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PUNK PROSE: The Body Keeps a Different Calendar By Ann Fulleros

The body is a bad liar. Mine still remembers him in places I don't. A shoulder waiting for a hand that isn't coming. A mouth that learned someone's name before it learned how to say no. Knees that hit the floor for God long before they understood they could also hit the pavement and keep walking. People say time heals. Time is a fucking calendar. The body doesn't care. The body keeps its own dates. May. The month my skin became evidence. The month I learned that a person can leave you before they leave the room. That goodbye can happen in secret. That sometimes you are the last person to receive the news about your own life. For a while, I thought I was supposed to forgive him because forgiveness makes better literature. I tried. I couldn't. So I forgave myself instead. For staying. For believing. For not knowing. For knowing something was wrong and calling it anxiety because that was easier than calling it betrayal. Last night, I found an old shirt in the back of m...
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PUNK POETRY: Misanthrope by Matthew R. Douglas

Hey Mister. Daytime is overrated. Give me the inky blackness of night.   Enough about going outside; I do my best work under cover.  Keeps the burns away.   Oh, and you can’t trust the stars either. --Matthew R. Douglas
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PUNK POETRY: Steel-Toed Lipstick by Kate Torode

Steel-Toed Lipstick I paint my mouth red like a warning sign. Not for seduction— for survival. Every word I spit tastes like iron, and I like the weight of it. --Kate Torode
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PUNK POETRY: Six Legs by Andie M.

Crack and creak Lack bones slack jaw I move I scream Walk it’s agony Talk is dread Can’t reach Can’t wrap Six legs Walker and me Closer than skin Can’t stroll Can’t dance No way I can skip No grace My pronouns aren’t preferred I’m the cripkeeper Back slack Fractured crone Leave me alone. --Andie M
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PUNK POETRY: 2 by Allie

Zeitgeist You make it clear which lips you prefer I part Failure to see each set a work of art. Meaningless words. So. Many. Meaningless. Words. Where do they all go? HELLLOOOO... Oh, right, you can't even see me, you think I'm below, The audacity, fascinating to observe it freely flow, It really doesn't take long for your true colors to show, Speaking of flow, since you're so fucking thirsty how about you go water yourself for your mindset and a pair of actual fucking balls to grow. "I'm kidding"  "It was just a joke" "Can we please restart?" No. Blocked.  Because opened up and spread apart, Both sets could water you, nourish you and speak to you from the heart  But here we are instead, so, Fuck your joke and fuck you too, How they open up is all on you.  Falling into the void-But make it kinda cute I can feel myself disappearing again... The void siphoning me through the cracks It all happens so fast sometimes, I can hear the universe...
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PUNK POETRY: I'm so fucking sick of by Angela Nicole

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  --Angela Nicole 
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PUNK PROSE: Best Damn Girl in the World By Stacia Laroche

     Best Damn Girl In The World The engine of my Harley Davidson roared through the streets of the secluded neighborhood as I moseyed on over to my second date of the week's house. I was 45 minutes late. My armpits were sweaty and I could feel my button down sticking to my skin. Curse the summer weather that we all say we adore, but can't stand by its end. My entire get up for the evening was sabotaged by mud puddle water that a garbage truck assaulted me with when I was picking up flowers at the shop. They were utterly destroyed. They were dead before, but even more dead after the tsunami hit. Perfect. Every girl loves it when her sweaty dirty date says “These are for you” and hands her a bouquet of death. That really screams “I want to get to know you” on a personal level.  When I pulled up to her mansion, there she stood on the front steps waiting for me. Looking like a prize in her sundress smiling at me. Every girl smiled at me before I got to the starting line...
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