Friday, April 30, 2010


I'm copasetic

as I creep through the tall grass

oblivious to the ticks that fester

their inconsequential desires upon my neck

and no matter how much blood they suck

my strength--my faith--my power

still lies within my command.

I'm diabetic

and my body's inability to process sugar

makes my urine stink, makes my eyes weak

smelly and squinting through the dry grass

and despite the fact that my body is in a trough of pain

my resolve--my prayer--my passion

still allows me to sharpen my claws.

I'm electric

my yellow and black stripes

shock fear into my prey as I charge

scattering feathers and flesh as I

sink my teeth into my luckless victim

and as the blood dribbles dribbles upon my chin

my hunger--my desire--my ambition

consumes the fear of my prey.

Monkey Dance

I can dance her restless feet said

and she moved in circles as she

bounced in a contented way

not so much as to show others

but to find her own equilibrium.

I'm a monkey her bouncing black hair said

as she whirled back and forth

in her monkey dance

being kind to the elderly

by flaunting her youth with abandon

the way it should be

I'm a monkey her shrugging shoulders said

and her twirling

made her so.

You can love me her deep brown eyes said

there is nothing more to life

then to just take a few minutes

to dance.

Wedding in Cana

There is so much for me to do
and I know--I feel--that the time is near
but of all that lies ahead
I will take a few more minutes
to pretend that I am mortal
before I go to a wedding in Cana.

I will walk the streets quietly
and admire the sky with it's setting sun
hearing the laughter of children
who do not fear the coming night
restless in their innocence
well fed in meals of love
preparing for the joy
of a wedding in Cana.

The darkening sky beckons
and I feel myself begin to grow
no longer just a simple boy
but much more then a man
I look down upon my hands
that no longer belong to me
and shed my own cloak of innocence
as I change water into wine
at a wedding in Cana.

Christopher Buxton
Eric Lawson is writing twisted poems to scream at your grandmother's house at 2 a.m. in the rain.

Kandahar Caviar


©2010 Eric Lawson

Munitions disappearing
Pack and helmet constricting
Uniform in tatters
Left for dead in the desert
A week has now passed
Only we three remain
To fight this war (?) again
As the indifferent enemy
Vanish into the caves
No supplies
No shelter
No hope of rescue
Darnell offers me a leaf
Teeming with maggots
He knows I am starving
"Just pretend, Charlie"
He says, lips blistering
"Pretend it's Caviar"

Ink Therapy


©2010 Eric Lawson

I chalk up the first one to
A prolonged night of drinking
I chalk up the second one to
Having something to prove
I chalk up the third one to
All the exes and one-offs
Who all had the nerve to
Scar me emotionally
Mar me completely
Drove me to drinking
And maybe even rethinking
My philosophy to the point
Where I am not only
Listening to Physical Graffiti
But I am wearing it - forever!
Tattoos on my skin
But never on my soul
Nothing makes sense anymore
Nothing except the ink
And the waiting chair
And the sleeved doctor
Who for a mere $300
Can make me feel a little
Less like an arrested child
And more alert and alive
Than any placating shrink
Ever possibly could

Meridia Veneer


©2010 Eric Lawson

Austere florescent lights bleach

The earth tones from her clothes

She staggers around the courtyard

With the dedication of an android

Children stay clear

Employees scoff

Security keeps tabs

Like a rabid mongrel on high alert

She drinks water from the fountain

Flashing neon store signs fascinate

Her miniscule attention span

Elderly shoppers sigh

Players take note

Security draws straws

Stained with blood, food, and sweat

Her clothes are mere afterthought

Medicines ooze out from her pores

Making her skin shine like armor

Tourists take pictures

Employees disperse

Security moves in

Acknowledging invisible specters

She smiles, collapses, and whispers


Gerbil in Converse


©2009 Eric Lawson

Sleep in my comfy bed

Drink my morning coffee

Whistle while I work

Run on the treadmill

Poke my gorgeous girlfriend

Drink away the pain at night

Eat crackers in my bed

Double my coffee intake

Quit my dead-end job

Run on the treadmill

Abuse my mouthy girlfriend

Drink away the pain at night

Masturbate in my bed

Eat raw coffee beans

Look for work again

Run on the treadmill

Avoid my clingy girlfriend

Drink away the pain at night

Set fire to my bed

Steal handfuls of coffee beans

Mug strangers for money

Destroy the damn treadmill

Miss my girlfriend dearly

Accept the pain as part of life

Ignore the glass ceiling

Just Read Your Shit


©2009 Eric Lawson

Oh, for the love of everything sacred

Put down the latte with conviction

Stop your self-serving posturing

Just read your shit

Don’t ever try to force feed us

A heinous five minute diatribe

For a skimpy one minute poem

We are all slowly and painfully dying

Right before your unconcerned eyes

Andale, you pompous fuckwad

Just read your shit

Don’t lay on a monotone history lesson

So you say the Micmac Tribe actually

Mated with early European explorers?

Wow. Really? That’s nice. Who cares?

Is that all for today, Professor Wikipedia?

Just read your shit

Don’t dish out scientific facts either

I don’t really give a good goddamn

About peculiar reptilian sex drives

Is that actually supposed to somehow

Beef up your artistic pedigree, chief?

Just read your shit

And don’t glad hand me afterwards

With false smiles and modestly galore

Like I owe you some zesty ass kissing

Find your center, read the page, and speak

Tell me; what did you yourself write?

He’s reading it! A-ha, okay, at last

Now we’re finally getting to the art

I can now retract my critical claws

And I will listen whole heartedly

Because just like you, Sir Rants-A-Lot

I am always completely full of shit

Popcorn Delusions


©2009 Eric Lawson

Liquid butter and extra cheese

Make everything taste better









16:9 ratio and 65” across

High definition to the max




Without any dramatic flare


Pass me the rose colored glasses

I’ve seen this old movie before

Blow something up already

Reality can’t entertain me

The clock is always ticking

So please make your point

Before the popcorn runs out

Thursday, April 29, 2010

His Other Lover (cocaine)

A stunning beauty is she
A place to rest your head
She makes you feel so worthy
But in the end you were so misled

She does not wear those high heels
Although she is quite tall
She is just so little
So slight
So small

She will promise you the Ocean
She Begs to never let you down
Her boat is docked and ready
But under her sea you will drown

She will always tell you
Just what you want to hear
But just like you whispered too me
Its sweet nothing's in your ear

She is not materialistic
Wont judge your race or creed
But if you double cross her
She might not let you leave

You chose her though I loved you
I see she won the fight
But between your hell and heaven
I hope you see the light

The sleeping addict

What sounds do I hear?

Snores a far...

Snores a near...

Deep fast breaths wheezing

A choke, a cough or too

It sometimes sounds like they are just coming too

I know it's just sleep

But what really is that?

A moment of solace to get Their wits back?

Now all is quiet, is peaceful at last

But I guess not for long, only a moment has passed

I don't want to move,

Or barely breathe

It might wake them up

Make me a thief

A robber of their slumber

Their zen

There closed eyes

They must stay under to sort out their lives

What are they dreaming?

Who do they hear?

Me being a thief, of their dreams or their fears

I would like to sleep

But I would rather hear

The sleeping addict

With nothing to fear

Just listen to the silent scream

I listened, I heard

I heard about listening

I came and I saw

That my future was glistening

I choked and I yelled

and I screamed and I cried

Everyone was there

But the noise was inside

I begged and I pleaded

To be rid of my angst

But still at my heartstrings and my gut
it yanks

My sanity is sacred

Few and far between

“I am not like them “ I said

For I am a Queen

My patience runs thin

Mostly angry at me

Angry at God

Whom I don't even believe

Like a small grain of sand

I now sit on this beach

For serenity I scream

For silence I reach

The Unwelcomed Visitor

Please step into my nightmare

Come in for a quick peek

You can stay a moment

A month, or a week

You may feel restless, listless and dread

But please do not worry

It's all in your head

Come into my kitchen

I will cook you a dish

Filled with confusion, and anger, and bliss

Sleep in my bedroom

But I might toss and turn

It's alright if you wake me

For soon you will learn

Come down to my basement

But please watch your step

My stairs are so steep

Its a damn mouldy mess

So step into my nightmare

Or did you think it a dream?

I don't want you to go

But you now have to leave

Meaghan Lank
evil eyes

she comes up

the subway steps

with two fleshy shoulders

and a thinly strapped dress

that’s cut just so at the knees

it shows some good thigh

when the stale air

makes it move

she comes up

the subway steps

with her blonde hair thrown back

into a ponytail

her beach tan radiating

wearing black heels that

enhance the curve

of her calves

i look

all the men look

all of us suffering the sun

we all watch the way she sways

toward the stop light

she is natural perfection

and she knows it

but i don’t think she wants any

of our lusty gazes

she comes up

the subway steps

clutching one of those eco-saving

grocery bags

her mouth turned down

beads of sweat on a face

that has no make-up running

and she has the most perfect set

of evil eyes

that i’ve ever seen

saying so much more

than the smallest word of protest

lingering as an echo

on this sweaty block

discussing art

i like watching

the rain fall down

washing out a summer day

the way the gray clouds

and abundant drops of water

keep a gallimaufry

of indistinguishable people

off of the street.

call me sentimental, i guess.

and i like you too

sitting there with that glass of bourbon

after breathless sex

discussing francis bacon

and what it means to make art.

i’ve never really wanted to do it

before, you know,

discuss art,

but there’s something about you

the way you look in the pale light

holding that sweating drink

that makes the topic seem all right.

or maybe i’m just caught in the afterglow

my mind floating

my heart made into mush

sitting like dough in my chest

waiting for you to levigate out the lumps.

i’m just a dog when i get like this

wagging my tail

i’d follow you anywhere.

and i think i’ve learned how to swoon

after twelve years in the mix

with you baby.

that is to say, i feel no trepidation

in my soul

when your eyes beckon me back

toward the bedroom

as the rain begins to fall harder

and all conversation

comes to a stop.

i’m just glad you keep bringing me

along for the ride.

we are all animals, all of us

some guys moves his head

to music and presses against me

on the train

the ugly beat of the song infesting my ears

while she takes up three seats

and won’t move for anyone

as these kids laugh

and put their hands in the doorway

so the doors will keep opening

and closing

so the conductor will keep yelling

over speakers so old

and the train won’t move

as the guy across from me watches

some woman’s ass swivel

and keeps saying, “goddamn, goddamn,”

until he has the whole train

looking at him and the woman’s ass.

but she’s trying to act like

the comments aren’t pointed at her.

i cannot read or think.

i look around me

at the dead flapping their gums

going over files and essays

slobbering on themselves while they sleep

talking trash, reading trash

or playing solitaire on their phones

everyone’s mouth full of yellow, sharp teeth,

and i think

we are animals, all of us

it would take so little just to get us

to tear at each other’s flesh and bone

maybe just a few dollars

or an argument over a television show

i think about this and i smile

then i elbow the next man

who gets on the train, welcoming him

to this hell

i get him right in the gut

he moans but he doesn’t even look at me

just presses up against the wall

as the doors finally close

and we all move on in the dark.

toward the end of the week

i mention how quick but long this week has been

while we sit on the couch having the first

of the five drinks we will have tonight

you tell me yes that it feels that way

then we sit in silence again as the wind

moves plastic bags and soda cans down

bay ridge parkway, and the cats fight

until i tell you that the radio is broken again

i can’t stop


if i get on a train

and there are legs

and a short skirt

across from me

i can’t stop

because i might get

the blessed flash of the panty

or better

and when a woman bends over

to look for a book

or to fix her kid’s coat

tie shoes

and she is wearing low hung


with the thong

the top of the ass crack showing

i must stop whatever

it is i’m doing and watch

until she is done

i can’t stop

i’ve been looking down

women’s shirts since

i was twelve

i used to do ass walks

through parks to pass

the time

i sit through bad films

purely for the nude scenes

even now

with the flash of tit or ass

on the silver screen

i am like a thirteen-year-old boy

i can’t stop

we’ve been together almost

twelve years

but whenever my wife

comes out of the shower wet

red from the hot water on flesh

i have to put down my book

and stare

sometimes i follow her into

the bedroom

and nature takes

its course

i can’t stop

and if there are packs

of young girls

on the street

mean little whore teenage girls

with their tight pants

and cell phones

taunting boys

i take my place against

the wall

and wish to be abused

by them too

i watch them until they

are gone

i can’t stop

i don’t want to stop

i thank the gods every day

for women

such joy

such pleasure

such fantastic misery

all in one

i just can’t stop

i can’t quit any of you

until i’ve eaten you all up

in my mind

and licked the bones

of your souls


John Grochalski
The XYZ formula of cool

After weeks of speculation, Chainsaw had finally settled on a venue for their debut performance. Their flyer was fixed to the window of Threads specialist vintage clothes store announcing the time and the date. Hazel and Nyla who were both dedicated psychobilly fans decided they would definitely attend. Two of the members were once in another popular local band that separated a few months ago when the drummer punched the lead singer, after an argument about his reluctance to buy the rest of the band a drink.

The lead singer left and formed Chainsaw taking the upright bassist with him but their follower’s loyalties were split between the two protagonists of the argument. Hazel was quite friendly with the hotheaded drummer but she still wanted to attend the gig, if it was being advertised at Threads then it would mean that Ethan the store owner would be present. She decided to wear the scarlet, leather jacket she’d bought there.

Despite scouring the cheaper charity stores she couldn’t find a similar sixties style jacket that she liked. The colors were too dull and the cut unshapely. It was rumored that Ethan's Aunt was doing voluntary work at a large charitable thrift store on the edge of town and this was where Ethan obtained most of his stock, which he marked up to almost three times what they charged. He had strongly denied this accusation one evening when talking to one of Nyla’s ex-boyfriends, insisting that he bought everything from a specialist vintage clothes supplier in New York. Afterwards Hazel saw him rummaging through a box of clothes at a local garage sale and he blushed. He gave her ten per cent off her next purchase.

When they arrived at the Zen Club, they recognized most of the few people that were already there. The atmosphere was stilted and the clientele shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other or fidgeted in their chairs, wondering whether they had made a mistake in coming. However, slowly some of the more discerning individuals arrived and everyone began to relax.

Troy, a DJ, manned the decks at a nearby club and was trying to set up an internet radio station. Jed, who was an A and R man for an independent record label, arrived just after Kay, a receptionist at a local recording studio whose installation art had recently been featured on a local cable news channel. A flyer stuck to the window of Threads normally ensured a larger crowd than this. Hazel guessed that people were still unsure whether it was wise to be seen here after recent events and she began to worry that she had risked angering the drummer for nothing. Perhaps this was the reason so many had decided to stay away.

The band began their sound check. The singer waved to someone standing near the bar but did not leave the small stage which was barely large enough for all their equipment. He seemed nervous, agitated even and kept his back towards the audience as he plugged leads into amps. They were due to play in half an hour and only about twenty people had arrived. Hazel decided to keep a low profile and sat in the corner at one of the round, zaffre, plastic tables. Later, if necessary, she would deny that she attended this gig.

Nyla was socializing though, talking to the friends she knew and being slowly introduced to some people that she had never met before. Her slender frame was accentuated by her skull print leggings, Mary-Jane stilettos and plunging black basque. The twisted curls of her jet black hair nuzzled against her pronounced collarbone. There was hardly any flesh on her upper arm and when she bent her elbow, it seemed dangerously fragile as if it would shatter if anything brushed against the jutting joint.

As she walked amongst the chartreuse and cerise spinning strobe lights she glided around the circumference of their beams like a cat burglar avoiding alarmed infra red lasers. She was the shortest person present and unconsciously the people she talked to smiled protectively, encouraging her to speak and laughing readily at her jokes as if her size rendered her extra vulnerable and sensitive.

Hazel watched her being cosseted and failed to spot Kay approaching her table holding a bottle of Mexican beer stuffed with a lime,
“Hazel, why are you sitting on your own?” she asked. Surprised and unable to think of an entertaining answer she muttered dully that she had a headache. Kay’s smile disappeared quickly and she took a step backwards, away from Hazel.
“Oh, uuh, shame,” and she scratched her head, “I'll catch you later then.” hurriedly she left deciding to talk to Jed instead. Hazel cursed inwardly, admonishing herself for having such poor conversational skills that she had frightened Kay away.

Ethan suddenly appeared through the double doors and the light behind him briefly changed his figure into a dark silhouette surrounded by a halo of fluorescence. The way he scanned the room suggested he was the organizer of this event and he examined the guests critically, his eyes inspecting their outfits. Instinctively a few people adjusted their clothes conscientiously.

Behind him were two men with quiffs so high that Hazel wondered if their hair was being kept in place with a pergola of wires. They marched forward like gangsters from a mafia movie, except they were far better dressed and Ethan was not checking for guns but for frumpy clothes. Hazel drank her gin and tonic with more haste, planning to indifferently bump into Ethan at the bar.

Kay was quicker than her though and prowled purposefully across the room in her double sole, leopard-skin creepers. Her contrived, surprised expression when she encountered Ethan made Hazel smile. Then Nyla suddenly came back to the table, obscuring her view and a little breathless; she was obviously enjoying herself, her pupils were dilated and her lips upturned into a contented pout.
“I’m going to the bar, same again?” she asked, pointing at Hazel’s now empty glass. She wanted to refuse her offer but it was Nyla’s turn to buy the drinks.

Biting her lip with annoyance she replied as casually as she was able,
“Yeah, thanks, I’ll have the same again.” because it was important that no one suspected that she was interested in Ethan. If people guessed then they would watch her when she spoke to him and her behavior would seem covetous and insincere and amuse the many eyebrow raising cynics that she knew.

Between Ethan and Kay there was a small gap which Nyla widened with a few swings of her sharp hips pushing Kay slightly to one side. Hazel’s consternation escalated as she watched Ethan wait and talk to Nyla even though he had received and paid for his drinks. His friends were sitting around a dimly lit table at the other end of the room. Now, she regretted that she had never spoken to them before because she could have walked over and greeted them, therefore ensuring at least a cursory chat with Ethan.

After several minutes Nyla arrived with the drinks, as she did so the band picked up their instruments, ignoring the spectators as they ran nervous, trembling fingers through their gelled hair. The upright bassist slapped some strings against the bottom of his fingerboard producing a noise like a rattlesnake shaking its tail. Abandoning their conversations, the audience turned their attention to the stage.

The lead singer’s cough was magnified into the sound of pistol fire by his microphone.
“Hi,” he mumbled; his face zombified by thick, black eyeliner that was already sweating into his chalky, white, face powder, “thanks for coming tonight.”
A few people clapped but their lackluster effort made the venue seem even emptier. Hazel began to feel sorry for them, thinking that they must be disappointed with the turnout. After the count of three they launched into their first song. Everybody listened attentively; nobody spoke as they all willed the band to be good. A daydream of Hazel’s was that she’d attended the first Cramps performance. If Chainsaw became successful and critically acclaimed then she could tell everyone that she’d been to their first concert.

Her mood began to improve as she realized that they were definitely talented. Hazel glanced at Ethan, he was smiling approvingly. When the first song finished, he clapped loudly with an air of victory, a smile almost splitting his face in two.
“They can play really well.” Hazel said to Nyla and she nodded in reply, smiling happily, cigarette smoke curling away from her mouth as she watched the stage.

In total they played eight songs, some were bland but a few were excellent. When the reverberations of their last chord faded into a distant echo they were applauded vigorously and Ethan stood up and blew a few piercing wolf whistles. Hazel stared at him, he saw her and she flushed slightly, smiled as sophisticatedly as possible then turned away carelessly even though her mouth mucus was beginning to dry up.

After the applause had died down, it was replaced by the sound of excited voices, their positive humor intensified by the band’s talents. Hazel was now pleased that only a handful of people had attended, it made the evening special and she was one of the privileged few. The bar became busier, as people replaced the drinks they had emptied during the set. Eventually the band reappeared; they smiled with relief as they received congratulations and compliments.

Hazel suddenly realized that she was queuing next to the upright bassist. She praised the show and he smiled amiably, enjoying the kudos. As their interchange ended, he mentioned that he was going to see DJ Yakuza play at the Tower Club on the following Saturday and suggested that she come along.
“Well, I planned to do something else.” she answered in an off hand manner, “but I might be able to get there later.”
He grinned revealing a row of silver teeth caps and she strolled to her table with an extra bounce to her step and two drinks in her hands.

When she sat down she noticed that Nyla was no longer smiling and she frostily thanked Hazel for her drink. She was studying the bar area where the band was still standing. Tapping her foot impatiently, she suddenly stood up, adjusting her straps and pulling up her leggings,
“I’m just going to the restroom.” she said. When Nyla came out she was rubbing her nose and sniffing and Hazel realized that she was carrying coke on her. She wondered why she hadn’t been invited to share. Then Nyla walked straight up to the lead singer and joined the conversation he was having. After a few minutes she whispered something into his ear, he nodded then followed her back into the restroom.

Ethan suddenly appeared at her table,
“So what did you think of the band?” he asked smiling confidently. Hazel was slightly startled; she paused and pretended to consider the question carefully,
“I liked them.” she answered. He flicked open his skull and crossbones engraved, flip top, silver lighter; a wide tangerine flame appeared and he lit his cigarette,
“Yeah, I heard Jed was interested.” he added casually. Hazel’s eyes widened and she swallowed, trying to hide how impressed she was,
“Is he going to sign them?” she asked.
“He’s considering it.” he replied, shrugging as if it didn’t matter anyway and then left her to talk to Troy.

The band’s instruments had been replaced with two decks and a friend of Jed’s was spinning discs on the turntables. Several people started dancing in the area next to the stage. Hazel sidled up to Ethan and asked for a cigarette light, the drink was beginning to have an effect on her and she was feeling a lot braver. Nyla had disappeared.
“Are you going to see DJ Yakuza on Saturday?” she spoke with a bored tone that hinted that everyone was going. Ethan frowned,
“Is he playing?” he asked quickly. Ethan’s answer indicated that he knew the DJ which was a promising sign.
“Yeah, the upright bassist from Chainsaw is going, he said I might like him.” she said this slowly but succinctly in a bored tone as if she often received invitations from him.

Ethan though was unimpressed,
“I went to see Yakuza last year,” he said, “but I heard he’d become more…..,” he paused as if he were struggling to find the right words, he thrust his hands into his skinny black jean pockets and finished the sentence with the word “……commercial.” Hazel decided straight away that she was not going, even if the whole band bended down on their knees and begged; she refused to attend any event that was commercial.

Nyla suddenly reappeared, sniffing; her subtle Mona Lisa smile had changed into a grinning Cheshire cat. She handed Hazel another drink and hugged her briefly around her shoulders,
“Where have you been? I’ve missed you.” she said in a voice that was slightly too loud.
Her question insinuated that she had innocently lost Hazel.
“You left me.” Hazel said staring at the red tip of Nyla’s nose.

Nyla ignored her comment and then began to talk to Ethan; he looked her up and down and smirked, agreeing with her that Chainsaw were brilliant. They shouted in order to make themselves heard, Hazel stood in the middle while they talked across her.
“Sorry Hazel,” Ethan said loudly, “I can’t hear very well.” and he moved to stand on the other side of Nyla, smiling charmingly as he did so. Hazel was now completely excluded; the back of Nyla’s head faced her. She tried to interrupt but Nyla barely acknowledged her presence. Hazel blinked rapidly and tried to appear unconcerned by pretending that she was studying the DJ spinning discs.

When Ethan started whispering in Nyla’s ear, Hazel found it difficult to breathe and then Nyla turned to her and informed her that she was leaving,
“Me and Ethan are going to share a cab, we’re both really tired.”
Hazel felt as if she had been stabbed and replied as calmly as possible,
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, no, don’t be stupid, you stay, enjoy yourself.” Nyla said.
Hazel looked around her, the place was emptying fast, soon there wouldn’t be anyone left to have fun with.

The next day when she awoke Hazel discovered that she had a serious hangover. She was still in bed when Nyla phoned her at around midday. She’d already decided that if the two of them had gone somewhere else, to the same place that she suspected everyone else had gone, then she would find it difficult to forgive Nyla.

“Hi Hazel,” Nyla said, “I feel awful.” there was a pause and Hazel heard a match being lit in the background.
“You’ll never guess what I did.” Nyla continued with a groan. The possibility that the two of them were heading for Ethan’s apartment had almost made her cry the night before but she carefully hid her tremulous envy and answered,
“Surprise me,” silently hoping that Nyla would.

Nyla groaned again and paused to create some suspense,
“Ethan only persuaded me to go back to his apartment.”
“Oh, I see.” Hazel replied carefully, hoping that her voice was appropriately sympathetic.
“I know,” Nyla wailed, “we can’t go to his store for a while.” Hazel was relieved that Nyla obviously had no intention of forming a lasting relationship with Ethan and she asked,
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Yes,” Nyla replied as if it was obvious, “and,” she paused dramatically, “he wants to see me again.” her voice suggested a terrible fate was waiting for her.

“Oh,” Hazel was at a loss for words, she didn’t want to continue talking about Ethan anymore.
“What is his apartment like?” she asked quickly and then cringed at her clumsy attempt to change the subject. Nyla’s tone returned to normal again and she began to coldly describe Ethan’s apartment,
“…’s sort of ironic kitsch,” she said, “he’s even got a spinning mirror ball,” and then she giggled and added as an afterthought, “on his bedroom ceiling.”

Hazel was not in the mood to laugh though; she didn’t want to picture Nyla lying on her back examining Ethan’s d├ęcor while they thrashed around in his bed. Instead she arranged to meet Nyla the following evening at X-ray, one of their favorite bars. After Hazel said goodbye she felt a little depressed. Even though Nyla was not interested in Ethan there was no way that she could consider him romantically anymore. It would be far too crass. She was relieved that she had never confessed to Nyla that she found him attractive. Placing her hands underneath her head she wrote a mental list of other people that were suitable. Now, she had to start all over again. She wondered whether Jed had a girlfriend, he would be easy to track down, he was always watching bands.

Elle Pryor

Saturday, April 24, 2010

In Search of A Reason

The confines of the chiffon curtains
grow unbearable in the warm,
too warm for autumn, day.
They shimmer with light,
burnt orange, a wild dance
with morning.
Sounds echo beneath the cream canopy,
travel in strange patterns,
bounce off copper posts,
to create a unique tune.
Dense with the burdens
of yesterday, her crimson
thoughts merge with the opus;
creates a song stuck on replay.
She searches for stamina,
the strength to emerge
from the safety of her world,
to see past the indigo yesterdays,
find a reason to live,
to enjoy the gold’s
of today.

Going Forward

Toes burnt, curled
in different directions,
shredded by the coral sands;
the long twisting trail of crimson
indicates her struggle;
the effort exuded,
just to make it
this far.

Closing the Door

I slam the old cabinet door,
my frustration released.
It bounces back; blood
begins to drip from my lip.
A step back, a glower of menace;
I slam it again and again
until I force it into position.
Immediate satisfaction;
the contents remain unseen…
for now.

Her Secret Letter

The carpet, threadbare
shrouds the truth
concealed beneath.
Worn, creased yellow
read again and again,
a stain of her time.
Memories laze deep;
banned from speech,
kept from sight,
she hopes they will
once again fade
with the mornings light.

Ballroom 5

The sound is deafening…

The rhythm of conversation
floats throughout the packed room.
Laughter echoes alongside whispers;
everyone is talking at once.

The waltz of sociability
evident in the prominent posturing
mingles with various odors
fermented from so many bodies cramped together.

Elbows bump arms, hands cup derrieres,
mouths slip against ears; the naughty sweetness
of over imbibing spills forth.

Lust grows palpable -
virgins concede defeat;
rakes break from the unexpected
to search for the stable;
prudes turn toward passion
to forget their control.

Within, a part of, yet at a distance
I watch the theatrics alone…

even in a room such as this.

Glass Figurine

Her anguished mind descends
beneath an uncertain morning tide;
emotions shredded by the sheer
force of the undertow
are tossed haphazardly by waves
into unstable breakers.
She struggles against the pain,
gasps for breath, now left
battered upon the abandoned shore
grains of sand embed into her tattered
flesh to forge her into a fragile figure
ready to be shattered.


Tuesday, April 20, 2010


Something that triumphs
Over everything else
Emotions pale in comparison to it
And yet we do not understand

The meaning of it

To grasp with our minds
what concepts have been lost...
Is not a possibility

Not any longer

To see it in its true form
Is terrifying


That we never thought to exist
Crueller than the most inhumane
Primitave forms of torture

The experience...
It takes all sanity from within
And turns the world upside down
As you begin to lose control
Drowning in your own pitiful sorrow

And self-consciousness
Which brings out the sympathy
In others
And the worst
In ourselves
Mixes into the blend
Creating an illusion of fear

The result is a web of lies
A disguise that shields
Nothing but the pure simplicity
Of insanity

People reach out to help
But everything's become a blur
Words taken
From broken promises
Spoken by loved ones
Echo within the mind



To the point of psychotic thoughts
Of ways to make it stop
To end the pain
Push the sickening feeling away

When the only thing to do is run
The world has become
Nothing but an old, deserted home

Your life
Nothing but a cluttered mess
Remnants of a nightmare
The life you've left behind
Now only a conformity
To their sociopathic ways

The people there
Lying and deceitful monsters

But in reality...
You have become your own monster
All because of one little word:


Name: Lindsey Tolman
Age: 13
Marrying for Money...With a New Twist

Mike Huckabee instigated the latest dialogue on same sex marriage by absurdly likening its legalization as tantamount to accommodating the less than "ideal" behavioral patterns of incest, polygamy and drugs. President Obama countered by ordering the Department of Health and Human Services to prohibit discrimination in hospital visitation rights, situating the battlefield squarely in the medical realm. Hugs and Drugs.
DRUGS. But wait a minute. Isn't California seriously contemplating "permissible pot?" And what about tobacco and alcohol, if nothing else, legitimized drugging with whole industries and regional economies built around and dependent upon their current or previous socially acceptability and/or addictive properties? And then there's pharmaceuticals, since the 1980s, the centerpiece of the health care industry and any applicable legislation. Please!!! Just like Miss America, the standard for "ideal" has morphed over time. Mr. Huckabee needs to evolve.
Which brings me to the best argument for gay marriage - and the predominant one for legalizing marijuana in California - economics. While heretofore the financial focus has always been on the impact on the "couple" - benes, rights, all things legal - the spotlight should be on the effect on the general economy, because, put simply, weddings are an industry and increased participation would be excellent for the national bottom line. It is estimated that 2.5 million ceremonies are performed in the US annually, with roughly 40 billion spent yearly, an average of $16,000 per event (Wikipedia). From the local government take for licenses, to the caterer and the florist, the more that participate, the merrier the numbers. Depending on whose statistics you cite, gays and lesbians make up anywhere from around 1% (2000 US Census) to 10% (Kinsey) of the population, with same sex couples in increased concentration on both coasts and in Colorado (, 2/5/10). It makes no "cents" to exclude them from wedded bliss....or divorce.
With a heterosexual split rate hovering around 50%, there are a host of participants associated with the downside of legalized relationships primed to accept that extra business. And these are essentially local jobs to be patronized and/or created, most of which cannot be outsourced, because despite the rise in DIY divorce, domestic relations affairs seem to compel the need for the personal, handholding touch. And why shouldn't homosexuals experience what it feels like to be bound when love goes south - the uncivil union followed by the unamicable divorce- and have the right to be as miserable as the rest of us who cannot easily walk away.
So to get fiscal conservatives on board, the argument should be "marrying for money," that time old concept with a new twist. California might want to reconsider and find it more lucrative than legalizing pot.

Karen Ann DeLuca
My head aches

My head aches in all the

Tiny crevices, pushed together

Pressured like when I dine with

My mother who tells me to

Force my will on others like

She forces her will on me.

I turn my face from her so

She cannot see the lie that

Wants to be born there,

Instead I practice oblong words

That slip on icy corners

Hiding the fear that I

Will be formed as flesh

From flesh and heart

From ash.

My head aches

As I taste the metal

Foam that forms on the

Words that placates

My mother from one

Curve to the next

Hidden place, and I

Remember, I hope, I

Think I remember,

Where all the land mines

Are, and nobody tells

The truth, a forgotten

Stepsister that twists

Like an untied knot

Formed in the palm of my



Fear is yellow like a robin’s belly.
Fear is the sound of leather shoes.
Fear grates its nails on the cheese shredder.
Fear laughs when dogs howl.
Fear makes a belly naked.
Fear creeps with slow duck feet.
Fear leaps like lightening in a storm.
Fear huddles like a toad in a barn.
Fear asks no questions except one.
Fear wants nothing except all.
Fear longs for ice-cream turned to cream.
Fear is ashes swarming in a belly.
Fear takes everything, leaving only popcorn in great balls.
Fear is the presence of dead roaches, turned right side up.
Fear is aspirin dusted to powder.
Fear is pain squeezed like play-dough.
Fear whispers a hundred truths wrapped like fries served cold.
Fear weeps when the light comes.

Nobody Had To Tell Me

Nobody had to tell me

Never to invite my friends home

Never raise my voice

Don’t turn on the lights

Don’t talk when the TV’s on

Don’t touch the Vodka bottle in the cabinet

Don’t talk about –

The house

The home

Or the man that tore one

from the other.

Nobody had to tell me

Not to ask for money

for school

for trips

for clothes that fit

Not even for a book

Thrown out by the man

Who threw out everything

Except for what was his’n.

Nobody had to tell me

That guns that click

May also click at me.

Spending the Night at Linda's House

The orange slick of blood
Sounded fat and warm
As it trickled down soft
Spreading wide in a
Brazen cheer.

The sound of gunfire slipped
Under the door like a mouse
Flipped over and pushed
Squalling, shivering green
Fear flecks into my food.

Sadistic Lover

My cat demands closeness
That I’d rather not give,
Sadistic lover -
He stalks me like a shriven
Mouse, laying on my vacant
Flesh-claiming rights
With sharp claws kneading
unprotected flesh.
Blood stripes earned
In sudden affectionate leaps.

He looks at
Me with yellow slat eyes

I move, he follows
He adores, I dread.
He watches my every
Breath, and I wonder
If adoration
From a 10 pound
Tom is worth
The unfleshed kiss.

A Prophet’s Price

Terror means nothing more

Than a dip in stocks

When a board is bombed

No matter how much

Grass is grown

On the blood splattered

Dark maroon.

Just Dance, they say,

Just dance and drink the

Wine. No, wait. No wine

For us, if seventy-seven virgins

Wait. Limp, damp flesh

Too deeply grown for

Camels to ride.

Spirals circle,

Once and twice

And back again,

Waiting for the moment

To ripen into full flesh

Of a promise given by

A prophet gone tomorrow.

Whispering in wishes

And songs that were never

Meant to be sung

In a century never believed in.

Never prayed for,

Never hoped for.

And never meant to be

Twisted into bombs

Delivered in the trunk

of a beat-up van.

Charlotte Ballard

Bio: Maxwell Baumbach is a young writer who attends Concordia University Chicago. He plans to major in Business Administration (Sports Management) with a minor in English. He has been writing since his freshmen year of high school, but did not take his craft that seriously until winning the Fine Arts Poetry contest at Timothy Christian High School. Since then, his work has been featured in various publications, both in print and on the internet.


Wearing a bright pink dress,
Her hair is done up nice.
Heels grace her feet,
Her make up is perfect.

She’ll turn the heads of many men,
They’ll vie for her attention.
She’ll never turn my head,
I’ll pay her no attention.

This girl thinks that she’s big league,
But I’m not impressed.
I look beyond the clothes she wears,
And never at her breasts.

A day will come when she can’t hide,
Her clothes and make up will mean nothing.
The world will pay her no attention,
And then I’ll give her a chance.

Five Years Old-

He trots around the room

pretending to be a king.

Little does he know

that he will be but a


in this world.

He will grow to find

firefighter dreams

are lost

when reality takes its course.


he will drop out of college

and work at the corner store,

where minutes are hours,

and hours are hell.

He will marry the woman

he thinks he loves.


she will leave him

for a young,

wealthy man.

At that moment

he will decide that

nothing saves.

Fifty and alone,

a man with no faith

and a future

he forgot to live in.

With the knot

he will learn to tie perfectly

at boy scouts

in about three years,

he secures his goodbye thread.

With a leap from the chair

he will make that day

his grand finale.

But today

he trots around the room,

pretending to be a king.


What Humans Have Become-

Waiting for the 6:55 AM
To Union Station
From Hinsdale, Illinois,
I watch on
As a man
No older than 35
Fills his lungs
With the many poisons
In his cigarette.
Another man,
Likely around 25 years,
Rips the cancer stick
From his hand,
Takes a drag,
And carelessly
Throws it to the
Concrete ground.
The victim
Yelled at the
Thief or Life Saver,
But took
No course of action.
If a cheetah
Stole prey
From another,
Would have gotten
Their fucking head
Ripped off.
It is at
This moment
I know:
Have become
The weakest
Of the animals.

Wounded Dog-

a broken beer bottle
laying in pieces on the floor

the wounded dog
bleeds before it's owner

vicious verbal abuse
tearing through the air
the scalded dog
keeps coming back for more.

some call him courageous

some call him a stupid son-of-a-bitch

he could be likened to a hero
he could be likened to a stubborn fool

It is all sunshine
except for those
heavy clouds
of makeup
the hide her face.
Powdered insecurity
covers up
her imperfect complexion.
It may disguise her blemish,
but it cannot contain
the ugliness
that dwells within her.
She is not as pretty
as she thinks she is.

a poem by JOHN RACHEL

I can smell life
It is a chemical
Ozone and bleach
It burns the eyes
Catches in the throat
Like a hot acidic mung
It blurs my mission
And slurs my speech

People pass
And I gasp for breath
Can’t they bathe
In some solvent
Made of truth and hope?
A temporary reduction
In the fetid stink
That fills my nostrils

Baptize them I say
Drown their visceral fear
Dissolve their primitive anger
Lather them in dreams
Wash away the sins of history

Let the drooling stench of folly
Fill the nostrils of demons
And leave the air clear
For me to breathe again
To live again

The Secret of Death

a poem by JOHN RACHEL

No blindfold
I want to see my assassins
And feel their emptiness
Hear their obscene gurgling
Smell their pristine fear
Know their wasted humanity
They were my friends
They are in the end
All I have

The Holy Trinity
I hear snickering
As irony licks
His pus-filled lips
And blood dries
As history’s ink

Are you the angel of death?
So centered and self-assured
A gyroscope
A Zen master
What is completed
Completing this cycle?
What is achieved
Achieving the inevitable?
I say it's a done deal

So I don’t laugh
And I don’t cry
It is finished
Before it begins
An infant’s first gasping cry
But a death rattle and a sigh
And what of it?
The village idiots
The comatose
The dead on arrival
The missing in action
The paint-by-number stoics
Who vanish at conception
Gone gone gone gone
Our little secret

The Messenger Deranged

a poem by JOHN RACHEL

A face emerges from the wind
Like a ghost from history
His sluggish luminous lips
Form words but there is silence

A distant gasp punctures my fascination
The messenger deranged has arrived
His mocking smile and fearsome leer
Scatters the cringing angels in my soul

I don’t need to hear his words
They are already in my heart
Strapped like dynamite
Across the heaving breast of my hopes

Is it awe or terror that I feel?
Anxiety or long awaited relief?
Tragedy? Comedy?
Hope? Disenchantment?
Do I really have a choice?

The twisting screaming guttural cry
Of the bludgeoning of dreams
Plays like a melody of spring
And now the parade begins

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Why (Perhaps) Virginia is (No Longer) for Me

Since I moved to Northern Virginia from the Empire State in 1981, I've seen the Commonwealth pleasantly trend moderate and become ever more progressive. Thus, I stayed. But after almost 30 years, a confluence of recent political events has made me question continuing my residency.
First, there is the gun policy coming out of Richmond. "Home" is not where I am compelled to tote around a firearm to "feel" safe, an ominous portent of which may be the recent shootings on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I have no desire to live in the Wild Wild East! And I'm from New York...
And then there's Ken Cuccinelli, whose opposition to the recent federal health care legislation, questioning of the EPA's determination that the emission of greenhouse gases poses a threat to public welfare, and challenge to the finalization of that agency's new national fuel efficiency standards for cars and trucks, makes me wonder if his actions as an "Almost" foretell aspirations beyond "Governor" to perhaps ruler of his own breakaway republic. For those students of history remaining, Virginia's own Founding Father James Madison railed against the retention of any semblance of state sovereignty in a national government as destructive. Another President famously said "a house divided against itself cannot stand." Yet Bob McDonnell insensitively revived "Confederate History Month" as a misplaced tourist and electoral lure. As we approach the Sesquicentennial of the Civil War, not only Virginians, but citizens all along the Eastern Seaboard might want to revisit Lincoln's words and reflect on the blood shed in this country over previous extreme divisive positions. State moniker aside, the "Commonwealth Theory," is not embodied in our Constitution.
Barack Obama, in lifting the moratorium on oil drilling off Virginia's politically contentious shores, is being obsequious to rogue Republicans within this "battleground" state, pandering to its potential swing voters in the hopes of prevailing in the upcoming mid term elections, and transparently attempting to barter for Senate votes to achieve passage of a climate control bill. But where's the logic in so doing, when the Italian rapscallion will just mount an opposition to that legislation as well? History shows that appeasement has never been effective with respect to radicals. The name Neville Chamberlain comes to mind. The President's "offerings" will never satisfy those who crave power and attention, will never be enough to put a halt to the uncivil defiance, and may in fact antagonize and fester more vitriolic opposition than there would have been if the invectives had just been ignored. My advice to Democrats is to adopt a Pavlovian Theory of Politics for now, and not reinforce Virginia's "bad behavior." After all, according to the Laws of Attraction, what is focused on expands. Just follow that crooner philospher Bing Crosby and "accentuate the positive" instead.
On a personal note, I am deeply embarrassed by the machinations of a fellow paisan. In terms of the causes he chooses to champion, Cuccinelli is no Eliot Spitzer or Andrew Cuomo (who I attended Albany Law School with). And Mr. Governor, although I am not a descendant of slaves, your apology is not accepted. Maybe it's time to move somewhere less imperial. I want to live in the United States. Which is why perhaps "Virginia is (no longer) for (me)."

Karen Ann DeLuca

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

the goddamn microwave

All I want is
my goddamn microwave back.
Is that too much to ask for?
It’s not like I didn’t leave anything else…
I mean, you are clearly
humping the new guy
on my goddamn sheets...
On my goddamn bed!
Probably on my goddamn
couch and love-seat too.
And that’s fine.
That’s what I left it all there for;
For your goddamn fuck-fests
with the new pot dealer.
And all I really want back is
my goddamn microwave.

bruised-face-guy & dick-nose-aids-girl & pissed-on-wedding-ring

I drank a lot while I watched this movie just a few minutes ago.
Tequila and orange soda.
I like Fanta.
But I am a water drinker, not a Fanta drinker…
No soda anymore.
This is mainly because I’ve decided that I want to start watching my calories.
I need to keep my boyish figure in order to entice ladies to roam my way.
But right now I am pretty tipsy, sitting at this typewriter, and I’m fairly paranoid.
I don’t want to wake my roommates up.
It’s two o clock in the morning.
I really have to pee… real bad.
And since I am wearing headphones, I am sure that the click-clacking of these keys is a lot louder than it seems.
In this movie I just watched, while I drank all of the tequila and orange soda,
this guy gets his face bruised up pretty bad, and he looks at his whore of a wife,
and he says the most inspiring shit I think I have ever heard.
Literally, he says:
“I don’t care if you wake up in a ditch with grown men shitting on you and jumping on top of your head.
Maybe your nose will turn into a big old dick and you can stroke that all the time.
I hope your hair turns into dog shit one day. You wake up and you run your comb through it,
and all that it is, is little trundles of dog shit. The worst shit you could imagine.
And this bruised man pisses on his wedding ring.
I thought about where I was in my life a month ago as I watched this scene take place.
Hold on for a second. I believe I am going to take another drink real quick.
But anyway, I thought about where I was a few months ago, like, in my head.
And I was pretty fucked up, but pretending to not be fucked up. You know?
And then I thought about where I am now in my life, in my head, like right now.
I’m pretty fucking cool.
That lady was a bitch, the dog-shit-hair girl… seriously. The dick-nose girl from my life, that is…
But this new lady I’m hanging out with digs banana milkshakes, and Third Eye Blind, and sometimes she talks about art with me, which is way more than AIDS-girl ever did.
She makes me feel like you feel when you’re on your way to a funeral or something that you really don’t want to go to, but then Queen comes on the radio, and you forget about your life for five minutes, because all you really care about is “Mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go.”

tumbleweed has ninety-nine cent margaritas on monday

Seven margaritas for seven dollars.
Which leads me to my next point:
You said “the word,”
which translates to “hotel party.”
Thank God,
because I thought you were
joking at first.
I shouldn’t have followed
those seven with a Tanqueray…
Bad idea.
Thanks for helping me drink it.
Also thanks for telling the bartender
that you weren’t of age.
We were out of that joint quick.
But you got a cheap shot glass
out of the deal,
for free.
Tequila out of plastic cups
and some fresh rolling papers.
Wu-Tang’s 36 Chambers.
A bag of un-opened Ruffles.
A fridge and a microwave.

The comforter had the hotel emblem
caked all over it,
and eventually, you felt comfortable
enough to show me that underwear
that was always just one room away.

And we crawled under that comforter
and slept…

… and stuff.

email quoting the outfield

still have a job
was a half hour late
boss was still drunk
(a little) from last night
everything good
in fajita-ville

list of things
to buy
in next seven days:

1. microphone
2. computer
3. compressor
4. headphones
5. your love

"jessy's on a vacation far away,
come around and talk it over
so many things I want to say
you know I like my girls a little bit bolder...

I just want to use your love tonight
I don't want to lose your love tonight"

miss your guts
you said,
miss your guts

gin and tonics


pound it

Casey Cole
Dear editor,

Pasted below are the following poems I'm submitting for your consideration: "The Last Call," "K.N.S.," "Of Darwin and God," "Head," and "Plaid." I thought my work ma be of interest to you!

My poetry has appeared in many on line as well as print magazines, Faluja Press, Black Cat Press, The Sheltered Poet, just to name a few. They were printed under my birth name, Denis LeCavalier. I now legally have the name of Abigale Louise LeCavalier, and have now been published in The Same.

Thank you for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

Abigale Louise LeCavalier


I had been lying here
for three days
before they found me,
all sticky and sweet.

I had in my right hand
a fist,
and a clump of his hair
in the other.

But I couldn’t do much
about the knife
sticking out
of my neck.

It seems he cut me
to the bone,
in more ways
than one.

And I could swear
I heard the coroner giggle,
when he peeked
under my skirt.

As if it were
a secret,
or something?

In the end
I didn’t feel bad
about the situation I was In,
just a little embarrassed,
because my hair slipped off
when they lifted me
from the floor.

The floor I cleaned,
three days ago.

Left Hook

I can sit here for days,
tapping my foot
to the music
pouring from the radio.

Fix my hair,
paint my nails,
and freshen my makeup.

The things in my life
that make me happy.

Then Squeeze into
something slinky,
and pump up the volume.

And the guys downstairs
wont complain,
I think there a little

Of me?

Most defiantly!

Because I can be
the biggest bitch
on the block.

And I have a mean
left hook!


She lights a cigarette
with the Zippo her
father gave her,
the only thing
from his house
she was allowed to retrieve.

A bottle full of black market estrogen
with every step she takes,
no room left
in her had-me-down purse.

For things like money,
or a paycheck.

And the smoke rings
she blows
frame the world in imperfect circles,
as she squints down the street
through her dime store sunglasses.

Yet she feels powerful.

Because she knows
she wiggles when she walks.

And it’s not her fault.

She is just
a young girl,
who happens to pee
standing up.


Watershed moments
while sitting in traffic,
the girl two cars up
is texting while she waits.

The smoke from my cigarette
with the tide
of the air conditioner,
it makes for an interesting smell.

But I’m use to that,
the smell anyway.

And the ice cream cake
I bought,
is melting into the back seat.

“Oh that’s funny!”
I whisper to myself.

As we inch
our way up the 805.

Wondering how the children
will react,
not about the treat,
but the skirt I chose to wear.

It’s black.

And I feel like I’m on my way
to a funeral,
I kind of am.

I can only imagine
what the priest is going to say,
as my boys
cling to their mom.

I wonder if I’ll
be able to hear what’s being said,
so I know where I’ll be heading
in the end.

“oh that’s funny!”

And we inch forward
on the 805.

Bad Faith

Sometimes I wish
that the breath
would leave,
my body.

Surrounded by
quiet contemplation,
I have discovered
in the palms
of my hands.

And as the wind
ruffles my skirt,
I squint,
through cheap
at my reflection
in a dirty birdbath.

at the burning end
of my cigarette.

by no choice,
of my own.

Yet taking the steps
to ready the page,
asking questions
and not wanting
the answers,
I was born
in a pond upstream.

a representation
of bad faith.


Sweetwater moments,
never shedding tears
down the drainpipe
of a rundown life.

Walking quietly
in 6 inch stilettos,
borrowing an idea
or a dollar bill.

Talking out of turn
on the carousel,
looking for the brass rings
but only finding holes.

It’s all understandable
or realistically shameful;
I always have
one foot on the gas.

And the other out the front door.

An idea stolen
from the torn pages
of an old coloring book.

And it only runs as deep
as bourbon in glass.

the shadows
of a shallow life.
My name is Regina Randlett
I have been writing since I was a child, I wrote my first poetry at a very young age,
my first novel at 14 and I am just now working on getting them all published.

Roses are......

Roses are red, violets are blue, the devil's words are sweet as he slowly tempts you.
Roses are red, violets are blue, honey from his lips non you can see through.
Roses are red, violets are blue, his evil hides deep though his words seem true.
Roses are black, violets turn wet, blood from his lips, what you fail to see, you get.

stripes of shadows

marking time on the gilded torrent

circles of light

joining swirls of momentum

Tray Drumhann

Thursday, April 1, 2010

hello I'm kalifornia i have about 70 poems and I have been published in scars online magazine, the common good press (college newsletter) I also have had over 5,000 views on my poetry on youtube and 1,800 views on my blog on myspace i have also been on local television doing my are a few selections


as i remain in this world it seems to get stranger. not me the world people are getting more desperate more angry more greedy. a select few are finding peace but most are finding fustration. there are to the sheep who watch the news to see what kinds of food cause cancer or what kind of foods fight cancer. i find this world is getting stranger and stranger and well i guess. i'm glad i stuck around to check it out.



jesus was a zombie and that's why they did him in. he died then came back to life and that's the ultimate sin. walkin around dead turnin water into wine. it's like he was holding up a sign that said "hey i'm a zombie who does magic. i want my life to end tragic" well he got his wish his crucifixion was the event of the year.....I'm just wondering....if he was such a good magician why didn't he make himself disappear?



they go to work and pay their bills. they buy a harley with all the frills they go to the movies on friday night. they talk about grandma who's losing her sight. they have a barbecue they watch the me this all sounds fucking lame. I'll admit my life's been hell but at least I've got a story to tell. i've partied in alleys with she males i've been the one making the drug sales. I've gotten kissed at gay bars i've totalled fast cars. in highschool i fucked the cheerleaders in goth clubs i hung out with the bleeders. the girls who cut just to feel. so that's my life and now you know the deal. do i have regrets? you bet that i didn't make that score that i didn't sell my body when i was young and the guys called me a hottie. that i didn't sleaze it up just a little bit more cause you swim in sex and filth and glitz and that's what life is for. and if things work out you die real young and end up like sid vicious you sit up there and eat those apples...they're sooo delicious but if your like me you stay down here and just keep on livin so live a life of sin and join the unforgiven.


cut me fuck me choke me kill me fill me up with cyanide take me for a bumpy ride in the trunk gettin crunk with that bass in my ear chillin in a hefty bag i've been dead for a year skinny bloody pasty white shot herself the other night so she could join me in my bag i gaze into her lifeless eyes now our job is to spread lies we're that little voice in your ear that says you're better off dead we giggle with excitement as you feel your head with lead the only way we can feel love is when somebody dies when you're feelin down and out we'll fill your head with lies we'll tell you there's only one way out we're the messengers of suicide that's why in hell we got clout


Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...