Three Poems by Based Mountain

a chinese poem at the foodcourt

thru forgotten parking lots & years of weeds crushed under tire tread, the almost automatic doors release a rush of conversation. i eat under asbestos fluorescents – i like broccoli and rice – the floor skuffed beige from basketball shoes. my friend likes kanye but not wocka flocka flame – likes twitter but not facebook – we agree on lovecraft though. the symposium with chrysanthemum tea sums $15.33 – fuck – at home my wallet falls from a bookcase.

 

spraycans or barbarism

so i had a few mongols around. i needed my hair braided. i chill with barbarians in mat-black nike airs, no laces. we hang out in underground carparks – marking up bmws with arrows – drinking clotted mares milk out of skulls – brown paper bag – talking about their fear of water. they keep dropping bankers though. dragging blood and gore and broken teeth thru my carpet – its pretty embarrassing. every time i turn on the television, all i hear is missing bankers and nothing about the 16th century tribesmen screaming for the great blue-grey wolf as i hose off human flesh under a dark and thundery sky.

 

where’s the exit for university city?

when i was on the come up i asked for more than a kraft macaroni and cheese (deluxe sauce). i said i couldn’t concentrate with the broken streetlight outside my window. – blink – “that’s not our responsibility” – blink – fucking bureaucracy. a girl smoking clove in black lipstick laughs out her pierced nose. i put down my textbook – drop a couple of codeine – and think of the smiling moon where life is cold but far away from here.

Two Poems by Giacomo

clhtaxxukaaquz7.jpg

until there was no more flesh to grip

we drag barbed hooked happiness through rock pools blossoming red coral sharpness

a hard blue choking back blood freezing razor ribbons held tight between held hands

falling against wet fingers ripping soft palms

our eyes taste bone’s whiteness before the scab

1000 year’s marbled warmth unloved against fragile fists

bent toothed knuckles cracking tear ducts pooling hot love smeared

my mouth screamed throated sobs and from your pockets handfuls of my hair

still wet from the shower

bloodshot black eyes bruised by heavy kisses to bandage neglect of when you needed flesh to grip

and I was sheeted flint cracking from the weight of wet breath

you clear clouded eyes with a rolled sock from our floor and through the hole in your body

a new space that is unchanged except for the cavity of each point with your shape

we rip a square of skin from the soft lined flesh under our eyes

i fold you delicately to place in the damp under tongue and taste you with every kiss

in dark rooms new loves hold my bones under your skin and my hands end with your fingertips

we fall hard rocks crashing from white foam and bite down fierce misplaced lust cracking shards

you are

long after I’m bleached and picked clean by passers by

 

Read More »

‘Infernum’ by iukinim

Atr-Inspired-By-Plague-The-Dance-of-Death-or-Danse-Macabre.png

I beseech your forgiveness
Anemic cartilages
Roaming your holy land

 

Ailing fools
Plaguing your pearly gates

 

Staining pure glass
With nefarious glares

Unwated in the bosom
Undesirable in Elysium

Sick, grotesque, frail
As they feast on grace
Wandering with no destination

In a wretched bottomless pit
Helpless yet adhesive
Wallowing in their indigenous creation

Disheveled shadows
Butchering their infants
Who are micturating tears

Tomorrow
Will be none
Wistfully they will not cease

Oh Father
Witness our hand-crafted misery
Where benevolence is a disease

These feral beasts
thirsting for fabricated divinity

Rotten omnivores
Fasting at no time
Gluttonous in perpetuum

I plea for departure
I beg for salvation
Deliverance from this infernum

Thus father you shall see
Thus father you shall hear

This spectacle which we created
Will fluster Satan
Force him to relinquish in defeat

This gala of filth is blooming
An everlasting contest of deceit
Where the victor is doomed

And Forgive me father
We must breed

As hell is a garden
for every plant
There is a seed.

 

Follow iukinim on Twitter

Five Poems by Mike Andrelczyk

23-x-23-40.jpg

Hey buddy you’re sitting at the death desk

the apocalypse will happen
In over/under a hundred years
(Laughs)

(Laughs) under
a hundred years

I take out my wallet take
a sip of hot coffee bite
of doughnut scratch
a lotto ticket

thought I had a five
got a K-A-R-M-

A

Conestoga Ave.

A cop walks in a circle
Around an abandoned panel truck
With “Juan 3:16”
Written in spray paint
On the back
.

A crow
Flies from the telephone pole to the street
And the street to the telephone pole.

Read More »

‘Autoerotic Asphyxiation’ by iukinim

sandra-yagi-diomedes-devoured-by-his-horses-after-moreau-898.jpg

Unfulfilled lust for the unreachable
Screams tearing my lungs apart
This sea of pleasure will never soothe my numbing heart
An incestuous relationship with both parties’ disagreement
Constant struggle for everlasting fulfillment
It’s not sadness my darling, it’s nothing
A moon-sized hole carved into my soul

This lust for something
Something i can’t recognize
Something i cannot fathom

 

A spider shaped creature pushes me around
Forcing me to submerge in my sins
Am i the one to blame or is it the damned beast?

 

Give me armies of men
Give me a harem of women
Give me oceans of wealth
Give me something i do desire

Read More »

Five Poems by n/a

Faceless_Crowd_300.jpeg

My Only Friend

I call it “Puttyface.”
It’s a hominid-shaped protein
Pushing mass up a gradient.

My friend Puttyface was strange around sleep.
The water-glass-bell alarm clock—
All-but-intolerable shrieking.
Does this imply it looked forward to bed?
Baroque masturbations, two cigarettes
corresponding to its sacred integer.
Yes, Puttyface had his human.
The hobby was movies.
They often advanced the one
with the symmetrical visage
and never failed to succeed
to fail to appreciate what I assume were the
“special effects.”

But speaking of Puttyface,
here it is right now
come to tie me up again.

 

Read More »

Four Poems by Tom Snarsky

cranberry_pic.jpg

Cranberrying

after Sylvia Plath & Dolores O’Riordan

It’s the same old theme
Since nineteen-sixteen,
When Amy Lowell released
Men, Women, & Ghosts,
Including the fiery line
Her music-kindled love
Crashed on him there.
One hundred & one years
Later it is happening

Again, this time with
An originary feeling
Like bog water—still, &
Studded with blood-
Rusted beads—a sweet
Ocean dream. There is no
Sound on these open seas
& my hands aren’t cold,
They’re just waiting

For a tree to split in half
& spew its resinous secrets
All over. The stone bleeds
In your palm so I am looking
For a hint in your face
That this century hasn’t killed
You, that you still feel love
As a collision-driven song—
Tart, red, possible, & enough.

 

Read More »