Punk Monk Press/Magazine

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 and made Sure

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 >too late i’m in yer face / rank breath spar