Archive for January, 2013

Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

brad


Bettie Page

did you see her
in that magazine
or comic book
cover of a pulp
or dirty little stag film
did you see her …

bondage, spanking, whips
jungle girl
wild cat
playing with leopards
or vacuuming the rug
in French maid attire
all good
but nothing without
her smile

did you see her smile …

fishnets
50’s bikinis
garters and high heels
but did you see her killer fringe,

bangs to shoot bullets by
breasts bursting from
sexy bras
low-cut everything
and buttons unbuttoning,
naked
nude
raw she was, sometimes
with curves
real
and fine and foxy
and
did you see her …

did you see her while driving
your red hot-rod and drinking xxx
whiskey and runnin
from the cops

rockabilly roadsters
fetish queens
and tattooed whores in bitchin
blue jeans

you owe all to her
mini-skirts and slutty lipstick
slutty, beautiful
lip
stick …

Rebecca Schumejda

Posted in Rebecca Schumejda with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

What We Use Against One Another

You are thin as a celery stalk
and I, a Bosch pear.

Your feet and hands icicles
from September to June.

In the shower, I use up
all the hot water.

You get the bathmat wet.

I use your toothbrush

your razors

your deodorant.

There are piles of wet leaves
in our yard,
we will let decompose.

Snow and silences

cover blemishes.

Three rakes are truths
hidden under
rubbish in the shed.

On trash days, you wait

until the truck rounds the corner.

Instead of cleaning the fridge,
I push everything back
to make more room.

I ask the same questions
from a dozen different angles.

At parties, when I drink too much,
I paint us naked without consideration.

But, morning afters,
the empty bottle of Aspirin,
you leave in the medicine cabinet,

is much more telling.

rebecca

ROB PLATH

Posted in Rob Plath on January 6, 2013 by Scot

either death nor liferob plath

people always
complain
to
me
about
writer’s block

& i don’t understand
this phenomenon

a while back
a good friend gave me this
old typewriter

which i don’t actually write on
but one night when i was drunk
i put a skull
that i use as a paperweight
on top of it

resting where
the blank page would be
the empty sockets
stared back at me
the jaw hovering
over the tiers of keys

maybe they wouldn’t be
stumped for poems
if this skinless head
greeted them
before
they
wrote

but no, they neither
see death
nor
life
_________

well maybe not so good

i can
feel
it
shifting

if
i
really
quiet
myself

this hour
week
month
year

these people
these places

shifting
slower
than
smoke
dissolving
in
a
room
on
a
sunday
morning

this
marvelous
gravy
of
the
present

turning
into
the
proverbial
“good
old
days”
___________

in between atrophy and a pine box there are cages

i don’t know
what’s worse:

the medical field
feeding off
people’s fear
of dying
or
the funeral
business
taking advantage
of people’s
loss

or

in
between
staving off
shitting
our pants
& shelling out
for our own
box-in-a-hole

the
powers
that fucking be
making
us
all
pay
dearly
to
stay
out
of
those
human
fucking
cages

Misti Rainwater-Lites

Posted in Misti Rainwater-Lites with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

misti

4th Move in 3 Long Years

I Dermoplast my pits.
Burned by the razor again.
I’m bleeding like I do,
staining granny panties
and apple green sheets.
The food is packed so I
chew cinnamon gum
and read Carson McCullers.
I remember that feeling.
Itchy nipples at twelve.
Hollering at the older boy
across the street
because he was mocking
my passionate belief in Jesus.
He wasn’t afraid of Hell
and that pissed me off so bad
I wanted to kick
his balls.

In another part of the state
my daughter is twelve,
soon to be thirteen.
I wish her less passion,
less boxes to pack,
less tacks to thumb
on maps to say
I Was Here.

F.N. Wright

Posted in F.N. Wright with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

Just How Things Are With Me Todayfred

I walk
head down
into a fierce wind
that cuts through my soul
like well-honed straight razors

flashbacks of my father’s
barber shop & when he’d
whip my bare ass
with the strop

my belly has quit growling
& left me in hunt of food

my right hand has fallen off
ashamed of the killing it has done
not to mention the begging for
enough money for a bottle
of cheap Tokay

my past is tired of nipping
at my heels like some angry dog
& will go for the throat
before sundown

the vultures circle overhead
descending with each step
I take
knowing it will be their time
soon.