Red Meat

Three poems and paintings
by Red Focks
 
NOT GUILTY VERDICT
 
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?
WE NEED TO GET
Dennis Rodman
A gallon of Stolichnaya
That golden shower tape
As many penguins as we can round up
Probably some duct tape and WD40
Dried ice
Digital turntables
A blonde, republican news lady
God’s blessing and the devil’s forgiveness.
(Mousetrap)
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 2
THE BETHESDADAMUS DESERT
 
Does beauty
ever truly
break?
Do (so called) infinite amounts have ends?
Can the sweetest dream of a lifetime be forgotten?
Does love die?
CAN love die?
Yes, you candy ass.
All the time. Time. Time.
The twat that murders everything. Everything
Everything dies.
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.
Before water
was physically and “artistically”
owned by Nuka-Cola.
I was there for the fallout.
No stimpacks or shelter.
I remember when cannibalism
was underground.
I remember when every baby
wasn’t born with
two and three-quarter faces.
Before we gave the launch codes to a corporation.
Fukushima eat your heart out.
Fuck (that was dumb)
Da Da Vinci code yo!
Realty shows, whoa!
The serial number.
Carved into the foreheads
of Cardinalz and Bishopz.
Piss drunk party girlz and state comptrollerz.
In da club say “WOOO!”
Human resource manijaz and underage hipster sluts
huffing spray paint under the bleacherz.
Our little sisterz were so jelly of us.
Maybe it was love.
Maybe radiation poisoning.
A possible combination of things.
But over time
It made humans
utterly barbaric
Ann frankly blind.
Most of them disintegrated
into dust.
The final endangered spices.
They just flutter around
flexing at each other
eyeballin
all over
all like
“Hey Dick
why dontcha
quit eyeballing
all my oil”
and WAR never changes.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 1
GOD LOVES THE IDEA OF YOU
 
Microwave your cigarettes.
Sleep in a tanning bed.
God loves you;
but hates Purell.
God hates antibiotics.
God hates seatbelts.
The reddest piece of meat;
could be the deadest piece of meat.
If you cook it that way.
Death tastes sweet.
Fresh and bloody.
You’re mad.
Meathead. Cow.
Prepare for slaughter;
you beefcake.
Mexican tap water.
Ebola hallucinations.
DMT. Autoerotic asphyxiation.
Lick a Boston third rail.
Inhale a burning tire.
Punch yourself in the balls.
Just fall down some stairs once a month.
Thin em’ out.
Thin em’ out.
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 3
—————–
 
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 abpress2017@ymail.com or directly at
redfocks4thewin@gmail.com
Red Focks W.I.S.H. 4
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Published by

17numa

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found. He is a Best of the Net and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Scott's poetry books include: Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015), Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2016), Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016), and Poison in Paradise (Alien Buddha Press, 2017). Scott is a member of The Southern Collective Experience; he also serves as an editor for Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Blue Mountain Review, The Peregrine Muse, and Novelmasters.

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