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He Demands by T.W. Selvey

Oh, the tragedy and the cunnilingus. Gutsy, the erudite cunnilingus I digested, reeked of a skunk carcass bubbling up on the highway’s edge. He demands spine tingling horror ass fantasies, netherworld camps, chain link romps, steamy wall-to-wall cryptozoology. He demands. Efficiency and a quick release form, give it a go, and then give it a rest, otherwise you will cause a long scrape and a dual pustule sore to perch on the slot, says page 72 of April’s Cosmo, but Helen Gurley Brown’s sagacious advice dies the more my deep readings bore into the tangy pockets enfolded in morgue reports on old wave essentialism. Has he lost his grip? Or does he have the best grip, gripping a castrated world b

The Redhead by Giovanni DiPietrantonio

I thought I’d never see her again. We were practically girlfriend/boyfriend this time last year. That’s not a point of pride, but it’s a bit of brass. There’s a good chance—maybe she’ll fuck me. Here’s hoping she hasn’t caught any more social diseases. She didn’t bother calling to let me know she had chlamydia when we fucked on her manager’s couch. Duffel bag rounding my shoulder, I let the storm door smack my hip and knocked twice. The redhead immediately answered, crooked teeth twinkling like a bouquet of baby shoes between apple cheeks wreathed in big hair the color of kiddie cocktails. She opened her arms. “Are you a hug person? Can I hug you?” “Yeah, I’m a hug person . . .” I to

Three Poems by D.C. Wojciech

SOLITUDE if you're trying to destroy a work of art. invite the crowds to haggle over its merit. frame it on a wall & try to fit there yrself. the only problem with a universe in constant motion is that i can't believe the voices in matchbooks anymore. it's been nearly 2,000 years and still nobody can bring Mouseion back from the grave. what will save us from the same fate is what most men fear in a room alone with themselves. the men before me were all discussing saviors. it is only right that i carry on tradition by bringing strawberries into the kissing booth. WOMAN the sex of yr love is the mouth of the candle. the other side of yr body of water is a dove dipping its skull into the hidden

Hell Raised by T.W. Selvey

Can you come over here and help? There is a Jesus trapped in my urethra, flailing and confused. Not again! Look, his fat, rounded head is crowning and mom says it feels like passing a kidney stone. I don’t want to give birth. No amount of drugs lessens my will to refuse. The hard, adamantine cranium is a myelinolysis bomb shelter. I care. Wounds I caused need care. The Nightingale is nigh. In the dark halls of the oedipal complex I set up a medical tent tenting lips. It’s opening day on the oral frontline. Cripples huddle in gum lining holes. Absolute fucking poetry, by the way. Read to them. Read them $9000 textbook documents that recount uncontrolled biological urges floundering unfulfille

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