing
to prove.
Champagne skies crash down;
revealing the realms of dead poets.
All reciting lines; the lyrical blend
is a rancorous chorus.
Sitting at the massive elliptical table,
they indulge in cheese and wine. Each
struggles to be heard above the din.
Humble poets all; reciting their well
crafted lines. Each thinking the others
don't compare. Sitting back you can't
help but smile, impressed by their
profound sense of humility.
Only the bard sits silent, he has nothing
to prove.
© Mike Berger 2010
-----
Mike Berger PhD is bright, articulate, handsome, and extremely humble.
Mike Berger PhD is bright, articulate, handsome, and extremely humble.
Issue nine// Victoria Behn
Good Cause Is
© Victoria Behn 2010
-----
© Victoria Behn 2010Between bouts of frenzied procrastination, Victoria Behn transfers scraps of her tainted filtrations into shapes that some people claim to understand. She believes that art does not require supporting information. Her chief pleasure involves turning shapes on a page into damp cheeks or gaping mouths.
Issue nine// Thomas Mundt
Sexy Girls of the Hollywood
Come Monday morning, all Freddie could think about was Sexy Girls of the Hollywood, a lingerie boutique on Lawrence. He saw the storefront for the first time over the weekend and it'd been stock car racing around his frontal lobe ever since.
As a matter of strict physics, he was standing on the bathroom's frozen tile, waiting for his never-ending morning piss to subside so that he could rescue a near-incinerated strudel from the toaster oven. But Freddie was really back on that sidewalk in Albany Park, gawking at bad grammar and pastel delicates.
Sexy Girls. Pause. Of the Hollywood. Not ...of Hollywood, or ...from Hollywood. Sexy Girls. Pause. Of the Hollywood.
Freddie knew some FOB's came up with the name. FOB's are funny, he thought. They come so close to getting it right.
***
During his Western Civ class, Freddie flipped through his spiral notebook in search of blank pages. He found he only had one left. Better make this one a keeper, he thought. He withdrew a mechanical pencil from his messenger bag and clicked it until graphite appeared. Then he began to sketch an ink-haired woman in a garter set. She was all legs and he was perfect in his geometry, paying careful attention to detail as he unfurled her latticed nylons down her gams. When it was time to add breasts, Freddie made sure they were proportional.
Not too big, not too small, he thought. Like a real lady would have.
***
At lunch Freddie was a geyser, went on and on about his trip to Albany Park to his buddy Mitch. He sang of lithe coeds parading around Sexy Girls' storefront in miniscule bra and panty sets, of Woodstock-level exhibitionism just a stone's throw from his tía's new three-flat.
I'm talkin' a whole grip of 'em, Freddie beamed. I'm talkin' tits like ka-pow! Asses like goddamn! He told Mitch he was sure they all did sets at the Admiral, probably made a killing off all the dudes coming in from O'Hare. They were that hot.
You gotta check it out, Freddie implored. Like, today.
Mitch snorted, cracked wise about having his secretary clear his schedule.
Shit better be good.
***
On the westbound Lawrence bus, Freddie wondered if it was too late to abort. He didn't want to go inside. I don't have to, if I don't want to, he thought. He could leave. He could pull the cord to stop at Francisco and just book. He could run clear east to Uptown, to his hermana's high-rise. There he could take an elevator to the top floor and jump into Lake Michigan. All of that would be better than going inside.
***
Mitch snapped his Orbit as he watched a liver-spotted man in a Members Only jacket drape a pink feather boa around the neck of a mannequin. The fuck, he winced. I don't see any chicks. He then whipped a half-empty Coke bottle at the window. The twenty-ounce made a dull thud against the plate glass and fell to the sidewalk without spilling its contents. The man inside Sexy Girls cursed Mitch in a language he'd never heard before, a string of consonants played at 45 RPM, before resuming his handiwork.
You fuckin' lied, Mitch leveled at Freddie. He then turned and walked in the direction of The Benches, off to burn a blunt with whomever. Freddie was already next door, pretending to look at VHS tapes in a Korean bookstore's window display.
Fuck you, Polack, he thought. No one put a gun to your head.
***
After saying his prayers, Freddie got up off his knees and locked his bedroom door. He then unbuckled his belt and let his gamey jeans fall to the carpet. He didn't bother to step out of the puddle of denim around his ankles. The notebook was ready, waiting for him on the corner of his desk. He opened it and leafed through page after page of notes about marauding Romans until he got to the sketch. He gave the woman one last once-over, burned her form into his brain. Then he closed his eyes and drew back the taut elastic of his boxers.
She's perfect, he thought. Not too big, not too small.
***
Come Monday morning, all Freddie could think about was Sexy Girls of the Hollywood, a lingerie boutique on Lawrence. He saw the storefront for the first time over the weekend and it'd been stock car racing around his frontal lobe ever since.
As a matter of strict physics, he was standing on the bathroom's frozen tile, waiting for his never-ending morning piss to subside so that he could rescue a near-incinerated strudel from the toaster oven. But Freddie was really back on that sidewalk in Albany Park, gawking at bad grammar and pastel delicates.
Sexy Girls. Pause. Of the Hollywood. Not ...of Hollywood, or ...from Hollywood. Sexy Girls. Pause. Of the Hollywood.
Freddie knew some FOB's came up with the name. FOB's are funny, he thought. They come so close to getting it right.
***
During his Western Civ class, Freddie flipped through his spiral notebook in search of blank pages. He found he only had one left. Better make this one a keeper, he thought. He withdrew a mechanical pencil from his messenger bag and clicked it until graphite appeared. Then he began to sketch an ink-haired woman in a garter set. She was all legs and he was perfect in his geometry, paying careful attention to detail as he unfurled her latticed nylons down her gams. When it was time to add breasts, Freddie made sure they were proportional.
Not too big, not too small, he thought. Like a real lady would have.
***
At lunch Freddie was a geyser, went on and on about his trip to Albany Park to his buddy Mitch. He sang of lithe coeds parading around Sexy Girls' storefront in miniscule bra and panty sets, of Woodstock-level exhibitionism just a stone's throw from his tía's new three-flat.
I'm talkin' a whole grip of 'em, Freddie beamed. I'm talkin' tits like ka-pow! Asses like goddamn! He told Mitch he was sure they all did sets at the Admiral, probably made a killing off all the dudes coming in from O'Hare. They were that hot.
You gotta check it out, Freddie implored. Like, today.
Mitch snorted, cracked wise about having his secretary clear his schedule.
Shit better be good.
***
On the westbound Lawrence bus, Freddie wondered if it was too late to abort. He didn't want to go inside. I don't have to, if I don't want to, he thought. He could leave. He could pull the cord to stop at Francisco and just book. He could run clear east to Uptown, to his hermana's high-rise. There he could take an elevator to the top floor and jump into Lake Michigan. All of that would be better than going inside.
***
Mitch snapped his Orbit as he watched a liver-spotted man in a Members Only jacket drape a pink feather boa around the neck of a mannequin. The fuck, he winced. I don't see any chicks. He then whipped a half-empty Coke bottle at the window. The twenty-ounce made a dull thud against the plate glass and fell to the sidewalk without spilling its contents. The man inside Sexy Girls cursed Mitch in a language he'd never heard before, a string of consonants played at 45 RPM, before resuming his handiwork.
You fuckin' lied, Mitch leveled at Freddie. He then turned and walked in the direction of The Benches, off to burn a blunt with whomever. Freddie was already next door, pretending to look at VHS tapes in a Korean bookstore's window display.
Fuck you, Polack, he thought. No one put a gun to your head.
***
After saying his prayers, Freddie got up off his knees and locked his bedroom door. He then unbuckled his belt and let his gamey jeans fall to the carpet. He didn't bother to step out of the puddle of denim around his ankles. The notebook was ready, waiting for him on the corner of his desk. He opened it and leafed through page after page of notes about marauding Romans until he got to the sketch. He gave the woman one last once-over, burned her form into his brain. Then he closed his eyes and drew back the taut elastic of his boxers.
She's perfect, he thought. Not too big, not too small.
***
© Thomas Mundt 2010
-----
Thomas Mundt lives in Chicago. The nice people at Thieves Jargon, Dogzplot, Wigleaf, NANO Fiction and Hobart have published his recent stuff. His whole megillah can be found here.
Thomas Mundt lives in Chicago. The nice people at Thieves Jargon, Dogzplot, Wigleaf, NANO Fiction and Hobart have published his recent stuff. His whole megillah can be found here.
Issue nine// satnrose
IS THIS TOMORROW?
a troped poem by satnrose
lie his lie is his and your lie is yours the remnants of blood again bored
redder but there's a bread sometimes the solution saw the pulse that salt
seeds in cherry but I know without her way second back the endless nut
this is the last nothing he looks running up and rocks a long kiss making
this a time for everything but to aim one then one must be aware of it
but you can in you and it can be everlasting except she ran steps as far
away from you as she could get but it was false as music between say
the thing was where you hurt there's a sea melting forsaken at a comm-
unist pace the rain again today on this very earth a cardinal can give a
kill and maybe and gone yourself worth spring the detective from jail
and you’ll know the twice with the old going they now survive on leave
shall we just butter the toast and not filch nothing finding yourself numb
and unable to celebrate won't you live a guess my wife hears in spark ha-
ppy! tears you gave for me make me forget hell it’s cruel and the sound
of the click of the shutter means the photograph has been transferred to
glass I lit out of the house so baby let us decide now but decades down
the road we must pay ransom so the death dogs won’t come looking for
us I forgot mine I have no blood left and say if the sycamore boy is right
and the ice if having as hysteria and dawn for you if there is an impatient
difference the won't would be the only thing that made a difference and
if only I could wake lying here with the six beekeepers one for me and
one for you and the other for for I’m not sure the fool central is central
to the argument so don't tell me how much time I have and have we seen
eye-to-eye? not who was unable between getting beneath a million or the
increases but at the next turn taking missionaries as knee-babies tonight
maybe bread jets in nicely in for the whole lot and maybe you can hide
after all but don't it see you doing the what if and what I came to this sw-
eet place this street where the universe is plainly visible but I awake for
just cause and have the stones only to go away my heart it is the dream
and you when there is here with which maybe who could so take foot
and turn that around moving by touch the clock offered pity and always
there is fighting starting somewhere no matter where I stand by as what's
invasive there's a light ticking rhythm in the sun so just go let go of the
one and when burning simply leave start the near sun all over again be-
fore he jumps before he is ready given the terrified doorway called before
you I maintain here the same sunflower and then when the One does co-
me come they’re like monkeys that even if you stop go down blue tomo-
rrow is solid and the train can take us much further I have a feeling any-
way that by deep laughing even the dust will no longer be waiting this is
all I get and what I cannot accept are the years in which its awakening
suddenly the cold digs into my skin and the sun is flying past the window
and those still in the gutter are up better than we know we just have to
last long enough to here blood will tell so our intentions are noble our
appetite is a dog what you want you dissolved in crimes day after day
there's fear and then there are yesterdays you have your own cross to
bear what you see in the mirror reflects the before words time and by
falling go if you will the line you crossed is the line you lost the wolf
of our season will maybe maybe be your last friend the room shakes it
must be an earthquake the haves who have the trickery put out the fire
I am stuck with what I think is a block of time all you say came as you
remembered it was stupid to kiss the sky he said but why not try there's
people out there making babies there’s sparrows pecking through the
corpses on the battlefield there’s snow blooming so raise steady or you
will lose what was dreamed and possibly even yourself in the process
when you get that cold you pay and December is old meanwhile the ba-
ttle continues and the such and the saved saved are crying and there’s
nothing I can do about it I tried to staunch the blood but it was hopeless
be that as it may tears fall as black as the sun the secret of being what I
meant to be said was that the nothing but heart can still be just as cruel
when trying to be kind as when trying to kill tell me is this tomorrow?
a troped poem by satnrose
lie his lie is his and your lie is yours the remnants of blood again bored
redder but there's a bread sometimes the solution saw the pulse that salt
seeds in cherry but I know without her way second back the endless nut
this is the last nothing he looks running up and rocks a long kiss making
this a time for everything but to aim one then one must be aware of it
but you can in you and it can be everlasting except she ran steps as far
away from you as she could get but it was false as music between say
the thing was where you hurt there's a sea melting forsaken at a comm-
unist pace the rain again today on this very earth a cardinal can give a
kill and maybe and gone yourself worth spring the detective from jail
and you’ll know the twice with the old going they now survive on leave
shall we just butter the toast and not filch nothing finding yourself numb
and unable to celebrate won't you live a guess my wife hears in spark ha-
ppy! tears you gave for me make me forget hell it’s cruel and the sound
of the click of the shutter means the photograph has been transferred to
glass I lit out of the house so baby let us decide now but decades down
the road we must pay ransom so the death dogs won’t come looking for
us I forgot mine I have no blood left and say if the sycamore boy is right
and the ice if having as hysteria and dawn for you if there is an impatient
difference the won't would be the only thing that made a difference and
if only I could wake lying here with the six beekeepers one for me and
one for you and the other for for I’m not sure the fool central is central
to the argument so don't tell me how much time I have and have we seen
eye-to-eye? not who was unable between getting beneath a million or the
increases but at the next turn taking missionaries as knee-babies tonight
maybe bread jets in nicely in for the whole lot and maybe you can hide
after all but don't it see you doing the what if and what I came to this sw-
eet place this street where the universe is plainly visible but I awake for
just cause and have the stones only to go away my heart it is the dream
and you when there is here with which maybe who could so take foot
and turn that around moving by touch the clock offered pity and always
there is fighting starting somewhere no matter where I stand by as what's
invasive there's a light ticking rhythm in the sun so just go let go of the
one and when burning simply leave start the near sun all over again be-
fore he jumps before he is ready given the terrified doorway called before
you I maintain here the same sunflower and then when the One does co-
me come they’re like monkeys that even if you stop go down blue tomo-
rrow is solid and the train can take us much further I have a feeling any-
way that by deep laughing even the dust will no longer be waiting this is
all I get and what I cannot accept are the years in which its awakening
suddenly the cold digs into my skin and the sun is flying past the window
and those still in the gutter are up better than we know we just have to
last long enough to here blood will tell so our intentions are noble our
appetite is a dog what you want you dissolved in crimes day after day
there's fear and then there are yesterdays you have your own cross to
bear what you see in the mirror reflects the before words time and by
falling go if you will the line you crossed is the line you lost the wolf
of our season will maybe maybe be your last friend the room shakes it
must be an earthquake the haves who have the trickery put out the fire
I am stuck with what I think is a block of time all you say came as you
remembered it was stupid to kiss the sky he said but why not try there's
people out there making babies there’s sparrows pecking through the
corpses on the battlefield there’s snow blooming so raise steady or you
will lose what was dreamed and possibly even yourself in the process
when you get that cold you pay and December is old meanwhile the ba-
ttle continues and the such and the saved saved are crying and there’s
nothing I can do about it I tried to staunch the blood but it was hopeless
be that as it may tears fall as black as the sun the secret of being what I
meant to be said was that the nothing but heart can still be just as cruel
when trying to be kind as when trying to kill tell me is this tomorrow?
© satnrose 2010
-----
satnrose is a well-known antiquarian bookseller, and formerly a not-so-secret messenger in the innermost depths of Capitol Hill and K Street. He has been published in a number of literary magazines, but since his reincarnation as 'satnrose' last year, he has been published in Evergreen Review, Iconoclast, Danse Macabre and Counterexample Poetics, among others.
satnrose is a well-known antiquarian bookseller, and formerly a not-so-secret messenger in the innermost depths of Capitol Hill and K Street. He has been published in a number of literary magazines, but since his reincarnation as 'satnrose' last year, he has been published in Evergreen Review, Iconoclast, Danse Macabre and Counterexample Poetics, among others.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Issue eight// Rebecca L. Brown
Shed Shadow
The shadow
Our neighbours’
Brand new shed
With the dark
Stained wood
Panelling
Is casting on
The side of
Our house
Appears to be
The same shape
As this poem.
© Rebecca L. Brown 2010
The shadow
Our neighbours’
Brand new shed
With the dark
Stained wood
Panelling
Is casting on
The side of
Our house
Appears to be
The same shape
As this poem.
© Rebecca L. Brown 2010
-----
Rebecca L. Brown (25) is a British writer currently based in Cardiff, South Wales. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost. Updates and examples of Rebecca’s work can be found on her Twitter @rlbrownwriter and in her blog Bewildering Circumstances.
Rebecca L. Brown (25) is a British writer currently based in Cardiff, South Wales. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost. Updates and examples of Rebecca’s work can be found on her Twitter @rlbrownwriter and in her blog Bewildering Circumstances.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)