have u seen my whale

issue #1

contents
1/ listening to music through earphones in my bedroom in the night, by dave shaw
2/ clockery, by austin kieler 3/ being cool and in love, by amelia gillis 4/ my grammas couch, by amelia gillis 5/ paul walls chinese restaurant, by justin carter 6/ gold tooth on a white tooth, by justin carter 7/ welcome back to the adventures of buck. (dedicated to amit), by michael andrew obrien 8/ teenagers in love, by chris dankland 9/ remember when we jumped, by bob holzhausen 10/ a poem made from facebook posts, by bob holzhausen 11/ 3 poems about a food tray, a cigarette and cats, by sarah jean alexander 12/ the gender confused college kid had no idea what to wear for dinner, by port morsby 13/ funeral, by jesus moses 14/ 1., by angela shier 15/ 2., by angela shier 16/ 3., by angela shier 17/ orange roundballs, by austin islam 18/ turtle, by alexander cox 19/ fox, by alexander cox 20/ untitled, by whit autry 21/ ode to ishmael and luke, by ben taylor 22/ seaweed, by grace millard 23/ a lot of words, by grace millard 24/ dont look yet, by @lazzzyandoh 25/ hello there i am things, by jakob maier 26/ to the entire population of earth that i want to kiss, by jakob maier 27/ butterfly sugar (baby), by beach sloth 28/ toenails, by caleb bouchard 29/ on the concept of irony with continual reference to socrates, by michael scarborough 30/ el marqus de los jardines de aranjuez, by michael scarborough 31/ blank, by hannah obrien 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 13 14 15 17 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

32/ my dad lives in the woods in the countryside, i want to be dead in the woods, by steve roggenbuck 33/ when i kis you in gibraltar trade center it is my first time kising a girl that is a witch, by steve roggenbuck 34/ 21 excerpts from the reality dating show baggage, by james ganas 35/ god help me, by james ganas 36/ skeptical relapse, by heath ison 37/ restaurant, by james root 38/ *yuri gagarin is about to die young*, by crispin best 39/ A PLAY FOR MEN, by cassandra gillig 40/ shark prints, by cameron churchill 41/ albert coster, by cameron churchill 42/ a thing called wasp, by derek murphy 43/ dont joke about death, by bianca elencevski 44/ wooliez, by bianca elencevski 45/ it's better to be sorry than safe, selected tweets by bianca elencevski, ed. joe vaughan 46/ look at my head, its a pumpkin with a candle in it, by keegan crawford 47/ norway, by keegan crawford 48/ self-destruct machine, by jackson nieuwland 49/ boob/butt machine, by jackson nieuwland 50/ killing machine 2, by jackson nieuwland

40 41 42 43 44 45 48 50 51 53 54 55 57 58 61 62 63 64 65

listening to music through earphones in my bedroom in the night, by dave shaw

i am bruised and wet and hiding somewhere in your apartment waiting i guess you are the middle of a forest somewhere you are the trees and the night and the dark air between the trees you are the time that is not passing and you are distinct you are unbound and untethered and good and i am asleep somewhere on a carpet drinking a glass of water keeping hydrated and healthy sleeping like at least 7 hours every night there is a trumpet and a company of small fish that are sick of the sea weve seen all that, were tired of the swimming, we want to do drugs and go on the internet, we want to be calm and removed, we want the luxuries of being sad and alone, we are sick and together, they say in unison and you look and you say good for them and you take my hand and pull me somewhere but my hand is not me it is just there

dave shaw lives somewhere in canada. his debut ebook less of everything was published by NAP in early 2012. you can see more of his work at http://www.daveisok.tumblr.com

clockery, by austin kieler

it was april. i was so cold and ur car couldnt Warm us. you shouted at the rain because you thought It could hear you. i will love you at 500 miles per hour on the freeway in miami where it is warm. i get a Boner because of my jeans and your hand on my thigh. lol its five o clock. love Me now.

my name is Austin Kieler. i like writing a lot :) so anyways. my tumblr is this. http://takesomechillpills.tumblr.com/

being cool and in love, by amelia gillis

amelia gillis is a theatre major, fruit salad enthusiast, and cotton candy princess. she and her cousin grace millard run a collaborative poetry blog that specializes in poems about bubble baths and kissing http://www.effervescentbubblebath.tumblr.com. 6

my grammas couch, by amelia gillis

the green carpet was like you grew up walking on me sitting on me when he couldnt see singing the Beatles Outkast Britney Spears on me spilling broth putting bows on babies and babies on bows finding patterns in pictures and uncles in pyramids tigers under cushions angels in the outskirts of the door frames the green carpet was like how tall are you give me your tired eyes and undereyes magazines to my right and puzzles to my life is over the way i loved you is over

amelia gillis is a theatre major, fruit salad enthusiast, and cotton candy princess. she and her cousin grace millard run a collaborative poetry blog that specializes in poems about bubble baths and kissing http://www.effervescentbubblebath.tumblr.com. 7

paul walls chinese restaurant, by justin carter

Theres something deeply saddening, I say, as Lisa lights her crack pipe, about summer in Houston. It never rains. Smoke from wildfires mixes with smog, mixes with the smoke from our open window. The radio usually tells us how many elderly men passed out Downtown today but now it says Betty Ford is dead. Lisa puts her pipe in the floorboard. Yeah, she says. Everything is so fucking sad, she says, looking out the car window. Were in the parking lot of a Chinese place that she insists Paul Wall owns. Its okay to lie sometimes. We go inside, but the paper behind the register says Cash Only. Lisa looks at it & cries.

Justin Carter is the editor of Banango Street, and author of the forthcoming chapbook TRILL (Reality Hands, 2012). His work appears at Metazen, New Wave Vomit, and lots of other places, all of which are linked on his rarely updated blog, http://theghostofbigmoe.blogspot.com

gold tooth on a white tooth, by justin carter

after Cesar Vallejo I will die in Houston after a rainstorm on a day like today. I will die in Houston on a Saturday. The night before: too many shots mixed with too many pills, a lesson we should have learned when we lost Moe. When we lost C. When we lost Screw. I will die in Houston on its Southside streets, & Houston will look at me & say: He has died. The witnesses: streets, pills, shots, ghosts. Silence.

Justin Carter is the editor of Banango Street, and author of the forthcoming chapbook TRILL (Reality Hands, 2012). His work appears at Metazen, New Wave Vomit, and lots of other places, all of which are linked on his rarely updated blog, http://theghostofbigmoe.blogspot.com 9

welcome back to the adventures of buck. (dedicated to amit), by michael andrew obrien
(this

poem is composed from a review from Escorts Irelands website! ed.)

Called Lyze last night as i was looking for a nice strong lady for my next adventure and Lyze was looking the part, Lyze has good english and a nice phone maner so we set a time for a showdown today at 4. I had to ring Lyze at 3 to conferm i was comming. Got to the apparment no problem and got parking no problem it is in the meddle of town. Was met at the door by Lyze she was dressed as requested in the red outfit in the photos and a super smile. She looked like a seductive she devil in the red, did my jeans get very tight. Lyze is the lady in the photos and is very hot she was what i was looking for

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a buteful strong lady and tall, was offered a shower right away but i said i have to pay you first ans she said no you must kiss me first and she is a good kisser so i was paying with a smile on my face. Went for my shower, then i was ready for the games, but to be honest a bit nurves as Lyze has a set of legs on her that looks like she could crack wallnuts between her knees. So i maned up and went for it as i said all ready Lyze is a super kisser and with seductive whispers all the time as for the oral i almost lots my amno within seconds, i had to hold my will power and not give into this she devil of a temptstress. Lyze threw me around the bed a bit and manhandled me then kissed me from head to toe, we did lots of poistions and jumping around after that, I had savage fun and i think so did Lyze. Had a shower after the games as i needed one and thought i was safe

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but no Lyze still had more kissing and cressing to do, she kissed me all the way to the door, she realy is a she devil. To be honset i am wrighting this a drained broken husk of the man i once was but a lot happer. I am glad i brought the car as i dont think i could have driven my bike home in the condation i was in. All in all a savage service thank you lyze so much i will see you again. Will buck be back for hes next adventure or did Lyze the she devil brake him for life?? to find out tune in next week same buck, time same buck channel.

Michael OBrien lives in Galway, Ireland. His work has appeared in Blue and Yellow dog, Shamrock, Guerilla Pamphlets, Otoliths, Lyrical Passion, Phantom Kangaroo, In Between Altered States, et. al. He was a runner-up in the Mainichi Daily News Haiku Contest (Japan) in 2009. He can be found here: http://andywasacatholic.tumblr.com/ 12

TEENAGERS IN LOVE, by chris dankland

TEENAGERS IN LOVE (PART ONE) On the other side of the tree-line, a freight train pressed through the dark heat, rumbling, its high-pitched whistle moaning of homelessness and rust-bitten troubles. Wooooo. Drifting desperate for a touch. Wooooo. Over the past months, the train had grown to occupy a greater and greater place in his mind, unfolding to the size of a planet around which all his idle thoughts orbited constantly. At the exact moment when his mind had drifted furthest from the waking world, he would suddenly sit up in bed to hear the train screamingits whistle piercing the soundless night in which his neighborhood had sunk abysmally, like a stone in deep water. TEENAGERS IN LOVE (PART TWO) One cold winter morning, Victoria Sadberry walked to school in a state of adolescent and therefore perfect sadness. She could feel the sadness almost physically inside her, knotted and hard like a peach pit surrounded by soft orange flesh. Its eventual extraction would not be easy, she knew. If she wanted to be free of this sadness, it would have to be painfully and carefully clawed out of herby her own handsthen buried, in the darkest soil imaginable. TEENAGERS IN LOVE (PART THREE) Becky sat very still, taking deep breaths. Her large drooping eyelids closed. She breathed in and in through her nose until her chest felt very big and tight. I wonder if its possible to breathe in so much air that you explode, she wondered. She imagined a small jagged tear ripping across the surface of her lungs, dividing tissue and mucus and meat, until suddenly the very breath of her life blew out all at once, like a geyser. Slowly she exhaled again.

Chris Dankland is a writer from Houston, Texas. During the day he teaches public school, patiently explaining to small children why it is not wise to eat your boogers, or sprint down hallways with both shoes untied. He loves to talk to strangers on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003822108903) or through his email, which is cdankland@gmail.com

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 from hay bale

remember when we jumped, by bob holzhausen

to hay bale

shirtless that summer?

i broke out in hives

and you scratched them for me

Bob Holzhausen was once the size of football field laying inside of himself. Now sometimes he feels like an acorn that fell into a football field. Either way, football has been very essential for his understanding of self. During a recrent trip to the doctor it was revealed to him that he has an outtie belly button. He is ashamed of this and now refuses to play football without a shirt. to see him naked go to http://thewalmartinwhichiloveyou.tumblr.com/ 14

a poem made from facebook posts, by bob holzhausen

ive been basically sent to cruise this hotel. im cruising this hotel in flip flops. Two blocks from here on a street where city collectors collect leaves for you we built a radio flyer wagon out of old schwinn bikes and you said you liked it better as bikes. that was the summer we became friends in june in michigan. bubbles by a campfire. icepops and malt liquor in june. i remember the first dresser we painted in michigan. sea foam. your clothes are still in that dresser. sea foam. between the 2 of us we had 7 pairs of pants 4 pairs of shorts 23 socks and 4 legs. 15

we traded horses on the horse ride that summer and you were mad cause my horse had nicer flies we traded pez dispensers and pogs. nobody won. you traded me rod becks rookie card for a lemon square. you stupid fuck.

Bob Holzhausen was once the size of football field laying inside of himself. Now sometimes he feels like an acorn that fell into a football field. Either way, football has been very essential for his understanding of self. During a recrent trip to the doctor it was revealed to him that he has an outtie belly button. He is ashamed of this and now refuses to play football without a shirt. to see him naked go to http://thewalmartinwhichiloveyou.tumblr.com/ 16

3 poems about a food tray, a cigarette and cats, by sarah jean alexander
1. a food tray in the middle of a crowded food court taking up space at a dirty table no one wants to sit at because the leftover panda express smells really strongly, really badly maybe the tray has been there for over a week and everyone refuses to clean it up the janitors, the kitchen staff, the mall customers each passing day the stench increases exponentially. a family of four with nowhere to sit looks at the dirty table with the leftover Chinese food, debating silently, in their heads, weighing their options. 2. a teenage boy throws his half smoked cigarette out of the passenger side window from his friends pickup truck. i am a 12-year-old girl with my 13-year old best friend. i pick up the half smoked cigarette, i take a drag and pose at my best friend, hand on hip hip jutting out

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arm cocked like its broken. check me out, babe. i feel cool. 3. i thought about what my life would be like if you never taught me how to knit. i would be one half the cat lady i am now. my cats would be naked.

sarah jean alexander is 24, lives in baltimore, and works at a bar. she is allergic to fruit and nuts. she blogs at http://sjwritten.wordpress.com. 18

THE GENDER CONFUSED COLLEGE KID HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO WEAR TO DINNER, by port morsby
the gender confused college student had no idea what to wear to dinner. e had not seen eir parents since freshman year, and e wanted to make a good impression. first e elected for a tasteful cocktail dress, then a charcoal gray blazer and black jeans. both times e studied emself intently in the mirror. neither outfit satisfied em. eir shoes were lined up alongside eir bed. e knew e was in trouble when e couldnt even decide which pair to try on first. patent leather pumps or open-toed with slingback heels? dirty buck suedes or brown leather boat shoes? frustrated, the gender confused college student flung a motorcycle boot across eir hotel room. it crashed into the counter, knocking over the bottle of wine e was to bring to dinner. it broke on the tile kitchenette floor. e sat on the floor and wept. e knew there was no point. eir parents hadnt spoken to em ever since e told them. e knew if e showed up eir mother wouldnt even open the door and eir father would call the police. Hed say he had no children. and now e didnt even have a fucking bottle of wine to bring. e climbed to eir feet. e thought of eir parents. e thought of how much e loved them, how much e wanted to make them happy. and then e got it. the gender confused college student made eir way to eir parents house, smiling as e imagined the looks of surprise on their faces when they saw what e brought to dinner; they would be blown away.

port morsby lives in the desert and blogs at http://www.submetropolitan.com 19

funeral, by jesus moses

Jesus Moses has published poetry in Up, Screaming Seahorses, and the Longest Salmon. He like music, and he coblogs at http://unspecializeart.tumblr.com/.

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1., by angela shier

lol my cat is on fire in spanish my cat part dolphin and part cat

hi i am angela shier mainly i just want to boost people. i have a tumblr: http://www.oftheshier.tumblr.com 21

2., by angela shier

what is your ethnic background? porcupine

hi i am angela shier mainly i just want to boost people. i have a tumblr: http://www.oftheshier.tumblr.com

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3., by angela shier

i will hug you until you throw up and keep hugging you

hi i am angela shier mainly i just want to boost people. i have a tumblr: http://www.oftheshier.tumblr.com

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orange roundballs, by austin islam

the swimming pool is drunk on tap wine I promised me I wouldnt yes you closing deals with orange roundballs only to swish & chew one more pour I promised you I wouldnt waste me only collapsed in arms of bath salts not always line-ward looking drugs up I promised promises Id make them all for one desperate hotel night so electronic mailers buzz codes I promised I we would get higher if only ours was still in shambles

austin islam is austin islam 2012. austin Islam is austin islam. he has recently released an ebook, LIFT & OTHER NOISE (http://www.scribd.com/doc/94469139/LIFT-OTHERNOISE)!

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turtle, by alexander cox

alexander cox is a 19 year old artist/designer. he studies product design at sheffield hallam university. he sells prints of his work at http://society6.com/AlexanderCox and blogs at http://thecoletrain.tumblr.com/

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fox, by alexander cox

alexander cox is a 19 year old artist/designer. he studies product design at sheffield hallam university. he sells prints of his work at http://society6.com/AlexanderCox and blogs at http://thecoletrain.tumblr.com/

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untitled, by whit autry

I find myself in the shower. I find myself only crying in the shower. I can stand there and look up at the dozens of rushing streams and let it blur my eyes. I can cry. I can cry because it doesnt feel like I am crying. The hot tears become lost in the constant rushing of water. My cheeks arent red and warm with grief or with anger but with the heat of the steam surrounding me. I can let myself shake and sob until my throat gets so dry that I think I might heave my guts up, but I wont. Instead I can let the water wash me away. I can match the streams running down my cheeks and nose and chin. I can melt. I can melt into the drain, twist down, down below my house and sink into the soft ground near the foundation. I imagine you there. I imagine feeling the cool, wet soil with tiny sprouts of green beneath the pads of my hands. I imagine you living in them, giving yourself to the air and taking in the sun, offering me new breath. I find myself sunk into a heap with my face against the tile. The tile is the cold reality. If it wasnt adhered to the wall, I would break it. I would lift it high above my head and shatter it into grains of nothing and let the water rush it away too, rush it to the ocean. Rush it into a river where it will be drunk by deer and breathed by salmon and taken far away from my steam and shampoo bottles. Sometimes you are farther away than heaven, and sometimes you feel closer than my own skin. You feel that close now. I can lift my arm outside of the shower, outside the curtain where it is cool. Tiny wisps of heat come off of me, like little breaths in the winter air. You are breathing there under the elastic that holds me together. You vibrate in every tiny cell that occupies my limbs. I feel shaky and light and for a fleeting moment you are not dead. You are here with me. In me. Around me. As real as water. As real as the heat trapped in the room. In every room. And just as quickly as you seeped from the faucet, you are sucked down away from me into the drain, through the pipes, rushing toward wherever you go when you are not with me.

Whit Autry is not a writer by profession. She doesnt kill bugs, is good at standardized tests, and likes ambiguous terms like probably and or something. 27

ode to ishmael and luke, by ben taylor

Im writing this with my West Brom pen and Im thinking about that West Brom team I assembled on FIFA two or three years ago. It was FIFA 08 or FIFA 10 I cant remember which. I only buy FIFA on even years, international tournament years, because it feels more official. This West Brom team of mine, they were a force to be reckoned with. Winners of the FA Cup, League Cup and Europa League within two years of promotion from the Championship. I bought Beckham and Roberto Carlos. The Sandwell Galacticos we were dubbed by the local press. I moulded the precocious Luke Moore into a predatory striker with an eye for goal that was preternatural. He was top scorer in the Premier League two years on the trot. His partnership with Ishmael Miller shall echo through the ages they almost eclipsed Yorke and Coles exploits in 99. Meanwhile, Dean Kielys twilight years saw him blossoming once more, with a robust back four in front of him: Koscielny, Wheater, Olsson and Roberto.

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Then along came FIFA 12, and the team disbanded, evaporated into the ether of my Xboxs memory stick: I had to make room for this fantastic new edition of FIFA. But the new team couldnt match the success of the old. The last time we played, at the start of November 2011, we were floundering near the relegation zone. I couldnt get my head around the new defence system, I couldnt retain shape in the face of pressure. Ben Taylor is an English Literature student at the University of Sheffield. He recently returned from five months spent in the Finnish wilderness of Kontula, east Helsinki.

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seaweed, by grace millard

grace millard is the best. she is a big secret ghost. she blogs about puke and poetry at http://www.shakyhands.tumblr.com. 30

a lot of words, by grace millard

i have never thought of you unrelated my eyes turn to moldy bits of grime gossamers you speak like shimmers and sing to me in shivers a shoulder blade sneaks past beckoning i reckon the steam engine of at least eleven i refuse i am glass, maybe i might be fragile like your bones listening to soft recordings you too have become that one time with the appearance of a tangerine sun setting sleepy on a horizon i was fifty of your sense at a yard sale i was cracked a lil but probably fixable i didnt even have batteries until you

grace millard is the best. she is a big secret ghost. she blogs about puke and poetry at http://www.shakyhands.tumblr.com.

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dont look yet, by @lazzzyandoh

no wait dont look yet i havent fixed my hair so i look stupid and its too early to lock eyes pls unlock them now ok i want to talk to you but i wont because ill feel bad for ruining your day by imposing myself on you so sorry the footnote under my thought of holding hands under stars says this wont happen

@lazzzyandoh is 22 years old and from new york. he is the curator of #imgaypress (http://imgaypress.tumblr.com/) and has been writing on and off since he was in high school. 32

hello there i am things, by jakob maier

i think sometimes i am a basset hound at an inner city dog park i am short and my ears hang to the ground and i slobber on the grass like a slug i am old - 94 in dog years - but people still laugh when i poop on the sidewalk. i think other times i am a beech tree in the backyard of a house that is protected by the historical society i am tall and brown and green and kids climb into me with hammers and make a treehouse in me the city gets mad and tears down the tree house and then kids grow up and no one plays in me ever again. i think other times i am a glass of apple juice in an elementary school lunchroom all the fourth grade boys point at me and laugh and say i look like pee and i just want to say hey, man, actually i am apple juice. but i cant because i am apple juice and a beech tree and a basset hound. but actually no i am a person and my name is jakob and it is nice to meet you

jakob maier is a guy from portland who likes mexican food and also being alive because it is cool. his blog is http://www.iammaier.tumblr.com

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to the entire population of earth that i want to kiss, by jakob maier

i was searching for your name in my contact list and the first thing i thought of was your hair stuck in the bristles of my toothbrush i picture the soapy shower water resting at the tired bottom of your feet and realize how i got there let me remind you of my birthday it will happen and id like you to be there

jakob maier is a guy from portland who likes mexican food and also being alive because it is cool. his blog is http://www.iammaier.tumblr.com

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 Butterflies A-flutterin

butterfly sugar (baby), by beach sloth

Like it was nuthin May be sumthin Ive seen so many today Somebody told me When a butterfly follows you That means it is the soul Of the recently departed So all butterflies Are beautiful ghosts Who shed their bodies To take flight in spring And herald new life

beach sloth blogs hard at http://beachsloth.blogspot.co.uk

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toenails, by caleb bouchard

You were in my bed, I had let you in my bed. I had my arms around you and you held my hands. It didnt feel like my room. It felt like we were camping. I felt toenails growing inside you. You got up to leave suddenly, saying itll happen, someday.

Caleb Bouchard recently self-published his second collection of poetry, entitled New Poems In Georgia Font. His website is http://www.artsafart.com. His favorite band is The Smiths.

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on the concept of irony with continual reference to socrates, by michael scarborough

i am becoming emotionless going back to the soil we return to the dirt in the dust where i wanna be without a self lost in cold rain without my self my super-robotic features will enter overdrive out of the dirt the flowers grow history is red to red when the little red flowers grow below kiama lighthouse the tall white plains heaven is the lighthouse and history is roses and strawberries where being happy is for insomniacs and the non-robotic i find myself lost in the garden among the chrysanthemums far from the pavilion far out in the nebula falling on and on until i find a cadence

michael scarborough is a nineteen year old from the suburbs of london but late at night the feelings swim to the surface and you can read more at http://www.michaelscarborough.tumblr.com 37

el marqus de los jardines de aranjuez, by michael scarborough

or was it just me, this horrible primitive caveman staring through the window where all was still, still this is who I am and though I thought I knew you well all is gone, leaving just who I am the wolf, a leopard, the young lion amongst the citizens, living out our world, where everything passes by slowly like the pace of the planets out of Earth, and far from this cold universe of broken planets hurtling the gulf, to Aranjuez, on rainy days, back when I was small born to be a listener, rather than the creator, the waves break, below, in submarines, I try to grapple Springsteen and all of his damned-American love songs, and my life feels far from real, because reality has no air

michael scarborough is a nineteen year old from the suburbs of london but late at night the feelings swim to the surface and you can read more at http://www.michaelscarborough.tumblr.com 38

blank, by hannah obrien

I remember when you used to swing round to paint the clouds and pull the hair from the ground. You used to listen to the marble and watch the old men wipe the money from their eyes and laugh. You used to wait until the last, you loved the way it snatched at opaque and how its fingers fell silent when it slept. Youd watch as the park would carefully undo its wooden necklace and stroll. You loved the woollen tresses and the sharp sirens they clutched, hiding from the fire. You used to play compassion. Youd strum it with such conviction that the raven on the back of my neck would cry leave me, leave me. So you did. Youre fed up of evergreen stories and playing with time. You dont want to live in a canvas house or run your steel gloves through the sand on my arms. You wish to cut the silence my fingers sew with scissors and you want to grow your hair. You want to close your piercing blues and fall. You dont like steam or water biscuits. And I dont want you anymore.

Hannah OBrien tumbles here http://hannahobrienn.tumblr.com/. She likes sultana bran but is open to suggestions vis a vis other bran types/sub categories of bran.

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MY DAD LIVES IN THE WOODS IN THE COUNTRYSIDE, I WANT TO BE DEAD IN THE WOODS, by steve roggenbuck
come over

i am in the dark trees being fucked at night

steve roggenbuck lives his leif at http://livemylief.com/. he is the author of three poetry ebooks, i am like october when i am dead, download helvetica for free.com and crunk juice. he has also written lots of cool essays on online lit (ed.) and has a boosting presence on www.youtube.com

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WHEN I KIS YOU IN GIBRALTAR TRADE CENTER IT IS MY FIRST TIME KISING A GIRL THAT IS A WITCH, by steve roggenbuck
this is a beautiful time to be in the south

i masterbate here and there

steve roggenbuck lives his leif at http://livemylief.com/. he is the author of three poetry ebooks, i am like october when i am dead, download helvetica for free.com and crunk juice. he has also written lots of cool essays on online lit (ed.) and has a boosting presence on www.youtube.com 41

21 excerpts from the reality dating show baggage, by james ganas

i own and use a guillotine i believe i am a brotha-elf i have threesomes with my twin brother i have six different personalities i am homeless and work as a robot mime i cry every time i drink alcohol i dont reciprocate oral sex i dont believe in marriage im a 33-year-old virgin i drink every night im an outlaw in mexico i only sleep 2 hours a night i only own 3 outfits i have a freezer full of sperm i hate the sun i think all women are cheaters i am morbidly afraid of cotton balls i give my horses more attention than my girlfriends i am a penniless clown i have been on 35 singles cruises i prefer anonymous sex

James Ganas is a college student and lives in Seattle, Washington. He is the webmaster of the popular facebook page James Ganas. 42

god help me, by james ganas

god help me im eating panera bread at chuck e. cheese god help me my best friend works at chuck e. cheese and i am in the mouse costume with the local children there

James Ganas is a college student and lives in Seattle, Washington. He is the webmaster of the popular facebook page James Ganas.

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skeptical relapse by heath ison

Heath Isons poetry has appeared in New Wave Vomit, Screaming Seahorse, Banango Street and Metazen. Heath DE-generates inside The GENESIS of USELESSNESS. 44

restaurant, by james root

(Restaurant) (pause) J: (pause) Your, (pause) your ear is bleeding. E: Oh sorry (drops knife to hold ear. E slides back in chair a little creating discordant scraping noise) I repierced my ears before we came out (looking downwards) Well, I was just putting them in but I havent worn them for a while. (pause) (E starts blinking heavily) (pause) J: I E: Sorry. E gets up from the table, twisting her body away as she does so. The chair scrapes loudly, she walks briskly towards stage left with her head down. E exits stage left and Im not sure why Ive written exist stage left. I mean, she went to the toilet. But you are far away in a neat narrative now. Im not even there now i am in my room listening to radio 4 i am always listening to radio 4 and a man is on radio 4 and he is talking about how he doesnt 45

like gay marriage and about how marriage is THREE-THOUSAND YEAR OLD UN BROKEN_TRADITION and the newspresenter says on radio 4 that the first mans grandparents were POLYGOMISTS and had like thirty-two husbands + wives and that they broke the UNBROKEN_TRADITION and there is so much rain outside my window that my windowsill is filling up w/ rain ,i put my head against the window and it is cold that i want to be wrapped up w/ you your hair is dark + warm and ah man, i am hectic inside i had a good nights sleep last September and i remember your limbs + my limbs inbetween and

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a thousand fishes swimming in the windowsill the mens voices reverberate in the rain and radio 4 reverberates in the rain and I can still hear your voice skip + dance on the warming breeze it lilts and inflects on the prevailing north-westerly wind

james root is from rural s. leicestershire (england) he lives in sheffield

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*yuri gagarin is about to die young*, by crispin best

my flight suit is all the way off in a fighter jet with u im flying this thing 1-handed [; . yuri yr mouth is an open mouth and i love u like a vegetable under yr flight suit u have the same skin coloured leggings as me but i cant see yr leggings ]: why still surprise i put five garlic cloves in our mashed potato now our breath is hecked up together our breath is the most beautiful beast but hold the hecking phone yuri u my friend are about 2 die young [: truely u r just a bunch of sexy atoms u sir r just the way matter has decided to organise itself today and every goddamn day thats how a yuri gagarin is made [: so fine slam dunk me into yr friendzone yuri gagarin ill crash this jet so help me soviet jesus welcome to today u r here so the universe can know what a yuri gagarin is

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thats all [: my god we smell like steam engine brakes its beautiful ill crash this fighter jet in2 a zoo! [: im imagining it right now those awesome dumb animals wtf a plane lol ]: kiss me on the cankle u r either about to die young or scoop us up out of what im going to do petting a cool frog and other things well never do 2gether oh well ]: theyll find our still burning bodies and cremate them ikr sounds crazy but im not the one who wouldnt give me a handjob \: *spoiler alert* we will b lonely ghosts a long long time and matter will arrange itself into our ashes built into a goddamn palace wall lol matter will arrange itself into a world without us \m/ were beautiful hairstyles right now at least we could have been bird noises today we could have been the best ever breakfast yuri [: ok iim killing us hehe crispin best find him here :] http://wewillallgosimultaneous.blogspot.co.uk/

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A PLAY FOR MEN, by cassandra gillig

Note: This play should be performed in front of an entirely male audience. In the case that no males are present for the performance, the fertile women in the audience will be taken hostage in the basement of the theatre until one or more produces a child. Sperm of the nearest possible man will be used to fertilize the women. All infertile playgoers will return in nine months, at which point the children not being born male will be promptly executed and the children being born male will be taken to the front of the stage and placed on small thrones crafted specifically to dimensions of newborns. If there are no male offspring, the play will go on as planned but all women present will be slaughtered upon its culmination. Assuming newborns line the stage, any children that begin to cry will be immediately executed. At the time of execution, the play will stop and start again from the beginning only after the mess has been cleaned up. If a playgoer leaves the play before its end, they will be executed. If a playgoer makes any noise during the play, they will be executed. If a playgoer is menstruating during the course of the play, they will be executed. If a playgoer does not enjoy the play and leaves a negative comment card at the door of the theatre, they will be executed. If a playgoer tells a friend about the dangers of attending the play, they will be executed. If a playgoer has birthed a child due to their attendance of the play, the custody of the child is to be passed on to the theatre and any records of the childs birth are to be erased. CAST: HOSTAGE ONE: slight, androgynous HOSTAGE TWO: German [Two blindfolded men, the hostages, are led into a room by two women dressed in short skirts and high heels. One woman is painted gold, though sloppily; the lack of craftsmanship is apparent. Each hostage is taken to a separate corner of the room and bound with pieces of rope connected to the floorboards. At various times, large dogs walk on set, sit down, and leave disinterestedly. Once the hostages have been secured, the women disappear into the sky, being lifted to the top of the theatre by ropes that are clearly visible to the audience. After the captors disappear, a German Shepherd enters the room and sits on HOSTAGE TWO. HOSTAGE TWO starts crying.] HOSTAGE ONE: Are you crying? [HOSTAGE TWO stops crying and fidgets in his tethers.] HOSTAGE TWO: No. [The curtain falls, then rises, falls again, rises, etc. until every playgoer has attempted to leave the theatre.] Curtain.

Cassandra Gillig is the wind~

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shark prints, by cameron churchill

All around the room, shark prints drift across bright silk sack dresses, high-waisted shorts and thick canvas backpacks Im Wondering why red-drift algae washes up on your beach, not mine? and why Were not sharing a room? In many species activity is diminished during the winter months in response to the shit september in response to the fact that september is so fucking shit and theres no sun so everyone is bitter and winter can go fuck itself Dam it I love it you! I love you under the sweet silvery moon, cold in the glory, midnight, 12 hours past the sinking of the titanic kissing you on an a freezing iceberg like the movie, DICAPRIOs DROWNING And i thought of you today when on a yellow bus passing hundreds of people slamming there heavy white feet against the snow on the concrete clouds have sunk to no metres at all above the earth the number SEVEN is one of the most significant numbers in the Holy Bible Peace activists, hawks and liver spotted beasts i mean old men Old men know this best the number SEVEN is one of the most significant numbers in the Holy Bible IIm going to sell all of my belongings and im going to move to india and travel from town to town preaching a gospel that i made up

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and im goin to get a glorious tan a tan like no other and im going video all of it and put it on the internet, dead serious, for every soul to see and ill write poems by rivers and trees out of my mind, by the moon inside the moon im going to make up a name and im going to meet thousands of people, using this name and i garentee you that it will be so fucking beautiful

My name is Cameron Churchill, I use some google searches results and sometimes I dont use google search results I am most interested in making people feel euphoric

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albert coster, by cameron churchill

albert coster i miss you i want to be with you feel your footsteps all jangling down the hall

My name is Cameron Churchill, I use some google searches results and sometimes I dont use google search results I am most interested in making people feel euphoric

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a thing called wasp, by derek murphy

I saw a wasp floating on a helicopter seed, the kind you can throw up in the air and it spins untill it hits the ground. In a milky pool that chemicals hadnt fully dissolved in yet. how it must have smelled for the wasp! i hate the smell of chlorine, though there are times when i love it too. I love the smell when I remember when i took swimming classes at the local ymca. they would hold my arms while i would kick my feet in the almost warm enough to be bathwater-water and look up at concrete ceilings with their special looking pillars, so safe, so safe. this was before micha cracked his skull open on a rusty goal poast that fell on him, and was rushed to the hospital at the same time i developed very special kind of phobias. i try not to think about that before I dive in to the chlorine.

my name is derek murphy i collect succulents and am 20 not a student

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dont joke about death, by bianca elencevski

dont joke about death. i died once and it was pretty bad. i want to wake up (real early) and see neon, confectionary-filled rain. ~ the eastward wind at my window makes my knees hear death in first person. upwards. i am hissing hello from your heating duct, just combing my l o n g, beautIful, warm teeth. they smelt like smokes and fries. i am going to stay here until i am too tired to stay awake. i think i am ready to let you get my skin under

fuck it. i am going to get really naked for this shower,

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i am going to drink until i am attracted to everyone my body s l a n t e

online.

d s p a w l e d across a futon. and thoughts r awled just let me comb my long, beautiful warm teeth. here are my red knees and here are the cities at the centre of me.

bianca elencevski 19/F/melbourne likes: buildings, words, legumes https://twitter.com/#!/BCEVS 56

wooliez, by bianca elencevski

and at midnight a soft gleam of a woolworths linoleum floor, glistening.

bianca elencevski 19/F/melbourne likes: buildings, words, legumes https://twitter.com/#!/BCEVS

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it's better to be sorry than safe,

a selection from bianca elencevskis twitter, ed. joe vaughan

May 12 THIS MORNING I WATCHED THE SUN RISE AND SUN SET BUT MISSED EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN. WHICH IS WHAT USUALLY HAPPENS, BUT JUST IN REVERSE. May 22 INTERESTING FASHION CHOICE THAT MY MIND WEARS THIS SKIN. May 18 WE MEASURE OUR LIFE USING THIS THING CALLED TIME AND IT BREAKS THINGS UP INTO SEGMENTS May 21 THE EARTH IS LOOSE, THATS HOW WERE ALL HERE. May 17 i think my throat is falling out of my neck and onto the floor where a serial killer is standing on it laughing May 15 BIRTH, A DEATH SENTENCE. May 17 with steel cap boots saying ha ha marlboro dickhead May 15 KEEP YOUR ENEMIES CLOSE AND YOUR WIFI IN YOUR POCKET. May 9 DOES ANYONE ELSE FIND IT HARD TO EXPLAIN TWITTER TO THE PPL YOU LOVE? YEAH I DO EVERYDAY.

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May 20 WHO WILL CHECK MY FACEBOOK WHEN IM GONE? May 21 I AM YOUR SAVOURY. May 12 SOMETIMES ALL I WANNA DO IS GO TO A CLUB AND BE ON FACEBOOK LIKE I DONT SEE THE ISSUE OK May 10 THERE IS A CUTE GIRL ON THE TRAIN I WANNA ASK HER OUT. April 29 I NEVER WANT TO GET TO KNOW YOU BECAUSE I DONT WANT US TO GET BORING. May 7 YOU CAN LOG OFF BUT YOU CAN NEVER TRULY LEAVE. May 6 MY FONE DIED LAST NITE WHILE I WAS TRYING TO TWEET. April 30 BIRTH, LIFE SENTENCE. April 26 Do dolphins has teeth May 7 IVE TRAINED MYSELF TO DO VERY LITTLE ALL DAY AND STILL FEEL SUPER FULFILLED. I THINK I HAVE REACHED ~ INLITENMENT ~ April 22 I am lost May 8 I ONLY LISTENED TO THIS LECTURER BECAUSE HE USES TILDES ALOT IN HIS LECTURE SLIDES.

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May 14 HAVING DREAME WERE I GET DEAD THAN I WAKE UP. April 20 IT US A BEAUTIFUL NITE April 26 Do dolphins mate for life May 14 ITS BETTER TO BE SORRY THAN SAFE.

bianca elencevski 19/F/melbourne likes: buildings, words, legumes https://twitter.com/#!/BCEVS 60

look at my head, its a pumpkin with a candle in it, by keegan crawford

1. What is on your bed right now? I laid there for fifteen minutes with my face down into the pillow. I imagined how I looked from another persons point of view, and I looked dead, in a humorous way. 2. What is your favorite holiday? The tree was fake and everyone was acting like the tree. 3. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go? The drop was five stories, so I didnt look down. I just looked forward. 4. Have you ever been camping? I dont know why people are scared of wolves. Blood thirsty killing machine is a false phrase. They are not robots and they drink water. 5. What was the last thing you ate? I am not a blood thirsty killing machine. I just wanted to clarify that. 6. Do you have any regrets? Flowers die 100% percent of the time. I still like flowers, though.

Keegan Crawford lives in Portland, Oregon. He is the author of the ebook The moon looks red and the sky looks black and I can remember exactly how your heart sounds at any given moment (http://themoonlooksred.blogspot.co.uk/). He writes things at http://allofmypantsareblack.blogspot.co.uk. He is also a ghost pokemon gym leader. 61

norway, by keegan crawford

People stand far apart in Norway Im going to take on Norwegian customs and people will think Im weird and theyll ask why are you weird and I will say this is how they do things in Norway Think how bad they would feel

Keegan Crawford lives in Portland, Oregon. He is the author of the ebook The moon looks red and the sky looks black and I can remember exactly how your heart sounds at any given moment (http://themoonlooksred.blogspot.co.uk/). He writes things at http://allofmypantsareblack.blogspot.co.uk. He is also a ghost pokemon gym leader. 62

self-destruct machine, by jackson nieuwland

The self-destruct machines only purpose is to destroy itself. Can you relate?

Jackson Nieuwland likes unicorns (http://everythingisfantatic.com) 63

boob/butt machine, by jackson nieuwland

If you insert a pair of boobs they will be transformed into a butt. If you insert a butt it will be transformed into a pair of boobs

Jackson Nieuwland likes unicorns (http://everythingisfantatic.com) 64

killing machine 2, by jackson nieuwland

The existence of the killing machine has been confirmed, but we cannot be sure if it is functional. Whenever we send someone to test it, they never return

Jackson Nieuwland likes unicorns (http://everythingisfantatic.com)

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dont deny ur true feelings ur poem is wonderful k silem mohammad

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have u seen my whale #1 ed. joe vaughan and thom james, may 2012 boost

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