2009
11.17

Well my ring finger’s in stitches
the internet has a million pretty pretty bitches
saying
“come and play”
“come and play”
no time for family
find time another way

my middle finger has a lever
that boy thinks he’s pretty clever
saying “c’mon boy and leave her
“i got a chrome meat cleaver”
steer away
steer away
tomorrow brings another day

we all got
a beautiful broad
to keep mind
but does she mind
that we all got
a beautiful broad
we keep in mind
it’s out of line
it’s the wrong time
to step out of line
maybe you feel fine
to go line dancing

do you come to a stop
when you see a yield sign?
Do you mock
all that is divine?
And what to say
when you stray
to the vows you made
your wedding day

well I don’t mean to be a misfit
but can you define all of this shit
it isn’t quite shinola
not healthy like granola
it’ll take you down like a bola
or a sick infant in a stroller
can you define
just what is mine?

Can you do what you need to
stand up and be true
and recognize
you’re not the one who feeds you

can you do what you want to
talk to women that taunt you
and recognize
the circumstance you got through

i’ve been day dreaming and living on top
but now I know it was safe as a rock
it was positioned just to fall
and as it stood tall
there was nothing left to grasp
except a flimsy vacant clasp
and a full pewter flask

silver and gold
soft metals make the mold
pen and ink
get the story told
illustrious and pink
make men think
and the bullshit we’ve been talking
make our breath stink

we close out our banks
they send out the tanks
but baby I feel fine
and long as you’re mine

we close out our banks
they send out the tanks
but baby I feel fine
sitting on a land mine

we are Americans
born to reprimand
you owe me a sue
and I say “screw you”

we are Americans
born to reprimand
you owe me a screw
and I say “sue you”

we are americans
born to caravan
you owe me a screw
your wife says “fuck you”

© Mike Nightingale, 2009
[others]
2009
11.17

Deep blue


Deep blue, such a brilliant hue
Blonde hair, cascades everywhere
Lovely eyes, makes me wonder why

You killed our son.

You fucking cunt.

2009
11.16

That morning I woke up thinking

‘It’s your Birthday again’

I know because while I never say a thing about it

I wake up thinking about you

Every fucking year.


I hope your Birthday sucks.

2009
11.16

Flowers Buckle At The Sound Of your Voice
The Phone Vibrates With your Sweet Nothings
The Vibrations Don’t Hold The Same Earthquake your Lips Do
I Can’t Appreciate Those Nothings When They’re Pixelated
I Can’t Be So Far Away When you Are But A Few Inches From Me
Hold On Tight
It Hurts So Good
I Want To Look In your Mirror And See My Stale Silhouette
Im Sorry When I Write About you
I Write Tragedy
Lather and Rinse Me Clean Of My Faults
Repeat If Needed

When My Pen Touches Paper
your Essence Shows Up In The Markings
I Want My Sharpie To Bleed Thick Black
But It Will Only Flow Blonde
you Are Omnipresent
In Lilies
In My Ipod’s Shuffle
In My Peach Ring Candy
Blessing Or Curse
I Can’t Know
Basking In My Enhanced Misery
I Sit Chain Smoking At The Bus Stop
Watching People Pass
Looking At Womyn With More Lust Than Before
You



© Brit Alverson, 2009
[others]
2009
11.15

Her screams were muffled and no one could hear, but she continued trying. Her breath came shorter and shorter now, eyes wide and frantic from being held down. Kicking, scratching and thrashing about, she caught him hard in the knee and he yelped, releasing his hand from her mouth. She yelled at him then, licking away the salt on her lips from his palm, her face red and breathing hoarse. When he rose and again came close to her, she laughed and pushed him down, kissing his forehead and lying upon his chest. He rearranged the pillows and smiled down at her, fingers all wrapped up in her hair.

“I love sick days,” he mumbled.