Michael Marrotti

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
Tags:

pittsburgh

Pittsburgh Culture

I walked up on stage like I was a nobody amongst a timid crowd, who would have had an orgasm after a single touch. The spotlight was beaming on me, the guy who traveled from Andy Warhol’s old neighborhood to recite a few pieces of poetry.

The first stanza mentioned a vagina, you know, the kind certain woman share with the social media world via Tumblr or snap chat. They appeared to be nervous. I shifted the position of my ass in the wooden chair to begin the second stanza.

This one mentioned chlamydia, you know, the sexually transmitted disease most of the millennials carry around like an iPhone. I took a look at the crowd after that to see giant eyeballs, taken aback, like I was reciting Anti-Semitic literature, after they snorted an Adderall.

There’s no turning back now, so I continued onto the last stanza. It mentioned an orgasm, you know, the kind we all had before this waste of time, also known as the open Mic. Where people come to share their art with an uptight crowd. The same people who belittle Trump every chance they get, but then emulate Mother Teresa, ’cause that’s the type of behavior that exists in this pseudo-liberal town of Pittsburgh.

I was banned after that night for enticing people to think about their own obscene actions. Christ, if I wanted to be upset, I could’ve stopped at my mom’s house. It’s less of a walk, and the vodka flows like the Allegheny river.

 

 

Randall Rogers

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
Tags:

“The Alley”

The alley you’re walking down is dark. It is the back-end of many dive bars, illuminated by the opening of back doors as some bartender takes out the garbage. The green of large, metal, rectangular, Industrial Waste Company trash containers lines the route. The smell is rancorous; a revulsion that immediately makes itself apparent. There are oily patches everywhere where the trucks have come to make deliveries and empty the trash containers. As you walk it is silent except for the sound of a sticky squish from your soles. The alley is narrow; snatches of conversation come from waiters, cooks, bartenders and dishwashers in back smoking, lounging on break.

A man is hunched over puking next to a garbage container behind the Anchor Bar. You come near to passing by him. You are in the middle of the alley as you walk. You try not to look but he calls out to you as you attempt to walk by. “Hey! Hey you!” You try to walk faster but he’s coming over to you. He’s dis-shelved, dribbling puke-spit, sputtering “I’ve got to talk to you!” as he grabs your coat. You look at him and meet his eyes all the time you’re trying to back away. Your clutching your pepper spray canister and on the verge of firing into his reddened bloodshot eyes. You knee the son-of-a-bitch instead and cry out loudly “Hai!” in Japanese. Physical exertion and four shots of spray later the man, a 1970s hippie, is down and bloody. He’s not out but lying face-down bleeding and dry heaving. Another shot of pepper to the side of his face while he’s down (to make sure he’s blinded at least in one eye should he try to get up and come after you) and you’re off, moving further down the alley. And then you stop, turn, and realize; the man is dead. At least, he stopped moving. But you don’t care you walk on further into the alley, into the darkness.

Some twenty-five feet on you feel a gentle tug. An out of the ordinary gripping sensation. A gentle sensation at first it gets stronger and doesn’t go away. It becomes not so pleasant but oddly exciting nonetheless. Then it comes on very strong and swoosh you are gone from your body and into formless swirling space. Your sight is inward now but inward looking out from a disembodied force traveling inexorably up into the black of the Cosmos for all appearances. You go on and begin looking for a Being – any Being or being – to explain or share this “soul-travel” experience with you. Seeing psychically with the mind’s eye, rising into dark matter. Then you meet them. The fellow dead. And they appear to be North Korean and not really dead but “floating-flying souls” like you. Shimmering in and out of focus, seated behind a panel of computers like a live music mixing board, the North Koreans looked at you; they all have groovy Kim Jong Un devil-style haircuts. But wait, you see otherwise. You see Kim IL Sung and the 1950 North Korean Communist invasion of democratic South Korea! You see former dead soldiers now live as dead souls moved up to be currently dead! Furthermore, you see where in the past fear of a loss of a time-sensitive “now” plagued all. Yet this fear vanishes when a realization timelessness and infinity are laughable concepts becomes readily accepted! Because being “dead” is time-sensitive just like being alive! Ergo there is no ego loss comes the corpse; no co-morbid soul-death. And the old and crippling existential angst/anxiety is at a loss to effect!! Life and death is smooth sailing no matter what the circumstances of your life or your death!!! And that, you psychos is the way it just should not be.

So walk down the alley. Discover yourself; hear the symphony before, during, and after. Let your life bloom as a true enchantment for all. And remember to kill the Buddha wherever you find him.

 

John Grey

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

 

a vulgar display

 

your wicked ink

 

bleeds

 

cavernously inside me

 

ember flames engulfed

around words of

misery, eroticy and disdain ~

you imprison me; that

when you punch a hole

through my concrete jungles

the electric stars and the tranquil moon

burn bright with vulgarity

 

 

Paul Tristram

Posted: January 22, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

 

Show Me Your Teeth

Reveal your snarling temper.
The claws of the Demons
you keep locked away inside.
The keen edge of that razor
strapped sharp to reaction.
The anger fireworking
those pretty temples.
The thunder cloud
above your moods.
The stamping fury
of your defences.
The swift viciousness
of sudden attack.
The blood in your underwear,
the cursing spit
upon your delicate chin.
The emotional sucker punch
you have waiting
up those whirlwind sleeves
a-shaking.
Your perfect, ice-shattering
scream & battle cry.
Come, storm the castle walls
of my lunatic daydreams…
let’s fuck like enemies tonight.

© Paul Tristram 2016

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.