Yeah I Fucked You
Should I be a madonna or a whore? I wondered as I rode around Denver in the ice and storm with you, an American Icon Rock Star Poet Warrior of the People. But you had no such hang-ups as you pushed my head into your lap on Colfax Ave. Not wanting to be recognized you paid for a motel room under an alias. And as I sat on top I asked you who you really were even though I was really asking myself.
By Jeri Cain Rossi.
Three Poems
Eat logic hot dog bugger. Magic
stain octagon name black skulls
push a button. Not to “variance” the
shock, but to allergic psychosomatic
suffusion lack time sphere demonic
Italy.
By Travis Jeppesen.
Jim Giraffe’s Stories
Jim and Daren King and Alistair Canister went to the pub. Daren and Alistair didn’t have any money so Jim bought the drinks. Jim had a pint of beer and Daren had shandy. Alistair wanted oil but they didn’t have any so he had water. Then, Opinion Onion came in.
By Daren King.
Afternoon Play
Hugh transfers his cigarette from right to left, then lays his hand briefly on top of Tom’s. Too briefly. More like a pat. Damn. The gesture of a distracted nurse, he thinks, registering the slight tightening of Tom’s jaw and deciding, quickly, to bring that hand to his mouth as if he were about to cough again, as if the withdrawal of his hand had been some sort of politeness reflex. Clearing his throat unnecessarily, he waits for the moment when he can replace his hand on Tom’s. ‘How about some music, instead?’ he asks.
By Tony White.
I Was A Teenaged Go-Go Girl
Jayne sang along to a backing tape, what?, four or five songs. “Cream in My Jeans”, “Fuck Off”. Some others. The anorexic girl and I danced around, shaking our arses at the audience, showing our knickers, being totally unafraid, free, the coolest kids in the world, absolutely triumphant! Then we disappeared down into the depths of the club on that stupid fucking stage. It was over pretty quickly.
By Charlotte Cooper.