Posts Tagged ‘Fiction’
Poet: Jones LM
Posted: February 18, 2016 in Fiction, Musing, Poetry, StuffTags: BoySlut, BoySlut Magazine, Devlin De La Chapa, Fiction, Jones LM poems, Jones LM poetry, Larry Jones, Lit Journals, Online Journals, Poet Jones LM, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Underground Poetry
SUGAR DADDY
Twenty dollars for a blow job, I said.
He smiled, as I jumped in his car.
We drove to his place,
a plush apartment in West Hollywood.
After the dirty work, he sat two twenties on the couch
and went to the bathroom.
I picked up a single twenty
and walked out the door.
Naturally,
he fell in love with me.
Poet: Donal Mahoney
Posted: February 16, 2016 in Fiction, Haiku, Poetry, StuffTags: Chicago Poets, Donal Mahoney, Fiction, Lit Journals, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Poets from Chicago, Underground Poetry
Manna Falls
Cardinals bicker
and knock seed from the feeder.
Doves parade below.
Hope in Winter
Robin on the lawn.
Three hops and stops to listen.
Somewhere must be spring.
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON – Two Poems
Posted: November 19, 2013 in Fiction, PoetryTags: Challenge of Night and Day, Chicago Poems, Fiction, From Exile to Freedom, From Which Place The Morning Rises, Illinois Poets, Lit Journals, Michael Lee Johnson, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Poets from Illinois, The Lost American, Underground Poetry
Memories of Winnipeg
And Crazy Eight Bar
By Michael Lee Johnson
I’m drunk, isolated,
and horny,
I stumble into The Crazy Eight
Bar and it wasn’t my lucky charmed night.
Flirting with Indian women, delusional
with my white ass superiority,
I’m doing card tricks,
and end up getting my guts
and rib cage kicked out.
I’m circled by Métis Indians
no facial war paint
no Indian war bonnets,
but they fooled me.
I’m down eating floor dirt,
and the kicks keep coming-
thick needle toe boots, cowboy style, fast and heavy.
I crawl to my car half dead barely breathing,
collapsed lungs, head on the steering wheel
I somehow how find the hospital.
Spitting blood and Apple Jack wine,
my tan suite is ruined,
I pissed my white pants yellow-
worst of all I deserved it.
So I learn, when in a strange town
find a place where the color of your face fits,
And don’t cheat at cards.
-2008-
Native I Am, Cocopa
By Michael Lee Johnson
I am mother proud
of the greatest
events that fade before me.
I dig earthworms
and farm dirt
from my fingertips
and grab native
Baja & Southwestern
California
soil & desert sand
wedged between my
spaced teeth.
My numbers or few or is it only me
a useless decay, dentures
lost in desert sand?
I gain no respect.
I once drank a Budweiser beer
out of the keg in
St. Louis, Missouri
just to make sure I was
born on north American soil.
In my heart digs many memories
and 41 relatives left in 1937.
I see praise & prayers
from native Gods.
I am Cocopa of Yuman family
and extent into the mouth
of many Colorado rivers and mountains.
Mist is my memories.
I survive on corn, melons,
pumpkins and mesquite beans-
add a few grass seeds, a hint of red wine,
burial roots of history faded on
parchment.
-2008-
DAVID MAC – Three Poems
Posted: November 15, 2013 in Fiction, PoetryTags: David Mac, Fiction, Lit Journals, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Underground Poetry
Morning Horny
You wake up so horny
You want to hump
Something
Anything
And you want the hump to go on forever
To never stop
To blow fast
To last
This great effort, this
Sexy hump
But your bed’s empty
And you’re all alone
And your hand looks at you
You swear it’s giving you the eye
So you smile back
***
Words In Use
I hope your
poetic is
deep wet
and wide.
I hope you under
stand.
My poetic
is
hard and
male.
There is
no
loss,
and
no love
***
I wanna come back as your tight black skirt
I wanna come back as your tight black skirt
I wanna feel your bend and
move and
sway
I wanna know your shape,
your figure,
your curves
your outline
and feel you
really feel you
your body hot and potent
your body full and ripe
your weight pushing against me
pressing down on me
ready to split and burst
at the seams
I wanna come back as your tight black skirt
and understand you
the woman in you
explained
the sex that you are
like you haven’t got a clue
DONAL MAHONEY – One Poem
Posted: November 12, 2013 in Fiction, PoetryTags: Chicago Poets, Donal Mahoney, Fiction, Lit Journals, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Poets from Chicago, Underground Poetry
CHARLIE STERN – Two Poems
Posted: November 8, 2013 in Fiction, PoetryTags: Charlie Stern, Fiction, genderqueer poet, genderqueer poets, Lit Journals, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Punk, Punk Poem, Punk Poems, Punk poetry, Underground Poetry
On Parenting
Late at night, past any teenager’s
Curfew,
My friend Chris tells me that
Punks don’t have parents.
People who were raised right
Don’t shoot off fireworks at shows,
Destroy shopping carts,
Weigh their jackets down with studs,
Or listen to Minor Threat.
The last time I saw my father,
He punched me in the face.
Super punx.
I once heard a comedian say that
He did not want to be
The kind of dad that inspires art.
My dad called my brother Jake a fag
Back when he had pink hair,
So Jake used it in a song and
Stormed out of the auditorium
Once he was done screaming along to the guitar.
I can’t remember how many times
My mother threatened to leave when I was growing up,
Or how many times I found myself on the floor under her,
Learning just how sorry I was supposed to feel.
Open handed blows only –
She was the good parent, after all.
My childhood taught me that
No good came from talking to social workers.
Well, I did tell that one that he saved my life,
But he was never on my case.
He just writes nice little songs about
Lynching, meth, and never meeting his real father.
It would be too optimistic
To hope that my parents made me
A stronger poet.
That would be giving a lot of credit to
Alcohol and the United States military,
Red wine and grey gun oil,
That I’m not ready to give.
–
Don’t Fuck Bad Writers
I should have known things weren’t going to work out
When he sent me his short story
And, by the first page,
I knew that a mere eleven pages
Was going to be too long.
He ripped off Metamorphosis.
I didn’t even realize his reading level was that high.
He turned his protagonist into
An end table.
It was called “The End Table.”
I can’t count the number of times
He asked me to marry him and run away
To New York
So we could be a writing team,
Husband and wife;
But it wasn’t exactly clear
Which of us got to be the husband.
ALLY MALINENKO – Two Poems
Posted: November 2, 2013 in Fiction, PoetryTags: Ally Malinenko, Catfish McDaris, Fiction, Lit Journals, Lizzy Speare and The Curse Tomb children's novel, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, The Wanting Bone, Underground Poetry
Do Say A Few Nice Things About People’s Homes When You Visit
The place is new,
built from the ground up,
big wide rooms, newly painted
a few pictures freshly hung.
There’s no stray hair in the bathroom
or scuff marks on the linoleum.
I stand awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot,
following from room to room,
the beer bottle in my hand
quickly emptied
now starting to sweat.
Look, the closet, she says,
and we walk in,
clothes tumbling off hangers
and piling on the floor.
All this space, she says
and I still don’t have enough room.
I smile and nod, I try to think of something nice to say.
And this, she tells me, will be the baby’s room.
She sighs. Eventually, she tells me.
Soon, I tell her, to say something helpful.
Please she says, a baby is the least I’ll get out of that sonofabitch.
You don’t know what it’s like, she says, turning to look at me.
Living with him.
Come downstairs, she says with a wide smile,
I’ll show you the holes he punched in the basement walls.
Not to Be Happy Is Not Just a Misfortune, It Is a Failure
Smile,
the man
on the subway tells me.
Pretty girl like you,
what you got
not
to be
smiling about?
It’s the least
you can do, he tells me,
For the rest of us.
TOM HATCH – Two Poems
Posted: October 29, 2013 in Fiction, PoetryTags: Fiction, Lit Journals, Online Journals, Poetry, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Magazines, Tom Hatch, Underground Poetry
Germilenna