A New Psalm by Tim J. Brennan

One day you notice 
your favorite shirt
is hot red, not blue
the outside porch lights
are shaped like pineapples;
you wonder if today is the day
for that epiphany you’ve been
waiting for all your life
 
Maybe your lover is now Irish,
a lassie who leans her head
slightly to the right when she
kisses you. 
 
Someone knocks;
you eagerly open the door;
a lilied field stretches beyond 
everything you will ever know

2 poems by Catfish McDaris

Phalanxes of Tombstones

Reclining against a warrior’s headstone,
listening to a chevron of geese overhead
watching the pewter dawn sun peer forth

There’s no happiness at the end of a rifle
or in a bottle or magic potion, sitting among
my dead brothers, I know there’s no such

Thing as revolution, it’s just another word
meaning leap frog of the rich, so they can
buy a bit of power with the blood of the poor

The honking dies and fog vanishes, money
equals greed, possessions turn into traitors,
no one can stop time or conquer the rain.

For The Real Drunk Motherfuckers

I wanna be
that worm
swimming
& drowning
in a moon piss
yellow bottle

Of mezcalito
with a Zapotec
pyramid on
the label

Until dead
eyes filled &
closed
with tears
forever.

2 poems by Tim J. Brennan

After I Die
No need to bury me
after I die; just lay me
down in weeds, face up
so I can look at the moon

as I try to remember what

the hell I did to get to such
a place so far from home

Upon a Time
Once a witch walked
behind me, fell
to make me fall
for her
I fell soft when I fell
hard, walked away
when I lay still
once upon her,
a time
long ago

Laughter, Being Yourself and the Smartness of Friends by Jonathan Seidman

Far and gone so bubbly,
Feeling lovely and hoping for rubber duckies,
Roses in the wind, silk against skin,
Rugs on bare feet and succulently baked meat.
Feeling like at night if things will all be right,
Licking foreheads and sharpening spirits,
Under mounds of cloth and feeling serpeant’s tongue,
Mountains climbed and trails are run.
Nothing’s done, nothing’s done, what’s done is none;
Nothing, but a quiet temper and sparkling eyes
Yield a tough surprise for doubtful minds.
Hear a cry and softly speak because the times
Rupturing our hearts are weak, and until spring ends,
Summer will not be reminding you yet
Like you should begin to forget the life of before,
What you learned on the morns through nights
Adorned, but it was feeling forlorn,
Knowing for what was never adorning
Winter and spring’s life, now eclipsed by the sea,
Felt from the west on the breeze.
Feelings like these
Open me up and help me believe,
Laughter and being yourself and the smartness of friends.

Me and my Foreskin by Ben John Smith

Sometimes I drive around town
with my dick in my hand.
Nothing perverted,
just outside my pants,
and smiling out the windscreen.
Giving it some air.
Because it gets lonely in dirty jeans
and he wants to see the world too.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s a strange thing to do,
but it doesn’t really matter
cause no one will ever see me
and I sure as shit
will never mention it
to anyone.

that night

I push the end,
the tip,
of my foreskin
into the opening
of my beer bottle.
Of course it’s a strange thing to do.
Especially when I take
my next sip.
Thinking,
my dick has been here.
Its skin
on the glass.
Like a bulldog on an ice cream.
My dick has been here.
It makes sense.
My mum won’t let me buy a mouse
because she says they smell bad.
And
D’Arne is pretending to be sick.
It doesn’t make sense.
Nothing makes sense.
That’s why I do these silly things,
and tell you all about them.

 

author of W.I.S.H.’s Praying Mantis