Poetry

Poetry
George Anderson
BLACK T-SHIRT . A young woman with multiple silver eye-brow studs . waits in line for a health shake. . She wears a black t-shirt with bold white writing and smiling, turns to face me: . YOU INSPIRE MY INNER SERIAL KILLER ...

Poetry
Tohm Bakelas
So much ass flab and poorly implanted tits shaking in my direction shaking in my face I tell the whores to fuck off I tell them I’m not interested only one complies and wanders off she returns with wine for herself and a beer for me “I didn’t pay...

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
We the undersigned wish to register with you, the good people of the internet, our disappointment that our one time mentor-therapist-guru with whom we have fallen totally out of love, appears to be dying more slowly than we the undersigned would like. . Unmentionable now in the company women of our status aspire...

Poetry
Patricia Walsh
Vomiting against the wind, hungover sacrosanct, presenting itself through a badge of honour, traipsing through the streets, a homely sight, more surprises championed against growing up sympathised through another disposition. . This goodly act, slighting for better entertainment, what happens upstairs stays there, coffee aside, working through swathes of imperfect...

Poetry
Lourdes Vega
I was found hospice. Force fed opiate and emptied of emotion
I coaxed catatonia, seducing it with my innate vulnerability.
I called the easiest escapade and he answered.
Man deserving nothing less than a bullet between the eyes, but somehow managing much...

Poetry
Peter Marra
There is always beauty in the hissing sounds. The alternating camera speeds reveal a long-lashed woman; touching experimental films, she has a forceful birth to destroy Hollywood a local documentary, a psychodrama, and a spectacle of piano crashes— so dramatic in the cinema on King’s Highway in Brooklyn three prostitutes wear clear...

Poetry
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
I had expensive clothes. My cufflinks were worth more than your yearly salary. Meanwhile, roaches crawled around his clothes kept in a cheap garbage bag. There were no cufflinks there, no fancy dress shirt or any type of long sleeve shirt inside the bag. I had a jacket there...

Poetry
John Sweet
a river through the desert, late December, this dust-colored sky at sunset, these silent houses down dead-end streets . church spires and the taste of road salt . accidental overdose behind the car wash . got a houseful of true believers and a can of gasoline . got a hidden camera to film the blow jobs...