Archive for the ‘Musing’ Category

Tom Hatch

Posted: February 10, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

A Dance

Simple Life?
She puts on
Michael Buble with a sigh
He sings Leon Russell’s
“A Song For You”
We dance and sing
I spin and fall
Dislocating my
Finger after all
On the floor

The Emergency Room
Wants and will bill $500 bucks
The doctor relocated my
Dislocated finger
I howled
The beautiful black
Nurse with blond hair
Rubbed my legs up and down
It feels better don’t you think
She said
Don’t Stop I want my
$500 bucks worth, I said
Blond hair
She has Blond hair
$500 dollars she makes it fine
My wife paid the bill
what the fuck

 

 

Randall Rogers

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Haiku, Musing
Tags:

Boxing the wind
I knocked the North Pole
Out cold

John Grey

Posted: January 24, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

 

PEST CONTROL

A flea kicks me down the stairs.

A fly keeps me guessing.

A gnat figures that a full grown man

is a suitable opponent in a battle to see

who can bite the other first.

A mosquito is not one to ever

fall in love with me.

It’s always hate at first sight.

And then there’s that fly,

buzzing here, there.

treachery with wings.

A bed bug steals my sleep.

A tick ticks me off.

The fly finds a crumb

then it calls me a crumb

under its fly-blown breath.

Ants are on the march.

They wish to enslave me.

It’s a contest as to whether

they or the termites

will get to me first.

The moth imagines itself

a tiger moth airplane.

It threatens to drop the big one.

The fly points out

exactly where to hit.

But. while its attention

is elsewhere.

I grab the swatter.

slap it into insect hell.

Thus, the fight back begins.

Meanwhile, Martha irritates me.

Jenny only calls

when I don’t want to hear from her.

Chrissy two-times.

Holly has no time at all.

But please be patient, I tell them.

The invertebrates saw me first.

Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: January 22, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

 

assholes

 

 

I awoke

with my spinal cord

detached

from the stem

of a once

beautiful

rose

 

bitter brae`s

have lost

their dimension

of poetry

 

water writhes

trying

to break free

from the depth

of its

arid ocean

 

and I’m dying

for a thirst

of your

misery

 

’cause I have this poem here

see

 

but you`d rather I recite

the deficit

of poets

with ingenious titles

 

I don’t have time

to be

what’s proper

 

time is ticking

and the world is running out

of assholes

to shove my poetry in

 

 

Jeremy Bioletti

Posted: January 18, 2017 in Fiction, Flash, Musing
Tags:

LINDA

 

You can sit outside chatting with the other losers.

But I know you like me.

You think I’ m cool.

You like to collect cool people eh it’s your buzz.

I don’t come very often.

Why don’t you sit up the front.

When I say “kissed me on my other lips”

and “my big fat clit” you might get a hard on.

When I ask “did I cheat using sex”? I want you

to shrug and say, “I didn’t hear any cheating.”

You know I’m an alcoholic.

Don’t feel bad for me it’s my own fault and

besides I love drinking booze.

Man up it’s not a death sentence.

Order a bottle of wine while I dance a little.

Can you rub my back.

One of my boobs is bigger than the other.

You know, I am not what I seem.

I’ve been struggling at work.

Drunk first thing in the morning.

I don’t think I am ever going to have children.

The sadness dripped out of her on to the floor.

I don’t know whether anything will happen

between us.

You should be flattered that I would even

consider such a possibility.

After all I am a total babe.

My skin is golden.

My long dark hair flows round my beautiful

shoulders.

I am just so fucking goddam hot.

Once at a party I showed this guy specks of

blood on my white dress which I said were

from my vagina.

I know I am really flirty.

When I get shit-faced I just can’t help it.

I love stiff young cock and pussy too.

I think I like pussy even more.

Whichever it is it has to be good looking.

Sometimes I get sick of men.

Anyway this guy wasn’t sure what to do.

Should I have said take my dress off and

wash it for me while I blow you

or I really need a pad!

He was a honey and a great friend.

I take a lot of ecstasy which is why I want to

hug people all the time.

Linda was a great dancer.

The inner thigh muscles on her legs flexed

and framed her pussy as she danced.

I wondered to myself whether she was

wearing a g-string.

The thought of it haunted me.

She had a beautiful ass.

I thought I was going to go crazy.

When she went away to Italy for a holiday

and didn’t come back I was devastated.

I smoked packets of cigarettes hoping

she would walk down the street.

I finally levelled out of my infatuation

with Linda and got back to thinking about other things.

That’s when Kay walked in.

 

 

Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: January 16, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

 

‘Cause the way I see it, Babe, you’re fucked!

 

The head gasket blew ~

“Last Chance Dealership” was a 100 miles back;

I see our trip to Vegas slowly fading fast

 

’cause your fucking truck

is now a piece

of fucking junk!

 

but how you look babe

in your rugged-down

crotch-hugging jeans –

 

Shit!

you bitch

to spit

black tar saliva

onto a red scorpion

slugging innocently by

 

‘Shit’ is the word,

I silently ponder

as I contemplate

a 1/2 second nightmare

beneath the extreme exhaust

of blistering desert weather

whether I should let

the buzzards siphon film

from my cunti,

or is it cacti?

 

The front hood unexpectedly slams down hard

and my mouth grows parched ~

a thirst I could easily quench

from my lover’s sweat

but we’ve run out of whiskey

and instead of surviving on

week old iron kids bread

we feed the buzzards, and

listen unnervingly

to the erotic sound

of masticating death ~

 

clutching my lover’s arm

for putting me in this mess, I confessed:

 

Dearest Satan,

I hope you have plenty of slot machines down in Hell

’cause the way I see it, my babe’s fucked!

 

My lover’s voice suddenly pitched

right before I pushed him into the ditch

of the buzzards den.

 

Better you than I,

I grinned.

 

George Anderson

Posted: January 15, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags: ,

Brains

 

We didn’t call him Brains

in a totally ironical sense

because the bloke

was a gun builder

& street smart

& a passable surfer.

 

What concerned us

was his choice of women

which was from an early age

questionable at best.

 

Let’s just simply say,

that he allowed his dick

to do his thinking for him.

 

Take his latest foray

to bring home the bacon

to get his shit together again

in Mount Isa

to save enough for a deposit

for a home

& then return to the Gong.

 

After a year

of a bloody hard earn

in the mines

Brains returns

with empty pockets

 

save for a hardened sheila

with four feral kids

 

who has a bent for

4 litre cask wine

in the early afternoon

& stray quiver bone.