dr. Mower

by goneril

i was going to marry my doctor. he only forshortened my legs a bit, the cracking of the bones was the worst piece. I could feel bits of bone flayed off my shins as if through a cheese grater. but now the brace had made me stand up straight, real straight. My neck was just squeezed together a bit, he told me only a few centimeters were shaved off the length. my knees were now leathery and strong, tough to shuffle over the concrete cracks. He liked oranges, that was important. I like to carry a plastic bag with a few oranges because it is lighter then a liter of water. Three was a good number, you had to keep filling it because when it dipped below two my balance was off. He had this yellow ceramic bowl glazed with two cherries on a long twig, and that's where he kept those sweet oranges. His hands smelled liked vaseline stretched before my nose tempting with one of those. He had good veins, too, plump, suckable. I know he wanted me, too, because I see has stethoscope swinging under his neck like a pendulum and then just, just when I taste his breath, my mother flies in on those air skates i want and with her coat tails spread out like these evil wings and stops so short that even her skin has to bounce back to the meat and bones to which it clings. I remember I was so ashamed because I left a wet spot on the white paper of the gurney. My mother snapped, "don't be bashful look dr. mower in eye and thank him, doll" and twirled out on her skates again. I hiccuped and cut my tongue on my third tooth to the right, the vampire one. One taste bud popped, I thought. I was obliged to follow her. Doctor lowered me to the floor from underneath my armpits. He peeled the white paper from off my crotch with a quiet rustle. I tried to twirl out like my mother, but fudged it. He patted my buttocks forward with his that fully cupped one side, "sweet child."

My mother was fussing with the nurse about the bill outside. She cawed that she wouldn't pay because I looked like I was patched together with tin foil and was now a runt. I wondered why she didn't tell my doctor that. The nurse clamped together her lips and they were silent as I goofed over. I wanted to tell my mother about this warm itch I had on the gurney with dr. Mower.

Primordial Instincts

by Thomas Fortenberry


Johnny Weismuller threw Jane
across my screen -- or Maureen
O’Sullivan; him, Tarzan, whichever --
and ripped off her dress
as she took the plunge
into the crystal clear waters
of primordial lust.

Some things crystalize in memory
like black and white shards of broken glass
which are all so clear and shining,
but can cut to the bone if you pick them up again.

I’ve been falling out of trees all my life --
no, wait, I’ve got it backwards,
I mean I’ve been climbing trees and falling out
of love, but always searching for the next
thrill, the next height, the next swing
into rapturous adventure.

Is there a noble savage
lurking in every untamed breast?

Doubtful
about everything, I try to live up
to my recycled name
in search of wounds
as some sort of stigmatic proof
of what? Why? Who cares?

Trapped as I was in urban jungles
and suburban wastelands, it is no wonder
my gymnastics died an early death,
so unlike that most famous companion
bouncing, rolling, and rub-a-fur grinning
Cheetah the chimpanzee
who became the oldest living cousin
of man in the history of the world.

Old monkeys never die,
but what about libido?

You only have to watch the old apes
humping each other with abandon
to abandon all hope
of normalcy. Is it wrong
to hate the origin
of things from time to time
since everyone is so intent
on reminding you what the definitions are
for hypocrisy, bigamy, adultery,
and on and on the list ever endless
in its cruel descent through humiliation
until there is nothing left but the monolith
rising above the apes bum-bum-bum-bum?

I can’t do that, Dave.

But 2001 has come and gone and
there was neither Y2K nor Apocalypse.
Not even a return to the moon.
Just more staring at the dirt
and wondering how to wetwipe
a soul burned on the back burner
one procrastination too long.

Nothing ever changes
your mind about things
since things are determined to stay
put in memory, unless of course it fails
a la Alzheimer’s (What a way to go
ruin a good name, right? Sounds like an Elder
God out of Lovecraft returning
to usurp our place in reality.)

Twain had it right: Darwin was wrong.
We’re not witnessing the Ascent
of Man, but rather the Descent
of Man from the Higher Animals.
It didn’t take many letters from Satan
to figure out the damned
human race, but it sure helps
that I have known
many a flesh-clothed demon.

winter frost

by senecablood

my sadness grew too strong
can't control it anymore
feel like i don't belong
another day i'll not endure
this empty life's a waste
shattered dreams all is lost
hold a gun against my face
color red the winter frost

no love to leave behind
depart the world with no goodbye
the only friend i'll find
the earth who eats me when i die
to never smile again
feel the warmth of sun's gold ray
time now to end the pain
the purpose of my final day

tranqulity at last
i greet you death with open arms
when the moment's past
the world can do me no more harm
the life i used to love
an ember that's long since burnt out
i turn my eyes above
start the bullet on its route

too late to turn away
as brains are speckled on the ground
in death now i must stay
the icy darkness i have found
there's no eternal sleep
for my mad immortal soul
emotions i must keep
while i am lowered in the hole

the life i chose to take
i want it back at any cost
down below i am awake
up above the winter frost"

p0r3

by nruhtra

the creepy crack head friend of mine
the homeless place he calls his thought
the silly putty tinker toy
the mirror ball reflects below
the grazing herd the lemming goat
the move toward the moving from
the winter home upon the hill
the summer shade a caving in
the psychotronic talking box
the mainstream ninety-two percent
the laughing dying culture pop
the point of view the bleeding heart
the easily digested hurt
the famous moldy party hop
a fantasy the way it could
the shaping things a prostitute
a naked mix a magazine
a picture of us in a dream

ultra/ULTRA get me in there
ultra/ULTRA get me out

Tonight

TONIGHT
by tink (tinkerbell.sarah)

there's a peculiar taste to the air tonight
an un-tasteable flavour, defying it's pigeon hole
a heat flash of a tingle
tha crawls slowly from the back of your jaw
it's not quite pleasant
but not altogether awful
and holds you with
the twisted interest level
of a bad accident you drive past
with deliberately exaggerated caution
and cannot
will not
look away

there's a lurking demon in my closet tonight
and the crack in the door seems very far away
to close or not to close it, that is the question
whether t'is nobler in the mind's eye to suffer
or a smarter bet to go to sleep
with my head under my pillow
and forget that I remember
the demon's name
and that
his number is still written down
somewhere

there's an undercurrent of hope tonight
and it's sweeping my feet from under me
but it flows so slowly that i can't feel
the sand that I've built my life on
between my toes
as it moves invisible
back into the sea
from whence it came

there's a murmur of waves in the wind tonight
and it envelopes me with a maternal kiss
to the forehead
wishiing me angels on my pillow
and the promise of a new day
a new day in which
i can choose to shine
Or hide in the storm clouds
no matter the actual weather

There's a quiet amusement that's improvng tonight
and finding all of the long hidden ticklish spots
the laughter isn't quite as boisterous as it once was
but the emotion is twice as strong
and more than real
i think that i might
for once
get some sleep
tonight

Handy Dandy

Handy dandy, controversy surrounds him
He been around the world and back again
Something in the moonlight still hounds him
Handy dandy, just like sugar and candy

Handy dandy, if every bone in his body was broken he would never admit it
He got an all girl orchestra and when he says
'Strike up the band', they hit it
Handy dandy, handy dandy

You say, 'What are ya made of?'
He says, 'Can you repeat what you said?'
You'll say, 'What are you afraid of?'
He'll say, 'Nothin' neither 'live nor dead.'

Handy dandy, he got a stick in his hand and a pocket full of money
He says, 'Darling, tell me the truth, how much time I got?'
She says, 'You got all the time in the world, honey.'
Handy dandy, Handy dandy

He's got that clear crystal fountain
He's got that soft silky skin
He's got that fortress on the mountain
With no doors, no windows, no thieves can break in

Handy dandy, sitting with a girl named Nancy in a garden feelin' kind of lazy
He says, 'Ya want a gun? I'll give you one.' She says, 'Boy, you talking crazy.'
Handy dandy, just like sugar and candy
Handy dandy, pour him another brandy

Handy dandy, he got a basket of flowers and a bag full of sorrow
He finishes his drink, he gets up from the table he says,
'Okay, boys, I'll see you tomorrow.'
Handy dandy, handy dandy, just like sugar and candy
Handy dandy, just like sugar and candy

Bob Dylan 1990