Archive for July, 2016

SEX CHANGE by Alfonso Colasuonno

Posted in Alfonso Colasuonno with tags on July 11, 2016 by Scot

He looked like
a Kennedy.
Spoke like
an American.
But his
colors ran
when his
girl told him
she was going
to be a he.


Posted in John D Robinson with tags on July 11, 2016 by Scot

Born in Havana in 1891 to farming
labourer parents; he emigrated
to Miami in about 1920;
his livelihood was cigar rolling and
tobacconist and then he
moved to NYC and then
finally to Philadelphia;
he married and gained a son
and everyday after a 10 hour
shift of factory work he’d
return to his small and
humble apartment and
create breath-taking; astounding
works of art
and he never showed another
living soul these works;
never uttered a word to
anyone; kept no correspondence
with anyone; did not know
or socialize with artists and
he stole materials from the
factory to make beautiful
and astonishing collages of
human condition and political
absurdity and it is rumoured
that his son assisted with some
of these works and in
1983 some 20
years after his death,
discovered in a garage-sale was
nearly 800 works
from the artist, the healer, the man
who produced for the sake of
beauty; pleasure; love; pain;
creating not for money; fame; ego;
and now his works are
analysed and priced far
beyond the means of any
factory worker and maybe
Felipe Jesus Consalvos
would feel really pissed-off
with this bullshit.

Stupid fucker by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on July 4, 2016 by Scot

yeah that’s me
alright, walking around
with my love
blinders on once again
wishing that his desperado
yackety yak
has just gotta be
bona fide like that erstwhile
beau of mine, Hawk
(whose real name was Jim) and
always reminiscing
about old kicks and grins
back when he proudly flew
his colors to impress
the chickadees at
Dumont’s tavern aforetime
proprietor Eunice got his felony
conviction and a prison
sentence to boot,
ironic painted flames
crimson licking the
crumbling plaster facade
outside the very same building
on El Cajon Boulevard
two doors down from
their clubhouse that the feds
blew up a few years back;
then, too high on weed
and trying to push me off the
back of his bike while
riding through Anza-Borrego’s
arid wasteland for some
bogus paranoid
reasoning filled with
illogical fallacies
and loosely cobbled
ancient biker grievances and
all the while thinking
you’ve actually seen a man
who could by God stand
on his own two feet
how high the moon?
But I have no ill
feelings in my
heart honey, I know
it’s a rare
individual who can
face the stark
accusations of the
callous world and look
I completely
understand your fear
and trembling dread
when the outlaws
challenge your precious
status quo you know
I can be sympathetic
as hell but man, don’t even
try to gaslight me
so you come out smelling
like a rose.
Shit won’t fly, that’s it
yet, so easy
just to be cool
with things but it’s
always the same sorry
con story, folks
dragging the world down
to feed their own
repressed trip,
stealing joy,
bleeding offal and crap
merrily along
the moral highway the
bell tolls
for thee cholo
Kell Robertson’s
trigger finger
is more renegade
than you’ll ever be,
and class politics
aside you should have
just treated me
like a queen
I don’t ask for much
how truly simple
could that not be?
But this morning
I woke up
fiercely Greek as
Aeschylus’ Clytemnestra,
refreshingly vicious,
grimly unrepentant and
emancipated in her
grief surveying the
wreckage she made
all by herself,
I’ll show you transparency
pal, one more nail
in my coffin, see don’t
you understand
my life is a fugitive
train and I’m just trying
to get it back
on the damned rail
the word ‘traitor’
on the tip of all their
filthy tongues and always
waiting for the next hard
rain to fall, still
wondering what I do
so bad
just acting
like you,
some infatuation costs
way too much,
and hyperventilating sweet
relief palpable
rushing from my dark
blonde roots to
chipped blue polished
fingernail tips pointing at
the next right indicated thing
is to plug in my 1980s
vintage Peavey garage
hair band amp
and ebulliently
shake up
the neighbors again

Fireworks after by Donal Mahoney

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags on July 4, 2016 by Scot

Joe went to the mall yesterday
and found a big tent pitched
at the head of the drive.
Someone selling fireworks.
The sign said discounts
for all veterans.

Joe thought of his brother Bob
after his return from Vietnam,
a victim of Agent Orange.
He would shake if he heard
sudden or violent noises.
He got rid of his guns and
never went hunting again.

Bob didn’t want rifles
shot over his body after he died,
an honor some veterans prefer.
His wife wanted the ceremony.
Joe cried when the volleys were fired.
He could feel his brother
shake inside the urn.