Friday, July 29, 2016

2 poems and a story

illustrations by palomine studios


by chuck leary

rancid shit oozes from my ravaged butthole
as hungry wolves howl on the meathooks of death
we will watch no reruns of mary tyler moore tonight
but the red lizards of despair will crawl up the walls

who are you to tell me what to do?
after the initial shock of the empire’s collapse
i had it all written down in my secret notebook
but the baboons of philosophical reflection had other ideas

i can hear the railroads still running
carrying the robots to the final battle
a battle without generals or armies
only the final whistling behind the final park bench

so sing, repossessed angels, sing
as a million bareassed bankers gather for a torchlight parade
mockery was the acid that dissolved all
when the kingdom of love was crying to be born


by sarah monday sternwall

see the little flower
welcome the buzzing bee
see the sandy golden shore
welcome the surging sea

see the waving willow branch
look up at the blue sky
see the solemn bullfrog
start at the seagull’s cry

see the stealthy squirrel
approach the fallen nut
and a sudden shaft of sunlight
through the oak tree’s shadow cut

hear the crickets chirping
in the swirling morning breeze
hear all nature singing
in a wondrous symphony!


by corinne delmonico

sarah morrison , like me, had no friends.

i had no particular desire to be her friend.

but she apparently wanted to be my friend, because she came over and started talking to me one day.

she didn’t ask me what i wanted to talk about, just started on about a color - blue, i think it was - and went on and on about it.

the next day she came over and started talking to me again. this time it was about some book she was reading - about cleopatra or joan of arc or somebody like that.

while she was talking, abbie marlowe and jennifer winchell - the two total princesses of the school - walked by.

one of them said to the other - “ha, ha, the goop sisters” - thus effectively ending once and for all my existence as a human being.

i pretended i had not heard and did not say anything but when sarah morrison approached me the next day i immediately told her - “stay away from me”.

sarah and i never spoke to each other again.

something reminded me of sarah the other day and i thought about her for the first time in years.

but not for long.

what was there to think about, or to say?

either she is alive or dead, or she went on to have some kind of life or she didn’t.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

thoughts at sunset

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

illustrations by konrad kraus

people try so hard to be different
but they are all the same
and spend their rapidly dwindling days
inventing elaborate games

cleopatra scratched a mosquito bite
as she floated down the nile
and little moses told her
she looked prettier when she smiled

cinderella had a runny nose
and couldn’t go to the ball
the wicked stepsisters went instead
a good time was had by all

constantine was a christian
a gentleman through and through
he sat on the beach at sunset
and watched the waves turn red and blue

delilah tricked poor samson
and cut off all his hair
then samson cried his eyes out
because life is so unfair

hitler was a bad person
though he displayed occasional charm
sometimes he wished he had never been born
or stayed down on the farm

stalin had a rosary
his mama gave him when he left home
and he kept it with him forever
through land and sea and foam

walter winchell wore a hat
and smoked many cigarettes
and wore his rubbers when it rained
but still his feet got wet

everybody wants to be famous
and not just do their duty
they will lie and cheat and murder
and even shake their booty

i have no words of wisdom
to keep you from feeling sad
people could be nice to each other
but it is more fun being bad

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

3 portraits

by roger "pegleg" wilson

illustrations by eddie el greco

as originally appearing in the 1940 issue of the furrow , a publication similar to the old farmers almanac , distributed by the adams and bradley farm implement company.


yancey farrington was born in a little town in indiana about 53 years ago. apprenticed to a druggist, he received from a distant cousin an unexpected inheritance which freed him from the “rat race”.

since then he has traveled the earth seeking a remedy for a mysterious ailment which he declines to describe in detail.

in all climes and weathers, mr farrington can be seen wearing a seersucker suit, a straw hat a strangely disquieting shade of brown, and red suspenders.

in his travels, he has accumulated a rich store of anecdotes, which, however, he recounts in such a rasping, monotonous voice, that listeners are invariably driven away.


yoko was born in a small island off the northern coast of the land of the rising sun and kidnapped by pirates at an early age.

a small but sturdy child, she was sold by the pirates to the proprietors of an exclusive hotel on a small island about two thousand miles off the west coast of antarctica, frequented by robber barons from all corners of the earth.

she was taught the trade of boot and shoe polishing , and in thirty years put a high shine on over 70,000 pairs of footwear.

one morning shortly after dawn, yoko was walking along the beach and saw a piece of driftwood whose shape could be taken for that of a seahorse, or an angel.

dragging the piece of driftwood into the water, she floated away on it, and was never seen again.


miss zelma mortenson was the sole remaining member of a once thriving clan of riverboat speculators in a small town in ohio. the mortenson men had also been active in local politics.

she lived alone in three rooms of the large house built by her great grandfather on a hill overlooking the ohio river.

the most notorious and relentless gossips in the town had never found the slightest chink in her spotless reputation, and she could not even be accused of parsimony, as she gave generously to all local charities, and patronized all local businesses, excepting those a lady could not be expected to employ.

one day miss zelma reported to the sheriff that she had found a dead man in one of the many unused rooms in her house.

the man was found on a four-poster bed in a dusty guest room in the abandoned west wing. all the other furniture in the room was covered with cloths or tarpaulins.

the man weighed over 400 pounds, and although there was no sign of a struggle, he had clearly been strangled.

his identity was never learned.

miss zelma’s assurances that she had no idea as to who he was or how he had met his fate, were accepted without demur by the sheriff and by the entire town.

except for one man.

clarence weatherly, a young lawyer who had recently arrived in town and hung up his shingle, and who fancied himself a bit of an amateur detective, thought there was more to the tale than met the eye.

miss zelma has long since met her maker, but mister weatherly, now a trifle gray but still trim and upright, has never ceased in the last thirty-odd years to pursue his enquiries as to the fate of the anonymous victim, whose shade he is determined to avenge.

a curious tale, and one perhaps worthy of further elucidation!

Monday, July 11, 2016

3 more poems

illustrations by palomine studios

who am i?

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

i was walking down a country road
as it began to rain
i had nothing to remember
and nothing to explain

a child approached me
with a frown upon its face
and enquired as to the chances
of the survival of the human race

i answered i was no villain
nor was i a hero
and the chances of survival of anything in this universe
were zero

the child thanked me politely
and continued on its way
and i regretted my hasty answer
for who was i to say

who was i tell a flea
not to bite a dog or cat
or an elephant not to trample a village
or a sea lion not to get fat?

or a cloud not to shower water
or a rainbow not to shine
or a mosquito not to drink blood
or a bum not to drink wine?

who am i?
who am i indeed?
when the angels are all in the county jail
and the devils have all been freed


by roger "pegleg" wilson

you don't have to go to paris or rome
to get away from the hicks
anywhere you go
you can get your kicks

kicks, baby
that's all that counts
get them by the bushel
get them by the ounce

kicks on the endless highway
kicks in an alley black
kicks when they throw you in the slammer
kicks when they cut you some slack

i forget what i was saying
when i started down this road
i was waiting for somebody - can’t remember who
but i guess they never showed

true love

by chuck leary

o jenny sue i love you
i love you o so much
i think of you and thrill
to your imaginary touch

i love you in the ether
i love you in the air
i love you when you're not around
and when you're not even there

i love you in the morning mist
i love you in the rain
i love you in the sunset
if i never see you again

you are the dream of love itself
and dreams are all there are
i am sorry you don’t love me back
but you will always be my star

the first time that i saw you
from the window of the bus
i knew that nothing really existed
- except us

i could go on like this forever
and maybe i will try
what else have i to do
when time won’t die?