Punk Monk Press/Magazine

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