Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Editor's Note: In Manchester, I met an amazing artist. He was homeless, selling his poetry page by page. He sold me two for the price of one and I promised to publish them via my humble e-zine. Here they are. Let's hope we hear more from him!  Me Myself and I  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sat on the edge Society wondering why I'm not a priority  what's come of my life, come over me  my life's in tatters can't you see  beggin at the bank every day get a job get a life people say  i get not benefits just what people give  to buy food and drink to help me live  i live on the street a doorway's my bed  people think I'm thick in the head  it's just Me Myself and I  nobody wants me do you know why  don't I deserve to live with a smile  to make my life worth the while...  Street Life ~~~~~~~~ on the street I have no home  in a doorway all alone  at night it gets so very cold  no one for warmth to cuddle or hold  day after day it's alway

she penciled animals with her left hand: dark pigs and dogs, but “Horses are too hard,” she said. Self-conscious, with a diamond band, a tight red dress, a round face acne-scarred, she had bad teeth because she only brushed the fronts. She kissed me. I smelled cigarettes, her Heraclitean fire. Such moods! Blue-hushed, to black, to blacker yet . . . a thousand  yet s. And yet, she said she loved me: “You’re a good man, just a little rough around the edges.” I pledged that I’d live wilder if I could. And then the moon above the cedar hedges . . .  so white it blinded me till pale daylight. I dreamed of my dead mother late last night. --Thomas Zimmerman