Tuesday, June 28, 2016

UFO Gigolo is Dead

UFO Gigolo is Dead

Thank you to all the poets and artists and photographers for making UFO Gigolo so successful!  It is with great sadness we're closing her down.  Please send your poems that you have emailed in to another poetry site.  There are many great poetry sites out there.

Keep writing and Mega Cheers!!!

Stephen Jarrell Williams


Saturday, June 25, 2016

Jennifer Lagier- A Poem & Photo

 Solstice Moon
Spring evaporates, elongated days
of humid sunshine arrive.
Abbreviated night trembles on
the precipice of seasonal solstice.
Full moon languidly rises
above wetland tules and mist.
Swollen orb pulsates, glows,
levitates between cypress limbs.
Dim light infiltrates darkened rooms,
instigates summer’s sensual itch.

Jennifer Lagier and her three spoiled dogs live beside the Pacific Ocean where they entertain poets, a few select mad men and a small gopher snake.

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem

“Smiling Among Inert Shipwrecks”

[For Robert and Kathleen Nolan]

Oh, to extinguish the seas,
and make the waves recede.
The nights between you both and me
are oceans that separate.

To meet at a nadir
between continents,
to traverse
dryness in endless leagues,
to descend
the fathoms now made shining canyons,
where all the former depths are rendered
newly whitening plains,
I would find you
smiling among inert shipwrecks.

All their rusting hulls would be
as iron strange oases,
now in an ironic desert —
the seabed under midday.
A warm new noon alights their wakes.
Intermittent citadels
of masts again in sun
would brightly tower over
their resurrected figureheads;
their mermaids’ opaque eyes would find
we three gladdened
among the once benighted bows.

There’d be an incongruity
between crustaceans now
slowed almost to stillness
in the blanching sun, while we …
we rushed to an embrace.
Our shouts would break
the silence of epochs.

Somewhere on a shore, this night,
beached upon an altar
of lunar-like nocturnal sands,

finally, face to face,
dessicated starfish
stare at their namesakes in heaven.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2016

Ken Allan Dronsfield- A Poem

Soul Circus, UFOs and Corn Dogs

Behind midway lights live alien souls
waltzing through dreams, devoid of life.
Excitement flares; a mother ship lands
as patrons hunt cotton candy stands.

A favorite game of the screaming insane
launch an arrow high into the night sky
run around in wonder, where it will strike.
Perhaps in the sand, or your right eye.

Tractor pull is on, rumbling the coffins
tilt a whirl spins, grasping for dear life
hide twixt the rides, young are smoking
pick your own poison, puff puff, cough.

Games shutting down, midnight is here.
dancing on the strip as the lights go low
parking lot empty, as the masks come off
swap out the booty at a corn dog stand.

The hideous and dark gather stolen souls,
stored in a dybbuk box; off to the next town.
The trucks roll the back roads, moving slow,
the UFO loaded to the dark side of the moon.

Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet and author originally from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night, and spending time with his cats Merlin and Willa. He is the co-editor of the poetry anthology titled, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze available at Amazon.com. His published work can be found in journals, magazines, reviews and blogs throughout the web including: Indiana Voice Journal, The Literary Hatchet Magazine, Belle Reve Journal, Peeking Cat Magazine, Dead Snakes, Bewildering Stories and many others.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem


Extraterrestrial spider,
Invisible; they say.....
Spins a web of deception,
That is growing every day.
Possessing insatiable hunger,
A master of deceit,
It's web a snare for humans,
Who become a prey at its feet.
The web is becoming stronger,
Tightening every day,
And the spider is wiser than humans,
Determined to have its way.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Irsa Ruci- Three Poems


Shshshttt... Listen to the sparrows
Knitting plans behind the wings
And ask yourself
If the words are enough
To build a city of gossips
Under the sparrow's songs...
Come now, return from pain
That with courage you build it in days, and every day
While it tears down like sandy castles
In the nights
When you shed in tears
Freezes the hurricanes;
But enough already:
Even slavery is drunkenness!
Spy a little on the silence
While is speaking
And tell me:
How many were killed by the despicable silence of hers
When none of us bothered
To look for answers?
Meaning takes form only in subconscious.
A drop of liquor let's have today
Till the end
For the end of the two-facets
That don't know end
And let's sing together,
Sing with us
The sparrow's song...!
© Irsa Ruçi              (Translated by Silva Daci)
A man! *
Men will never fully understand
How weak they feel in front of love
How the strength of their pride are betrayed in that childlike
And the path of his heart, are easily lost
In purity of thoughts, through conscious exhaustions
Like the toddler who hides his lies in their smile.
Women will always think that they have one more sense
To feel that the light which comes from the manly chest
Is his unsaid word
Is a rocky silence
That breaks disturbed breaths of emotions,
In their eloquence appears absence, like the sight
In a mirror where the self is absent
And the reflection is the soul
Drowned in the ocean of deliriums that conquers the being.
They burn their wishes like cigarettes, with the grace of simplicity
And the future is asked in the fog
Wordless, lost in paths in solitude
Because a man gives love like his breath…
And the women put the devil in the bottle for that love
That afterwards know the angel that lies in his soul.
© Irsa Ruçi              (Translated by Silva Daci)
*(First published at Ashvamegh Magazine (Ashvamegh Indian Journal of English Literature), May Issue)
Through tears we come in this world
...tears that smile to life!
We carry a bunch of them behind in that journey to eternity...
Silence is our only peaceful prayer
against time our silence is equal...

When opening our eyes
we can see how in dreams, they swing us
turning love in our motif
we close our eyes, leaving behind
The echo of our own words
permitting death to sing hymns for eternal life...

Truth is that one never dies,
only leaves... In a world with no words
his memory foreverly alive!

© Irsa Ruçi              (Translated by Silva Daci)

My Bio: 

Irsa Ruçi is an Albanian Writer, Speechwriter and Lecturer. She was born in Tirana (Albania), in 1990. Her books of poetry include Trokas mbi ajër (poems and essays), 2008 and Pështjellim (poetry), 2010.

She has been published in anthologies: Antologji, 2007; I kërkoj agimit vesën, 2008; Antologji poetike “Kushtuar dashurisë”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Udha”, 2014; Antologji poetike, 2014; “Malli dhe brenga nga distancat”, 2014; Antologji poetike “Qyteti”, 2014; Poeteca, 2015; and her works has appeared in a number of print and online national and international magazines, including Sling Magazine, Issue 5; Ann Arbor Review, Issue 15; Poeteca Magazine, Issue 35; Aquillrelle Anthology, 2015; Aquillrelle Anthology, 2016; Metaphor Magazine Issue 5; The Commonline Journal, Issue 4/22; A New Ulster poetry Anthology, April 2016; Best Poems Encyclopedia; Issuu April 2016; In Between Hangovers, May 2016; BLUEPEPPER, May 2016; Duane's PoeTree, May 2016; CREATIVE TALENTS UNLEASHED, 8 May 2016, Tuck Magazine, 12 May 2016; Whispers... 2016; Dead Snakes Magazine; - RANDOM POEM TREE, 13 May 2016; RANDOM POEM TREE, 16 May 2016; In Between Hangovers, 14 May 2016; In Between Hangovers, 24 May 2016; SCARLET LEAF REVIEW, May Issue; Ashvamegh Magazine (Ashvamegh Indian Journal of English Literature), The Beatnik Cowboy, 19 May; Dissident Voice, 22 May; Joomag, May 2016; Bear Creek Haiku, May Issue; Dissident Voice, 29 May; Ourpoetry Archive;Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts; All Poetry; Vscorpiozine's Blog; The Ofi Press, Issue 48; Sicklit Magazine etc.

Among many awards, she has received the first prize in poetry, in competition "Anthology 2007", as the best poet in Albania.

Monday, June 13, 2016

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Peduncular Sam Wazoo!

Peduncular Sam in hologram is square-eyed chuck tease gravel barker, ripping dog contamination cries through Sloth She’s Cargo street fair. Fallen skeet in leaky partridge waddle wow and hoot and hiss and hobble-kiss his sweetened come-on quotient: “Cam swan, clamp hallway you, yeah you, un-you, hands two adder climb,” singling out entire blocks for military suction. “You, sir! Wad’s at? Swipe and kids? Them two! Yes, ma’am, step ride up,” drooling shards of freeway spasm.

Monitoring the auction back at Fission Control, Foisted Glass Lude-Tenant Amelia Surely Hardened the Pith is oh-so slightly reticent: “Don’tchya think he’s maybe chesty bit too smudge, heathen fur lobotic crowd?”

Geritol Superior stirs his coffee, cadges a glance, erupts in cackle: “Swaddle haystack, Sammy’s song is whale-deported blonde belief, phlegm in time pejorative, pea-fire ewe was heaven barn, cheery dial! Wise goats and sheep in counterpoint wad possible objection toucan hyphenate?”

“Snob haven routine vile of action,” Amelia murmurs in petroglyph.

“Said nothing; spin factual turnip the gain, suck entire quadrant sew mud ewe mention hat!”

“Pi-high, sir,” mopping disappearing brow, her last move incarnated squabble, she’s vaporized to wading cesspool, transits pecan flax repeat in dielectric imposition, compensated saddle orca into sundry timer newsstand disassembly. Assimilated figurines examine underwear from 1812, freckling the future with premonitions of comestible flan.

Meanwhile, downy street bevel, Sammy sucks She’s Cargo clean of sputtering pedestrians, spurning heavenly swans to abduct tease. Kids flood teleporter beams from double playpen, slept aloft in khaki. “I’m Erica! I’m Erika!” a statuesque emboldened looker cries in junta breastplate. “Eureka! She’s fond of it!” swoons erectronic palimpsest of steadily decanted vinyl.

Swallows tick off oh this cluck soar fanny bother, could afford malfeasant veil on antsy con in plover quad, granting dubbed dubiety. Compulsion skims redacted jellyfish, shaving tees in solar dross: “Avast Tomasi! Averted mossy Aussie, ossified flapjack quail!”

Oguns Peter- A Poem

Latent truth

Papa told us
that the inverse of love
was not animosity:
resultant vector in form
but the ghost of apprehension

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Shillong's Headless Horseman

The man on horse back
wearing his bowler hat
is said to stride the roads 
of a hill station where he 
lived. But headless, the sounds 
emanating clearly, horse hooves.
His spirit can never forsake a place, 
a country which he ruled. I heard them once.
Clearly at midnight. Did not see but heard 
till the noise deafened the ears, frightened 
the soul out of wits and recalled Grandmother's 
gory tales about her sons flying like UFOs. 

Ananya S Guha
Shillong, INDIA.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Eric Robert Nolan- Two Poems


A woman in a white convertible.
Some short words, a long
Pull at a brown bottle.

Approaching the city
The improbable White shapes
Of The Dome and The Monument
Glitter against midnight.

Somewhere in that city stands
A vast, empty room,
Quiet except for the echoing wings
Of a plain brown bird.
The room
Has no windows, only
Four white walls and the sound of aimless flutter.

Thump, thump
A sound
Punctuates the stillness, the sound
Of a tufted breast against white plaster
An almost inaudible collision.

How improbable those walls seem
To the indolent eyes of a bird.  The walls
Are eggshell White, really,
The same eggshell White as its birth and yet
So unlike those breakable surfaces.

Thump, thump, the corners
Are new and also sharp.  Everywhere
White walls and angles
Confront its persistence.

Its own breast was White once
And its brown, twiggy nest
A universe of failure, it
Never imagined a night
When such bright, clean places
Existed only elsewhere.

Union Station.
Ethereal tunes escape
A brown-skinned man and his horn
Of unpolished brass.
The moon, as White as Love,
As White and as cold
As a headstone for the sky
Sits low above the Dome.

Thump, thump, the sound
Is only a gentle reminder
Of the ordinary aspects of life
White walls and angles,
Childhood' past,
Hubris and White plaster,
The existence of corners, the fundamental
Limits of endurance.
(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2012
"Crow's Feet"
Crow’s feet arise
Beside my eyes.
There’s no bird ruder
Than age’s raven.
Marched and marked nocturnally
All across my face, did he.
Is “goose-stepping blackbird”
A contradiction in terms?
(c)  Eric Robert Nolan 2016

Monday, June 6, 2016

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Trip to Planet Zinco

Commotion-free police tremble in iron quicksand, belongings scraped to carbide metallic yoyo dish of contrail flesh. Undercurrent of stuporous wealth contraption confabulates a richly infamous neural spirochete to fixate any hidden agenda straight outa mouthy ritualistic lawman hustle, busting into waveform swill.

“Which way to Falling Back Brace Tendencies?” I reckon axial quench be battered shoestring salesman conquest of lucky slob repeater film, coughed to dirty secondhand life.

Sullen ticket agent just look away, stifle belch into folded mosquito netting, slump over steering wheel in detritus of ‘50s war-torn zebra, wad with striped T-shirt nonsense scream held in pending locomotion by Magellanic clod.

“Sure, I tell you, but first you buy exploding trinket from Planet Zinco,” was all he ever said, some kinda lapel toupee flipped over-easy sawdust style.

I fish in pocket for randomized currency, come up short again in senseless fury of sequential downpour, primate mumblers eyeing me through trapdoor septic dialect. Canopy of spaceport slogan collapse in warm combustible heap, scratching through fetid cheese lagoon for soggy wax loam, grown to six-foot corncob irrigation ditch of tempered stubble in facemask blues.

“Here, take off useless coinage sand fill bullion dollar nicotine perusal breath,” I proffer sweaty discs and crumbling banknotes in time-release delaying swerve as hands evaporate to dusk.

“Too late for tourist junket flick routine!” he cackles indiscriminate, all relaxed in beryllium nut grin, gleaming gums powdery wad with sneezing talcum block and steady grain of tackled footfall.

Just the same, he snatch the random money, salivating splendor begin to count in memorized precision, dead giveaway he’s holographic. Sure enough, I kick clean through would-be groin contraption thighs, flushing out ionic traceries of swollen pustule sag, frittered country lanes in southern bell-hop loquacity.

Sensing my passing cloud, the image counter clicks to offal pendulum and entire subway set debarks for parts unspeakable, leaving me in frozen desert tundra of High Chapultepec, what with paddleboat noggin doormen in such precociously youthful disguise.

Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem

“Delaware Sheets”

Sharon lies,
a sylph amid the sheets
in our room in the hills,
drawn up around her –
are waves of fabric.
Her warmth is the same
as that of green hills:
gentle, blessed by the sun,
fertile with promise.

Her dark eyes
are as thickets.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2013

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry & had poems
appear with Dead Snakes, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Mind[less] Muse, The
Fib Review & others. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee]
she was born in Queensland, Australia.
           Every Moon-flower
                Hangs above
            1984 (Orwell)     
            Dawn: there is
            A long
            Billowing in
            The loneliness
            Summer –.
            ... Seen but not
                    The Devil
            On horseback
            At a roadside

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Rebecca Cowgill- Three Poems

looking out the window
a crashed alien spaceship
entangled in the branches

in a distant galaxy
an alien shares photographs
of their trip to Earth

waiting in line
to view the alien on display
from the crashed spaceship


Rebecca Cowgill has small poems on Poems and Poetry and Dead Snakes

Angelica Fuse- Three Poems

Fear to Tread

do not be
afraid to step
here child

the earth
whispers but
it seems neither

of them knew
the blast
that lay beneath

the recently
tilled earth.


the way
they swoon
after him

you might
his junk
had its own

as if he
is some
filthy mattress
angler fish.


some say
some say

I say licking
the earth
in desperation

a mad dog
with wild eyes
less evil
more a force
of nature.

Alan Catlin- Two Poems

Abominable Snowmen

Only abominable
walk here
this night
their frozen
heavy booted
feet as they
rubbing their
cold reddened
the still
dead air
No one ever
sees their
double X'd
Not even
the barman

                                                Star Wars

                                                I said I
                                                knew a guy
                                                one who
                                                thought he
                                                was from Mars
                                                Come to think
                                                of it he was
                                                just about
                                                your size and
                                                he liked them
                                                draught beers
                                                just like you
                                                do too   You
                                                know this guy
                                                used to come
                                                in here every
                                                afternoon about
                                                4 o'clock with
                                                some crazy wild
                                                lines about
                                                extra terrestrial
                                                life  I don't
                                                suppose I'm
                                                getting through
                                                to you am I?
                                                I wasn't
                                                He was from
                                                somewhere else
                                                now and all
                                                that I was
                                                saying was long
                                                ago and far away

Ojo Taiye- A Poem


Goodbye to those
soft hands
Hands that are care craft
Hands that are cologne of comfort
Hands that wipe rains from the
trenches in my river beds
Hands that throttle the empty space
in my skin
Hands that are open clouds

Goodbye to those smiles
Smiles that are birds flying and flying
in my forest
Smiles that are eternity rings
Smiles full of waters

Goodbye to those secret haunts
nights lost in trees
when sickle twirl and whirl through
high canopies

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Probability Lozenge

Somewhat immaterial due to the proliferation of time drugs in this quadrant, star field slips by in pebbled onslaught of folding secondhand news, crushing distant thunderclouds in frosted futurity of burbled insects.

“High-eye, Capstan!” salutes the commodious odoriferous loitering remnant of our foisted mate, O’Silly O’Shea Candiru O’Sire-us, father of Maundy a folding charioteer.

Indeed, that would make this Capstan’s Flog, Star Delay irrelevant or at the verily yeasty totally illegible, ineligible for fodder stumps, SoCal seclusion fees, maniacal married cardigans, fleeced mechanics, gloved handicappers, prosthetic limburger, sneezed eruption tetanus ponds, or faintly glorious pastures. Indeed, whodunit is also a smutty point, moldy and snooty, wad with all hands Velcroed to the deck, all dealings relegated to parity dumping corns.

Oh, to have feisty knees against the slinky narrow swans, equipping shoveled sailors with these dazed and kumquat reproved probationary jargon freaks gone silently into amorphously abrogated cotton sheets!

Dateline Hominy Lulus doze attack to screw up a toga three times a lackey? Sol depends on stellar gramophones in orbit surround Upper Disco, sand known once art yelling data smooch of anything, cleavin’ the zero-g fling emissary apple crux-spin wedge sweet noodlings fine them shelved. Sag in, hit all schemes to comely town to these daze. Sand noon when nose mulch about-face value chronology under more.

“Nod me,” gurgled many a junky, phlegm big bad bony behind.

A lone bird flies by in southern space, bashfully unaware of impish endless rerun dimes. Poor Effluent Decatur Rosily-Felt, erstwhile dilapidated rhododendron, leg awl cooed paternal unguent, he’s one thirsty mane from bling so valuable as to slake his unwhetted veterinary surgeon’s most shellfish whistle stop tourniquet for heavier donut leprechauns. Narrower bums cackle and tease the unprecedented sleeper scar in habituated jewelry mode, sawing off the alpine inequity what hovers just below the furry ceiling of low-cropped cumuli in subtle depravation.

“Fly, fly, Capstan Coke!” I filially virally scotched the surd, meaning seizure we opinion ship or sad sale fur spurts unrobed.

“Stall abed foul!” Eye cry, squirting turtledoves from annuli in sodden insurrection, quaking coldly slobbered saliva drowning skinny slippery tanned and tidal dumpling landfill exegetes.

“Lotta execrable quotidian escrow data in themed tarheels,” Kabuki Clem remarks nightly causal out of time-trap slush, just wading down decadal duodenum all inter-swirly on me. “Yippity buzzsaw, Idle scupper yer riding nut clean offal into fanned lethal pumping groin hefty skiff me swan mere chant!”

Eye-eyeful-torpedo-cower, it’s slovenly fairly too warm him or sandy manta or seven Santas fir matted flatulence. Sigh mien ewe chest cramped hall oft hound lop cough immense technicolor weird out a swarming, canny? Occurs knot, a cursive nod, a Corsican knob, occultation jellyroll probability lozenge.

“Are we prehistorically ratiocinate?” Kabuki sacks all knowledgeable disco horse machines, swaddling beans leapt from hysterical Dearth to smeared inviolate lime tines.

“So rack your limbs, sit on bestial icon glue, slurry too sway,” Eye fined my shelf fiercely sputtering in mast-limit lounge act. Shallow copter floats by in thuggish atmosphere, means we mustard on reentered phlegm slow Dearth obituary colloquy.

“Tat’s wad crude can tergiversation wheel get ewe!” Kabuki cackles, faking his fistula, serrating unto thyme release.

Eye slam on emergent seals, porpoise leash bet necked accessory, paltry of nanoseconds to spire, scathing the crude ship aforementioned slump wherewithal duo buoy pone rewax. Cowed mangy stagecoach tires dude yawn ding Kabuki’s gunner go through, dime-shopping phlegm wan legacy too an altered? Show lung wheeled pea bay furor heel reel eyes tare alley daze aim?

Pet thyme hasp known capsule suit reverence hear oar ant he wears, morphed mat chatter; Kabuki huff sallow steeples nose’s disk. So, yeah, covered horse he’s jest eschewing hem solve, looting surround galactically, shucking cup marked data, melee bleat heaven fun schmoozing fancy pull-nuts watt are weed-ink sprouting distance, riven sprain pans all a sprocket imp and loadie dingle angle goop dialing sound auric why haze.

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Nightly Dreams

grandmother said she was psychic
or, my brother said so
I did not know what it meant
however her deeply troubled
eyes told me that she was uncanny
and when she spoke about a figure
that wandered by the pond every night
opposite the ancestral house
I visited a different world of nightly
dreams, covered the quilt and slept.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Mark Myavec- A Photo

                                                  "Big Eyes"

Alan Garfoot- A Poem

The Emz 

Fly with me my space bound beauty of the stars, 
And see the untold wonder of the universe, 
Your love is a bond stronger than life, 
And soul is the essence of purest infinity. 
Do not hurt my sweet tender angel, 
For your woe is because you love so deeply, 
Your heart though blue is as strong as sapphire, 
An immortal’s eternal love in crystalline time. 
As we fly in our immortal dream-ship, 
Time and space fold through our will, 
And we trace the skies in the colours of love, 
An unbeatable passion which will resurrect all hope. 
Your beauty is as flawless as perfect diamond, 
And love I cherish as like your soft tender touch, 
Your voice has healed me of the savage darkness, 
As your affection saved me from bitter despair. 
You are my soul-mate and companion forever, 
At night we drift as spirits through consciousness, 
Through the spirit-web we speak through our dreams, 
As our dragons slowly coil round each other’s forms.

Angelica Fuse- A Poem


when I looked
last at 
my arm
there was a small

but the bump
grew larger
a dark shadow
moving inside

moving in its

within weeks
it grew to the size
of a strawberry
then an apple

then a small leg
wiggling in the air

another leg
an arm
a smiling face

I was left with
an open wound
and a sense
of accomplishment.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

The Monkey's Raincoat

He was
the monkey's
red raincoat
when he
came in
and it was
five sizes
too small
He looked
like a
thunder cloud
dripping dirty
wash and wear
water on my
Looked like
he might
be the point
man for
some kind
of strange

Music Men

They heard
tunes in
their heads
no one else
would ever
They were
so whacked out
on where they
had come from
and where they
were going
they didn't have
any time for
the here
and now
They were
Music Men
lost in
the ozone
and their
plane was
coming down
so fast
you could
see the
in their

Cold Meat

The way he's
going he should
have been dead
and buried a
hundred times
or more already
He's cold meat
in the ground
He's only
walking around
because his body
doesn't know yet
that his head
is gone