Three poems and paintings
Ghoulish Crohn’s Disease innuendos.
Rancid Mayo Clinic Shrimp Gyros.
Korean shopkeepers on the roof, shooting.
Give Charlie Manson all the money!
All the money and some damn latitude!
Caged for 999.9 years. Cold wind blowing.
Potholes from landmines on Skid Row.
Highly opportunistic performance art arson.
Tell your doctor if you’ve been to certain areas where fungal infections are common.
Tell your doctor if you’ve banged anybody interesting as of late.]
Ask your public defender if peace can exist without justice.
Break windows and take whatever the fuck you want.
Early detection is the key.
Resistance is disobedience.
Peaceful protests infiltrated by sleeper cells.
Rodney King’s rhetorical wisecrack.
Can’t we all just get along?
As many penguins as we can round up
Probably some duct tape and WD40
A blonde, republican news lady
God’s blessing and the devil’s forgiveness.
Do (so called) infinite amounts have ends?
Can the sweetest dream of a lifetime be forgotten?
All the time. Time. Time.
The twat that murders everything. Everything
This desert used to host a river.
There were mountains on the horizon.
I remember when you could drink some water
and not shit, bloody chunks of your colon.
was physically and “artistically”
I was there for the fallout.
I remember when cannibalism
I remember when every baby
two and three-quarter faces.
Before we gave the launch codes to a corporation.
Fukushima eat your heart out.
Carved into the foreheads
of Cardinalz and Bishopz.
Piss drunk party girlz and state comptrollerz.
Human resource manijaz and underage hipster sluts
huffing spray paint under the bleacherz.
Our little sisterz were so jelly of us.
Maybe radiation poisoning.
A possible combination of things.
Most of them disintegrated
The final endangered spices.
GOD LOVES THE IDEA OF YOU
Microwave your cigarettes.
The reddest piece of meat;
could be the deadest piece of meat.
DMT. Autoerotic asphyxiation.
Lick a Boston third rail.
Punch yourself in the balls.
Just fall down some stairs once a month.
Red Focks is a 28-year-old writer/abstract artist/illustrator from New England. He is a co-founder of ‘Alien Buddha Press’, and is credited for working on over a dozen titles since the press was founded in late 2016. Red has 3 poetry books which he has authored himself (Punk’s Not Nice, Election Day, Apophenia). After years of exploration through The United States and his own psyche, Red currently lives in Phoenix Arizona with his girlfriend (poet/artist Ammi Romero) and their young family. Red Focks shows no signs of slowing down; and currently has several projects in production. He has been featured in the inaugural issue of “Nixemate Review “and by “Walking is Still Honest Press”.
Red Focks can be contacted through Alien Buddha Press at firstname.lastname@example.org or directly at