sometimes
it snaps,
like a twig,
in half
and you’re left
staring down
at the jagged
ended pieces,
wondering how
to put them
back together
again.
Lurve, Lurve, Lurve
Not Much Left to Lose
come out with me
he asks
again. again
i say no,
thank you.
when i was a kid
i had bad skin.
once a boy on the bus
called me
zit factory.
i ran home
to my mom
crying.
she told me
i wear my heart
on my sleeve.
i told her
i didn’t know
what that means.
don’t let things
hurt you
so much
she said.
twenty five years later
it still hurts
just the same
and dinner
and a movie
and a man
to tell me
i’m smart
and pretty
would go a damned
long way.
@LiteraryMary – Thirty Line Story Line by Line
you can have fun with us to0, maybe, if you’d like:
Manifred’s sideburns were horribly ungroomed. So his wife, Horisha, decided to make her sideburns look just like his. After an unsuccessful trip to the pharmacy, she purchased a gun instead. Manifred found the gun, and seeing that it wasn’t loaded… decided to load it. At least there’s one gun around here that won’t be firing blanks, you impotent fuck,’ snorted Horisha while exhaling smoke from the cigarette that was now nothing more than a butt. Manifred unzipped his fly and took out an erection he’d been saving for the girl next door. Grasping the gun in one hand and his cock in the other, he looked out the bedroom window through the darkness to the house next door. “Bukowski”, he whispered. Slowly, but with determination, he turned the gun on Horisha, flaccid cock still in hand. There was a blinding flash of light in the sky, and the clouds roared angrily in the distance. “Bukowski”, he whispered again. And as the name escaped his lips, the sky parted. There in the blue sky was a giant Zeppelin with a banner hanging from its belly. Behind him was God smiling a toothless smile. And behind that was God’s ass parting in the parted sky. Unable to fathom all this without losing his mind, Manifred closed the curtains on the window, turned, and shot Horisha in the stomach all the while never letting go of his limp dick. And he noticed how much stronger and hornier he was than a female corpse whose power, estrogen, pools under her. God’s ass was a wondrous thing, all shit flecked, and full of hemorrhoids. Someone fell out of it. Just then, there was a knock at the door. There was another knock at the door, this time louder and accompanied by a woman shrieking ‘Jesuuuuuuuus’ in a pained manner. Manifred opened the door and discovered his mother standing on the other side. holding a dead baby. She stood still in her blood stained clothes, with an over-grown mustache and disheveled hair. Manifred stared at the baby and realized he was looking at his father. It was then that he recalled the sheet of acid he had licked approximately two and a half hours earlier. His mother melted into the carpet leaving the baby to roll around in her sticky residue. Manifred clutched a hand to his throat. And peed his pants. And at that moment, the sun went out and the world came to an end.
LiteraryMary is Back
There are a lot of really cool things going on this month, too.
First off is the premier of ‘Don’t Call Me Plath – Twelve Outstanding Women of the Small Press‘.
Our Ping Pong for the month is between Father Luke and Jenifer.
Another important announcement is our second call for submissions.
Lastly, LiteraryMary has a new Facebook page.
Enjoy!
Leave the Why to the Philsophers
it is not the job of the poet
to tell you why
when you place
a box of stuff
on the curb
marked free
in permanent black ink
nobody wants what’s inside.
But if you mark
the same box
five dollars
it will be gone
in fifteen minutes.
.
A Year and Some Change
you smell like sand
i think
as i lay my cheek
on your arm.
we grow farther apart
the more
we know
so that i miss you most
when i’m with you.
Looking For the Right Thing Among All the Other Things
The cheese grater, a stiff
slice of Parmesan. The hand
rolled cigarette. The knobs
on the stove all turned
to off. The bottle of Budweiser,
its label corner
peeled. Your dirty
fingernails. Pistachios
in a cellophane bag, the shells
in the ashtray
overflowing. The blackening
lung. The beginning
of your end.
The ruffled skirt, the wristwatch,
and the glass mustard jar
with a butter knife stuck
in it. The Bicycle playing
cards and the yet to be
sliced baguette.
Blue Devils
I called you on the telephone
and while the phone rang
I imagined
you out walking
at night. Your feet
in cream colored Converse,
crunch the gravel
at the side of the road.
There’s a ditch to your left.
Traffic passes intermittently
to the right.
I watch the headlights approach
through your eyes.
Night traffic
has its own sounds.
You walk by
Slurpee cups and their
dirty red straws, a Budweiser
bottle, a black sock
and about a billion
cigarette butts.
At home
your phone is ringing.
Your cat glances up.
You won’t answer.
Neither will
he.
jenifer.wills 