Archive for the ‘Musing’ Category

Randall Rogers

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Haiku, Musing

Boxing the wind
I knocked the North Pole
Out cold

John Grey

Posted: January 24, 2017 in Musing, Poetry



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





I awoke

with my spinal cord


from the stem

of a once




bitter brae`s

have lost

their dimension

of poetry


water writhes


to break free

from the depth

of its

arid ocean


and I’m dying

for a thirst

of your



’cause I have this poem here



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



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


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


‘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 –



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: ,



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.



Randall Rogers

Posted: January 13, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags: ,
Archaic Deja Vu
I just forgot
a lot
about something
I didn’t say.
I suppose
Common Sense Titan
I’m a Cobain-less
an amputated hand
in the forest
with no one
to hear.

Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: January 13, 2017 in Musing, Poetry


nothing … not a thing … a thing of not


love for you is not for sale

or nothing for sale …

I have things to grasp

dishes to wash

wars to fight, domestic~home front~in flight;

I burnt the steaks again,

again, you say

you want to be “just friends“

with benefits but with no insurance policies

attached; if your head gets decapitated between my legs

then your wife gets nothing …

you`re such a shame, a sham

everything for you is no thank you, wham bam and nothing

`cause I`m a sucker for not a thing;

and I could go on all day

quote words that you`ve said, unsaid

so dreaded~ly about how I`m

a poetess for all your petty crimes, for all your bad times,

a curse for drive~by verses and hearses following nothing;

I wear flowers in my hair that you like to water

with your tears laced in fear of nothing or a thing of not;

don`t look at me, don`t talk to me, don`t stop

and gawk at me ~

just walk on by, walk on out

pretend I`m your mother … can you see yourself

kissing your mother?    full on the mouth,

hands on her breasts? … it`s a detest, I know

so don`t go there and you will be alright …

today is Saturday

tomorrow will be Sunday

then every day after

will be every day of the week

I don’t know where you`re coming from

or where you`re going to?

All I have is what all I have left … nothing

except for the fire extinguisher

you bought for the troubles at your hands

taking up pantry space, and I`ll be goddamned,

we`ve ran out of fucking steak sauce!


The Panties Of The Dead

   I stopped in my tracks after spotting the blood on Sunset boulevard. The humidity was ridiculous, the sun was shining down with no remorse. I removed my shirt, and followed the trail of blood that appeared to go on forever.
About half a block up is where I found the first razor blade, covered in blood, with what appeared to be a piece of fatty tissue stuck to it.
I picked it up to see if it felt like sharing the story. Nothing happened, so I dropped it. Journalism isn’t easy.
After another block, or so, the trail of blood had directed me onto Sunnydale avenue. At this point the blood was boiling from the increase in temperature and relentless beams of sunlight.
I was hoping to find another a clue, like I was Inspector Gadget or something. I ended up walking away, empty handed.
Evidently, the injured party took a shortcut through a yard, leaving me to follow the trail of blood soaked grass that obviously wasn’t greener, with a possibility of being harassed over trespassing. This is when I picked up the pace, jumped a few fences and ended up in a beautiful cemetery.
She was all alone, sitting on a marble bench with her wrists bleeding out. The white dress she was wearing looked like it had been used for an all night shift at the butchers.
I remember thinking how much of a sin it was to let that smoking hot body go to waste. She was drop dead gorgeous without make-up, but so close to death, that touching didn’t seem relevant.
I approached her gently and said, “You mind if I sit down for a minute?”
She looked up at me with those bloodshot eyes and said, “Do what you want. The clock is ticking. My time in this boring, material world is almost through. Thank God for that.”
I sat down, sparked up a cigarette and asked if she’d like one. She took the cigarette, lit it up and said,
“Well, what do you want? Am I not allowed to die in peace?” A few drops of blood had landed on her cigarette.
“You can rest in peace,” I said. “But in the meantime, my dealer has a tendency to show up late, so I was hoping to hear your story, if you’re not too busy that is.”
“Who’s your dealer?”
I blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “Frankie Foreskin. You know him?”
“Who the fuck doesn’t know Frankie Foreskin?” she replied. “He has the best prices in Pittsburgh, and the most horrendous cock of all time. Speaking of drugs and cocks, this is pretty much what it all boils down to.”
“How so?” I asked.
“When hedonism becomes inefficient, all that’s left is the mundane. The monotony of life, the repetition of the clock. It got to the point where I became numb to pleasure.”
“Christ! That’s fucked!” I replied.
“You’re damn right it is! You better hope you never cross that path. It’s no way to live, obviously.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been getting fucked up for years now, and my orgasms are always on point. Maybe you have a rare condition.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “Not that it matters anymore. I’ve made my choice. You and the rest of them can keep on living, I’m not jealous.
“I highly doubt any new drugs are going to be on the market in the near future. There’s next to nothing to anticipate besides the inevitability of inflation.”
“Wow,” I said. “Now you’re making me depressed.”
“What the fuck did you expect, asshole! I’m fucking bleeding out over here!” She lifted her wrists to emphasize her point. Blood splattered down onto the marble bench. The stench of imminent death was in the air.
That’s when my cellphone rang. I reached in my pocket and said, “Could you excuse me for a minute?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ve got all day.”
It was Frankie Foreskin. Immediately he began bitching at me for being late. (Like it’s not usually the other way around.)
I explained the circumstances, which intrigued Frankie very much. He wanted to know her name, thinking that he definitely knew the woman, so I told him to hold on for a minute while I asked,
“Hey, what’s your name, honey?”
“Who wants to know? You or that creep on the other end?”
I smiled and said, “Well actually we’re both kind of curious.”
“Sally. My name’s fucking, Sally.”
I backed up a few steps away to relay the name to Frankie.
His response was: “You gotta be kidding me! That’s a quality woman gone to waste. Mario, I’ll tell you what: she was the closest thing I’ve ever come to an orgasm.
“After all, it’s not easy to climax when you’re all foreskin, if ya know what I mean. That Sally fucked and sucked me for hours on end. She was really devoted to getting me off.
“I have a reputation for endurance. Ask around if you don’t believe me. It’s a fucking fact! You understand me, Mario?
“Nobody makes Frankie Foreskin bust a nut. Nobody!”
“That’s great, Frankie. I’m real proud of you. Lemme call you back in a minute.”
“Fuck that shit!” said Frankie. “You’re already cutting into my time. Time is money, Mario. Say goodbye to dead girl, and move your ass! Actually….
“Wait a minute. Could you grab her panties for me after she expires? You know, like a souvenir or something. Me and Sally spanned time together.”
“I’m not doing that, Frankie! Goodbye!”
I turned back around to the sight of the sexiest corpse I’ve ever seen. For awhile there I obsessed over how much priceless dialogue was lost ’cause of Frankie’s inability to shut the fuck up. Then I realized how much leverage I could have over the next purchase if I obtained the dead panties of Sally. It was discount time, and my phone was ringing again.
“What, Frankie?”
“Why’d she off herself, I gotta know? Why in the world would a gorgeous woman like that call it quits?”
“She said it had something with being immune to pleasure. Good enough reason, if you ask me.”
“I’ll snort to that.” said Frankie. And snort he did. I heard it. Immediately my mouth began to salivate.
“Frankie, gimme a minute.”
I walked over to the corpse, which was already on the ground, reached up her still slightly warm thighs, and removed the pink panties.
Her skin was so soft. Honestly, I couldn’t help myself from becoming aroused. I’ve always had a thing for psychotic women, and cemetery sex.
“I have the panties, Frankie. Let’s work out a deal.”
“Smell them! Describe the aroma!”
I took a giant whiff and said, “They smell like sexual frustration and detox. What about the color? Don’t you wanna know that?”
“No,” said Frankie. “That’s not important. Just bring them to me, pronto! I wanna walk around the house in them, just like the good old days.
“I’ll offer you half off of whatever is you’re looking to purchase.”
“Good enough, Frankie! I’ll see you soon.”
I kissed Sally on the cheek, took a few pictures with my phone, and proceeded to make my way back to the original journey at hand:
Dormont. I was going to have enough cash today for both drugs and pizza. What more could you ask for? It was a rarity in life. A day where we all came out as winners.

slasher sluts from hell











“a Scorn ~ Wrath production”


and this was                                                [by far]

my boyfriend’s lousy attempt

at a dinner & a movie seduction

especially from those

coldblooded machete toting bitches

as they tended to slither sensually,

rather than walk swiftly,               across

the hi-def plasma screen

in my boyfriend’s apt:


‘but I wanted to fuck your brains out

all over your leathered couch’, I w[h]ined

to my boyfriend,


‘baby, please!’, he bitched, ‘I don’t have

any cheese,’




t’was the season

for all those Jason’s,

those Michael’s and

those Freddie’s

fulfilling every serial killer’s fantasy

chasing them ditzes, firecrotches

and Tanya Roberts look alikes

[before Tanya dyed her hair blond ~ post-Tourist Trap]

in re-runs & marathons

on some unknown TV channel

that didn’t end nor begin w/a C;


& my boyfriend wants to know why

I’m not one of them

high maintenance

movie slasher sluts

in porn metal gear,

virgin lace &

biker chic leather

[‘no pleather’, he says, ‘these sluts know better

than to offend’]

~ he grins ~

’cause he says he wants to see my double d’s

dragging desperately across

some bloody terrain of

gore, guts & brains

as if I’m being chased w/a machete

by a man called Machete,

while only wearing a rope for a thong

so his balls can cliffhang off my ass

after he’s bombed Hitler

out of my nazi shaven cunt;


but my

“would be”

B flick noir slut snatch

reeks of peachy fuzz

rolled in a day old blunt

I smoked the night before,

I admit, I’m a ‘blunt whore slut’

something I figured my boyfriend

would be happy with?

don’t I feel like the fucking ditz!;


I accidentally pop my boyfriend

an erected nipple

from my scarlet corset ~

my lousy attempt of an Elvira

impersonation ~

but he just pops

another slasher slut flick into the DVD player

and continues eating

his 7-layered [bean] dip;

it’s to bad

that my boyfriend wasn’t dead

’cause this would be the time

I’d spit on his grave;


& I think Leatherface

would have been disgraced

that my boyfriend didn’t suggest

a chainsaw slut flick

’cause I could’ve been crooning:


’50 ways to chop up your lover!’


leaving my boyfriend swooning

& I’d be getting laid right about now

but instead I’m watching part II of:


‘Slasher Sluts From Hell!’


I suck on a blunt

& finger the dip;

’cause it was obvious

that this

was going to be

the only slut action

I’d be having tonight.