Punk Monk Press/Magazine

I sit embedded in these gardens; an enclosed island that sits like a septic scab on the city's pale, malnourished skin. Again they offer a home and shelter from another avoided shift, that once again grants that time which I have no desire to fill. Another blank face passes by, their words far too affluent for my ignorant ears to comprehend; a voice educated but lacking basic knowledge. I subject my nerves to this torture, till they retreat from want of respite. Through wilted roses, this afternoon sinks heavier by the minute. Yet more eyes stare through ash covered thorns, arms threaded with silver needles. I convince them I'm busy in minor thoughts, till I feel the breeze of their passing. That slow dissipating moment between myself and the dried, brittle grass now eases somewhat, returning that clarity once more. I breathe out confusion along with my smoke, and I refuse the chance of escape once more which even after this haze, sti...

that they told me they loved me, always in the dark, always with my clothes off. How could I have known then who I would become, how many men it would take until I understood it was better if I closed my eyes, until I knew what the moon meant   when it was hiding behind a cloud, or when it was full and heavy, lighting the interior of the car just enough that they could not speak. --April Salzano

I have this dream where I hand a beautiful woman one of my poems and she begins to undress on the spot. We're in a coffee shop and I plead with her, "Please, not here." But she answers with, "You showed me the poem here didn't you." She has a point. So I begin undressing as well. The people at the other tables don't seem to notice. Four co-eds are like discussing like everything that like happened to them today. A young guy, in a tattered jacket, and a scarf swirling around his throat, is head down in a Spanish translation of "Crime And Punishment." Two gallery owners blame it all on Matisse. Three engineering students share formulas. Two aging gays hold hands. So we make love on the table amid the muffin crumbs and Java stains and then, when we're done, we put our clothes back on, and I ask her, "Can I get you anything?" She says, "Yes, do you have a poem where...

I am writing anywhere carrying and placing mugs, leaving rings of condensation, atomization around tired eyes, staring out into light polluted skies no STARS! My God! No Stars! NO FUCKING stars! blankets of purple clouds unfurled, beyond that unearthly opaque blackness, like skyscraper windows unframed, hell, and ah! shit, expletives and what-ever-have-you-not watch this thing unseen, it's video-logged to you head linked directly to the brain, layered like cake, thick and creamy icing spread between pink naive wrinkles and synapse, LOOK, I only write what's behind my iris, see? didn't you know? I got hazel eyes, two colors unfold, you'll be wondering, we'll be gazing, face to face, sight line switches between pupils, dilating--if only there were enough words to get it-- but there's too much--Aww~! you know, too much too much, I only have one line left. --Tom Pescatore 

(I always breathe in deeply a couple times before I start reading. maybe you wanna imagine that, maybe you don't.)  "Nobody cares!"  Bolded, italicized, underlined.  " No body   cares !"  I visualize your lips and your tongue painting what you just said to me.  "This is the real world, this is how things work," you spit. I visualize jumping. 'Get used to it' fills the silence in my head that my breathing couldn't.  As I restrain my lungs from expelling air, I restrain myself from letting you hear my cry because it's not longer safe to.  What you're saying to me is that I am other, my kind is abnormal, that I don't exist in the real world.  When you kissed me again for the second 1st time on Sunday, I was elated.  I was finally kissing someone who saw me. I was kissing someone who I didn't have to justify or defend myself to.  It's Wednesday now, and I don't want to kiss yo...

How to write a love letter. Just Start. --Mark Sturmy

There are some nights when I love my life albeit whiskey-soaked and karaoke-laden with slutty passes at bearded men. My former life was liquid flammable liver...unfriendly poor but the happiest life I've ever had, the best I could ever imagine. Songs meant something and sex meant more, especially with post-suicide Elliot Smith, depressed and urging you to fuck on, young soldiers, fuck on. As much as I grasp at it, my unsatisfactory life pays my bills stamping me into the masses unfortunate unwelcoming reformed unhappy people. I don't want to die like this sated. fat. but not alive. Still Siouxie and her bansees never bring me home. And I have just one more donut, sugar to sate my libido, my life, my soul. --Jessica Gleason