Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I chew my fucking nails off. For no reason, Definitely not for the flavor. The boys would do it for me If I'd let their furry snouts And dagger teeth nip at my Tender hand flesh. But I won't. I chew my fucking nails off On my own, with my own Gnarled stumps of calcified, Enamel coated grinders. My tongue likes the smooth Underneath and the rigid tops The textural adventure begins Once I put my fingers in my mouth. My nails are parasitic poison, A gross fact of life And no amount of soap and clean Water will stop my eager fingers From invading my drawbridge lips And exposing the buds of my Tongue to the subtle flavors Of life and dog dander. There are worse things to put In your mouth, I'm sure. Some boys and girls choose cocks Or feet or silicone dildos. I chew my fucking nails off Because it's the only way to be true to myself I'll admit I enjoy the devilish nonsense Of reading WebMD article About hygiene and nail destruction a...

when I kicked the punk-assed bitch out he cried about need and want in the middle of one thing the end of another and the beginning of the rest those days were, still tragic and bloody the nights, an endless shit storm --Ag Synclair

First print edition OUT! Featuring: Rob Plath Emily Ramser Claire Phelan Charlie Stern April Salzano jared lacroix Caitlin Hoffman (me) Photography by Kas Miller Email visceraluterus@gmail.com w/ Subject Line ZINE ORDER if you want one/some. Include mailing address. We'll work out shipping through Paypal. May do it the "right" way (Amazon, etc) eventually, but I'd rather not pay those fucks for anything. Keep it visceral, Taylor

I bled through the crotch of my pants and the Wonder Woman underwear I bought two and a half years ago on sale at Target while eating chocolate chip cookies in my bed. I put my hand between my thighs to wipe away the blood and realized, that God had once again decided to not put the embryo of Jesus Junior in my womb, leaving me free to continue reading blog posts tagged atheism. --Em Ramser

The picture came in a box I took it out and hung it The box went to the backyard Where it blew around Till I gotta knife From the basement Took it outside Where the wind blew Like a bastard I wrestled with the box Put a half-nelson on it Till it finally broke loose And stood there glaring at me So I waltzed it into the garage Away from the stupid polar-ice cap wind And sliced it into a million pieces Thinking: "What happens if I cut myself By mistake?" I tried not thinking about that And hauled what was left Of the box To the dumpster Still thinking about what my hands Would look like Then went back inside To look at the picture I hung It was deceased It would be nice to give it A proper burial A box would come in handy Right about now but There was blood everywhere. --Paul Smith

is bullshit, a never-ending straightaway that leads nowhere good. Littered with carcasses of frogs and fickle princes, discarded tubes of chapstick, broken glass slippers, the entire pathway ticks like a timebomb until midnight, then disappears right before your eyes.      --A.J. Huffman

I was tricked into the only Time I have ever held a baby A friend of a friend shouted Here and took off sprinting I was expecting to grab on To a beer or maybe an American Spirit Not a poop producing machine That passed itself off As a miniature human   I tried to hold the thing At arm’s length, but I hadn’t Been to the gym like I resolved to And after about 30 seconds My elbows started quivering Trying to get a grip On the morbidly obese creature So I had to bring it to my lap But it kept staring at me plotting When it was going to vomit All over my mostly clean shirt   It had already sucked the life From one woman—infecting Her with its parasitic motivations So I sat it down on the ground And tried to escape But it kept falling over unable To support its own bulk And attracting unwanted attention With its incessant wails   I cautiously extended one toe Placed it firmly on the slobbering Beast’s back a...

my name is joe (if yer asking - which you ain’t) although that’s not my name but one i’ve always thought could fit me as an endangered urban tortoise whose home rat-clatters as it scutters along the high street  discount my stains and my rips down-and-out chic  gift wraped in this season’s black plastic  the colour of passing stuffed inside  a wire cage tesco screambucket  on maladroit wheels incarcerating one dissipated bag full of the tatters of yesterdays and one bag overflowing with wild debris of deflated bright wonder that once shone in a child eye galaxy squint the grime that dresses me depresses me two bin bag joe off his trolley  forcing screambucket to cross hexed cracks in the pavement through  puddled reflections  of fractured neon attractions look away drowned in the sound of traffic a peripheral smudge  an illusion  quick step >escape ...

                                                         I don't know, man.                                                        The odds are twenty five thousand to one.                                                 ...

A print edition's coming. Super DIY. Dotting the i's, seeking printers, etc. Will TRY to add a link if anyone wants a copy (price will be free- you'll just pay shipping). Previously published poets included in the print edition will soon be informed, and sent a copy for free (I'll pay shipping). Submission guidelines soon to be updated also. Oh, and we gotta FB page now ------> Keep it visceral, Taylor

eyes, the idea of ancient becomes black beacons, time-travelled testimonials to consumptive power. Terminology amalgamized: good evil. Necessitative hunger. Living carnality. Thrashing instincts: feed, fuck. Survive, the path in which we quake. --A.J. Huffman

could just have easily been named the door to everywhere, but as children, we tended to think what could be contained, looked out from, was the point of reference. Our home was anything but safe. Loaded guns lurked in nightstand drawers, pornography was coffee table art, and we were too young to be left alone as often as we were. To pass the time, we wrote the names of rock bands on our school folders, copied from my father’s album collection. We took turns lying on our stomachs in front of the milk crate where the records were alphabetized, our heads cocked to read the vertical lettering. If we felt brave, we would slide the cover out, never removing it all the way because we were certain our father would know. Even if we could put it back in the correct slot, some dust-smear or fingerprint would reveal our disobedience, the crossing of the imaginary line between permitted and forbidden, a line that shifted or vanished entirely at t...

I used to take advantage of each second – popping truck stop Yellow Jackets just to stay conscious for another hour. And, though I shook with lethal doses of legal uppers my mind functioned with a clarity that I can’t even begin to remember. Even in hour 72 when the micro-naps and hallucinated confidants blurred across my perfect vision, I was more connected to life than I’ll ever be again. Today’s life is dull, a reflection of something so insignificant that I wonder why I even miss it.   --Jessica Gleason

“I suppose you heard what happened to Johnny 2 drinks?” “No, I’ve just got back from Wales, what’s happened?” “He’s up at City Royal in intensive care, a right mess. Stevie and Mickey caught him in the kitchen steaming open the mail with a boiling kettle on Giro Day. They kicked seven different shades of shit out of him, he’s in a coma still, gives me the horrors just thinking of it!” “That doesn’t make any sense, why not just steal the mail and open it elsewhere, like in the park across the road or somewhere and then just bin the envelopes afterwards?” “Well, him and Karen from room 6 had a barney again and it was her post that he was caught steaming open. He’s been ranting drunkenly about her seeing another man for a couple of nights before all this happened. He tried to tell Stevie and Mickey that he was just looking for evidence as they were beating him but of course they were both having none of it at all!” “But that’s crazy, I think that he’s probably telling the truth!” “I know ...

You've got your pretty punk girlfriend. I've sold out. I'm everything that you used to be. I'm everything that I used to hate.   Idiots guzzling beer, what's the message? There is no message, man. Rape your country. Kill your Indian. Buy a new car.   You've got your pretty punk girlfriend. I've sold out. Your band is the hit at The Whiskey A Go Go.     --Mikel K

the old year unfolds for me like a shit-stained rose and on the elevated d train i look into blue homes at the debris of humankind at the playpens of screaming children and television sets the empty couches and soiled beds the families huddled over dinner over gadgets that offer them better than flesh their only true hope to rise tomorrow and once again say hello to the cancerous sun i watch this and i think of myself as a mad youth in college student unions of my dirty memory writing mad words meant to take over this mad world and failing having it arrive too late to truly save the gray man looking back at me in the subway window who once challenged himself to be immortal but will now have to settle for being just like everyone else.   --John Grochalski

He speaks of the (im)possibility of love: something almost like time travel: i.e., theoretical: i.e., accessible to alien creatures he can’t (won’t) understand. She says, “I’m no scientist,” which means, “We’re the same,” which means, “Let’s find the fourth dimension together,” which means, “I can prove you wrong & you’ll like it when I do.” He shakes his head, admits telescopes scare him as much as microscopes = observation frightens him = the fear of change. She sighs. Δ is how she lives her life, lest she should turn supernova & throw her own self out of orbit, suck them both into a black hole. --Caitlin Johnson

cheers for all the fucking holes there’s not much left for you to stab --Rob Plath

Drips into metal pans leaving chemical traces from the hard-swollen rain. The smell never fully scrubbed away. The staunch memories of flophouse nights hit me like flashbacks of drugs I’ve never done. And I wonder if the 9-5 conformity was ever worth the sacrifice of always having a cheap drink and a free cuddle from some punk laid out on a love-stained floor. This contributive camaraderie never as tight as the warm embrace of a one-shoed man wearing a Dorothy dress and dreaming only of the next day. The paint always peels, bubbles away from the wall Full of roof-water or mold or pain. --Jessica Gleason