Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I walk into the woods clenched fists in the cold air   I look up at the sky  glowing dusk a thin white slice    this could all be god’s plan or just complete chaos but either way I can still hear the dry leaves    rustling up the past --Danny D Ford

afraid of being caught lookin ’  at myself in the mirror in a hallway of a seedy motel in Porto , where it smells like the guest next door has been chain-smoking since the sun set.   I ’ m thrilled to see you again even though I haven ’ t had the chance to count the days left yet & I still have some mending to do on the old backpack Sage just gifted me.   take a look at the rose that grows on the rocks , I might be a bit drunk by now. I thought I don ’ t drink anymore… --Mario Pujol

Christmastime, I tried to donate two bras to Goodwill. But I’m not sure if they take them used. It’s not like underwear or a bathing suit even.   I wouldn’t want someone else’s hand-me-downs,  especially the bottom of a two-piece.  I remember bleeding once at the public pool.  I was glad then for the strong smell of chlorine because who knows what else was in there?    8 th  grade scoliosis test, the only girl without a bra.  And so I bought one just for show.  I didn’t start until the summer I turned fourteen.  Convinced I never would, I read the birds and bees book.   Are you there, God; it’s me, Lori? Like other skinny, hipless girls, I bought  Seventeen ,  learned all about the protection I wouldn’t need for years.  --Lori D'Angelo

I am in the world like an ant creeps for a crumb,  swarming overdose vomit for  choice remnants, maggot's ain't got to me just yet, they're planted in the dandruff,  i'm a rich kid, too chickenshit for  needles, but i'll still get it tatted ratty little, safety pin piercings,  sterilized with a crack lighter, my stick and pokes are Bic blue, i can't just stand back and watch it  all happen. I'm not just taking the  picture, baby, I'm in it, I am it, I'm  the camera and the skinny, shaky,  dry hands holding it.  You can see the the overgrown nails in the corner.  Smash your blocks, rail your lines, feed me one that says you must destroy to create,  and create to destroy,  Create your reason then, I won't be  fooled by these tricks of light, shadow-play sleights of beautiful, solid hands, Ooh, ooh, c'mon, hold it Hold it for me, Hum it for me, I'm singing the song you wrote on the fly, won't you just  hold it? --Muna Akther 

Kurt Cobain     “Wanting to be someone else is a waste of who you are.”  -- Kurt Cobain             Kurt Cobain settles himself on a chair on stage, slumping a bit. He holds his guitar in soft arms. His hair (blond, dirty, greasy), hangs in a centre-parted bob. An oversized t-shirt and moss green knit cardigan cover his thin body. When, at one point during the performance, a woman yells the name of their most controversial song, “Rape Me,” Cobain responds in a disdainful tone “I don’t think MTV would let us play that.”             MTV had, in fact, told the band not to play the song. This didn’t stop them from playing it during rehearsal. Nor did it impede Kurt Cobain from strumming its opening chords during the live performance before transitioning into an approved song.   He appears relaxed. As he talks to his audience and band mates, he gives no indication that this will be his penultimate performance or that he will be dead in five months.  *                     *                  

Everything That Happened in July Trips down  hutongs  and a streak of green peeling paint on the dumpster. Rust eat through once-blue tricycles  like a mess of rot-pink tentacles  trembling, an octopus drowning in its tank at the seafood market. A glass sheet of fog and beer bottle green air. Suffocate. Oxygen is overrated  when you're at the bottom of a bathtub filled with phantom coloured water, puddles  in the middle of your neighbourhood's rain glazed main street, mosquitoes dipping their feet in your sweat. The summer  is dragging on like a dash of blackberry lipstick  smeared across your own sun bleached sweatshirt and the bathroom mirror where you kissed it when shaving your head. Your hair  won't grow back before September and you know it, but that is a problem for your body's next tenant in two months time and this weekend is for cheap lukewarm wine  stolen under no stars and watching plants die on your balcony, lungs filled with clouds of moths, paper crowned

He wondered where I was. My car was parked in its normal spot, so I must have been home. How dare I not come out to greet him. This was UNACCEPTABLE!    I casually turned into my street, unaware of the heartache and anger I caused. We locked eyes. I quickly realised I was in trouble. He was on a mission. His pace, fast yet calculated. Without breaking his gaze, he made a beeline toward me. There was no escaping his wrath. My hands were full of groceries, each step taken cautiously as to not stumble. A misstep would see groceries fall out of the bag and roll down the street. I had no choice but to face him. Running was not an option.      “MMEEEEOOOOWWW.”   “OK, OK. Come on Phoenix, let me put these down first.”    His demeanour then quickly changed. He looked contented, knowing that he was still the boss, and that it wasn’t ok for me to leave without permission. He walked alongside me, ushering me to the house, ensuring I did what was promised. He took his place on the lawn, having got