July 30, 2012


by Joe Kapitan

The extremely lonely man ran a salvage yard and his hands knew nothing but ruin, which is why he mistrusted everything he touched, including her.  Beyond that, nothing else made sense. Why did he hit the emergency stop on the crusher at that particular moment? What made him check inside the trunk of that rusted-out Chevy Caprice? And what made him think he could raise that pink buttery girlbaby in that desert of filthy debris?
But it happened. She grew long and lean on a diet of Doritos and Marlboros and peppermint Altoids and Pabst. Her eye sockets shrunk to caves. She learned her signature red-carpet stagger/walk from picking her way through heaps of bald tires and abandoned appliances. Her skin formed a relief map---red mountain ranges of scars left by metal lacerations, glass cuts. When their supply of Altoids ran dry, her hair fell out in clumps, the same day the movie people came.
The movie people were making a young-adult, coming-of-age zombie movie and they came to find apocalyptic set décor and they left with an undead-looking girl that would go on to be the lesbian-curious, wise-cracking minor character who stole the show. Not long after, she traded the extremely lonely man and the salvage yard for a big-money contract and the cover of Elle. What was “Disfigured Chic”, exactly? No one could say. A fad? A meme? No matter. Everyone agreed what it looked like. It looked like her.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would call the extremely lonely man from Milan or Sydney or some Learjet in midflight, complaining about the long hours of shooting, or third-world locales bereft of Doritos and Pabst, or how she missed the smell of leaking diesel on a warm summer night. The extremely lonely man would tell her to come home soon, and to please watch out for the wheels.
Wheels always turn, is what he meant. Every beater that lay rusting in stacks and cubes around his scrap yard was once someone’s shiny new ride. And fashion turned faster than the rest! How long until someone decided Disfigured Chic was the new Ugly, perhaps just the old Ugly? Then she’d be back, her days as a supermodel over and her future torched. She would binge on cigarettes and sit sobbing atop the tire pile and then he’d have to start checking each and every vehicle he fed to the crusher, because her ninety-three pounds could easily crawl into any trunk.

Joe Kapitan dated a model once. The model also did charity work, which makes him wonder. Joe's done some limited modeling himself. Photos of his extremities have been published in advertisements for medical breakthroughs; the industry calls them the "before" shots.

July 27, 2012


The Model
by Thomas Simmons

Hey I'm really sorry it took me so long to get here there was a whole bunch of traffic around the hospital apparently the president's in town? I had to take some long stupid windy way through midtown and you know five o'clock on a Tuesday you know how that goes

Yeah, yeah, mom's doing fine As fine as she's going to I mean I'm impressed with how she's doing and I think the fact that I got over so quickly helped make her feel better

Yeah she's staying overnight at the hospice with him they got her a pillow and stuff the staff seems really sweet and my brother thinks they're good too and for sure yeah he's the one who should know

I just


I'll be ok, we've been preparing for this

It comes in waves you know?

Like a train that runs through my intestine, all the way up and out my throat

It fills up and I'm sort of like frozen for a minute before I get back to normal

They say a week tops yeah

It hasn't been as hard to see him as you'd think, thank God

This last job it was over in Europe but my agent made sure that they knew before the shoot I might need to leave unexpectedly And now that I've been doing this for a while I have a little more clout you know?

Ha yeah swing those balls sure

Part of me was like when I got the text from my brother Jeff part of me was like They're gonna give me shit for leaving but when I told them it was fine or at least they acted like it was fine I don't know

And even if it actually wasn't fine they can go fuck themselves they care about their precious little dresses more than people anyway why should they deserve an ounce of my respect
Well, ha, well yeah, burnt out to say the least

It's just I never really wanted this life I never expected this life I never thought this would ever happen to me never in a million years I never thought I was pretty enough I always thought I looked so mousy and me and my Betty and Veronica comics and my lame little doodles

Oh give me a break look at these ears and these incisors Jeff used to call me Fievel growing up

But then I get this height and my metabolism and my God the makeup Who gives a fuck what you really look like There are pictures of me in catalogs I can't even recognize myself

And the first few months it's Heaven you know? Absolute Heaven strutting your stuff and all those eyes on you everywhere like the center of attention and you know it's because of something other people a natural organic thing other people don't have

The eyes felt like they felt reverent or something like they were looking up at you on that runway an angel on a pedestal visiting looking down on mortals ha Idunno I was dumb

No you don't have to disagree it's totally stupid I'm totally ok with knowing I was naïve back then, it doesn't bother me

All these photographers showering me with praise in broken English, ha, ugh

And then

And then Idunno, and then it's all these things All these things to remind me that this isn't what I wanted in the first place

Dinners parties with ugly tiny silver haired lechers looking me up and down like I'm their fucking slave because they make overpriced shit to drape on impossible bodies like mine

And cocky fucking actors smirking at me the same smirk you know they practiced hours on end in their bathroom mirror self-absorbed mannequins because I'm supposed to be sooo excited to finally meet them Oh I loved you in that action movie sequel I totally paid money to see that mindless shit

And the other girls a bunch of attention-grubbing theatre majors never pick up a book or a check or a car door or anything only fucking designer pocketbooks Playing a stupid smug game the pretend I'm better than everyone because of my cheekbones game ugh fucking

I just needed to get this off my chest

I was thinking about it the whole plane ride

And then there's me Sorry I like the Dune series Sorry I get a kick out of old Betty Boop cartoons Sorry that I don't care that my salmon was braised with walnut jizzum or whatever 

Sorry that Nancy Drew still fucking rules even after all these years

Sorry about being my own person sorry I can't act the way they expect me to act on set when I'm off it

And God God I know I shouldn't care what other people think but I know what people think about models I know they think I'm another one of those self-absorbed ditzes I know

And I know it shouldn't bother me but it does because it's not fair How do you judge a person like that How do you make such wild accusations without ever meeting them or talking to them
And you think my job is easy? And yours isn't? I've worked an office job I know what kind of fucking joke it is

So why do I get all the blame?

And yes yes I fucking know I'm participating in a toxic industry for girls and labor laws and all that but holy shit don't you work in a fucking Walmart don't you pay taxes so an 18 year old kid can kill another 18 year old kid just like everyone else didn't you cheat on your husband how can you be so innocent and I so guilty you know?

Poor Jeff Poor Jeff I can only imagine what his friends say about me to him too

Poor Jeff

But it's good money That's it It's good money That's the only reason I'm still doing it

I figure I got two more years of this before I can stop and like retire from it all ha it sounds funny saying it but I mean that's the reason I'm still doing it anyway the easy cash And unlike the rest of the girls I'm not blowing my paychecks away on Christian Dior swimming pools

Before dad got sick he helped me get together a pretty decent portfolio In five months interest alone'll provide me with a six figure annual income

That's the one thing he always took pride in he loved to read Fortune magazine and all that stuff he likes the security of money I guess

And now I might never have to work after the age of 30

Good old dad

I'm gonna miss him

We'll be ok

So long as Jeff has his residence in the Bronx I know he'll be around to take care of mom while I'm on the road for just a little longer

Mom'll be fine Our maternal bloodline is like insane My nanny's 85 next month she looks 70 honest to God

So there's that

You know what I'm gonna do too?

What I want to do? When I quit?

I had this dream since I was ten ever since we took a vacation out to our friend's beach house on the North shore

I want to get a small little house in Montauk or something right on the beach A little cottage of my own Like the one in Matilda

And in the mornings I'll make myself a cup of coffee or tea and some toast and I'll read the news and comics and do the crossword or as much of it as possible ha

And after that depending on the weather I'll either sit outside on a chair on the beach and just look at the sound and maybe do some reading or listen to music inside while cozying up on a big comfy green couch

Sometime in the afternoon drive into town to the cafe to work on a graphic novel You know me and my comics heh

Get dinner at a restaurant before driving back home

And maybe you come over, or someone else

And we drink wine and listen to music and play scrabble and talk and laugh and I'd show you the progress I made on my graphic novel and you show me some of the plays you're working on We offer each other useful and intelligent advice

Start a small press Invest in a small theatre for your plays

Maybe I get a dog at some point and be ok with things and just I dunno be happy

Maybe travel places

You think I'd've traveled already but it's all those stupid fucking parties That's not traveling

Maybe a little garden, Maybe a little boat, We could go tubing ha


Yeah I think it'll be worth it don't you?

Just think about it

Two more years of putting up with my venting and then Bam!

Easy street

Not a care in the world

So, so close, God

- - - - - - - - 

Forthcoming book: Ways I Could Be Living (Pen and Anvil Press)
Additional work: therealolivegarden.tumblr.com
Chat: ftktas86@gmail.com

July 24, 2012


A. Murray is a 22 year-old Melbourne, Australia native. He is often
found publishing short stories, poetry, essays and cartoons on his
blog (www.seriousyeah.tumblr.com). He is currently working on a novel
exploring the point of love under the working title of 'Part One'. He
would love to hear from you if you are interested in collaborations or
if you just want to be pen-pals. You can reach him at

July 22, 2012



Your face is wax with anus lips stretched
so thin you can never cry at what you’ve made

yourself. Sexy is poison under the skin, sand
for breasts. Sexy is in the eyes of the

owner. The taste of fear on skin, the smell
of plastic in the secret places which are, no longer

secret. This is LA; can’t you see the lights?
The cameras? Someone is yelling “Action”

if only you could move. This is New York;
can’t you see the glittering buildings stretching

above the trash? This is the briefest moment,
a frightened bird flying from the darkness

through a lighted room and back into darkness.


No one cares about the demarcations
of the soul unless the body has been properly

preserved. The stale, brownish spots on the brain
caused by dehydration, the vibration of seemingly

dormant particles, these can be chewed around
or simply cut out, but they won’t poison

the gut. Still, they lessen taste, aesthetic appeal.
The assisted suicide of the heart when infinite

incarceration is whiffed is identifiable by the patterns
of standing hair on limbs, around ears, inside nostrils.

No one cares if you’ve been to Montana if you’ve
clearly eaten your horse. Souls are not mountains;

revelations are not landslides. Beauty is a way
of hating that which I will never be. We’ll all

wear hats to hide the sunken-in-ness of our pates.
Our spurs will jingle when we walk. Some fool

will call it love until the dinner bell rings.

Sweet Heart

Baby, come back to bed. I promise
I won’t nibble your heart no matter how
peckish I get. It’s warm inside my mouth
and comfortable on my soft tongue. You
can wear socks, watch bad movies
and no one will be an ass about it.
You can be beautiful in my belly. It’s got
mirrors on the ceiling and mood-lighting:
whatever mood you like. Baby, I’m sorry
I said things you needed to hear. I know,
Now, want is more important than need.
Want feels better on the skin, that soft skin
that tastes of salt and honey. My rounded
teeth could never pierce that skin, now. Lay
down beside me. We’ll share a dream of eggs
folding into flour and oil, heat and teeth,
delicacies devoured.

- - - - - - - - 
CL Bledsoe is the author of the young adult novel Sunlight; three poetry collections, _____(Want/Need), Anthem, and Leap Year; and a short story collection called Naming the Animals. A poetry chapbook, Goodbye to Noise, is available online at www.righthandpointing.com/bledsoe. Another, The Man Who Killed Himself in My Bathroom, is available athttp://tenpagespress.wordpress.com/2011/08/01/the-man-who-killed-himself-in-my-bathroom-by-cl-bledsoe/. His story, "Leaving the Garden," was selected as a Notable Story of 2008 for Story South's Million Writer's Award. He’s been nominated for the Pushcart Prize 5 times. He blogs at Murder Your Darlings, http://clbledsoe.blogspot.com  Bledsoe has written reviews for The Hollins Critic, The Arkansas Review, American Book Review, Prick of the Spindle, The Pedestal Magazine, and elsewhere. Bledsoe lives with his wife and daughter in Maryland.

July 20, 2012


freja beha erichsen
by Brittany Wallace

in college, between classes
i would go to the fashion library
a special library, dedicated to fashion
to read the magazines

i never went there to study
i never went there to consult the fashion forecasting materials
that i was told our tuition paid good money for

but it was a state school and my father was a truck driver and i didn't care much for my area of study and i didn't have money for frivolities like magazines i had cigarettes and drugs to buy duh and in retrospect i was the first of my family to graduate college so what did you expect me to do

instead i stared at an advertisement
for tom ford i think
a bird's tiny beak
like a pair of pliers
closing in
on freja beha erichsen's left nipple

a dash of blood across her collarbone
i was very stoned

i wanted to pet the bird's head
and clean the blood from her chest with my mouth

after staring for what seemed like an hour
i forced myself into motion
that my entire life so far was only a docile acid flashback and my friends were all models and they would let me lick them if i wanted to

July 18, 2012


Born, raised and living in Sydney; Scott Jardany Lewis has featured in Screaming Seahorses, The Scrambler, amphibi.us, Cormac McCarthy's Dead Typewriter and UP magazine. He tweets at http://twitter.com/#!/ScottJJLewis and tumbles at http://goingtroppo.tumblr.com/

July 15, 2012



So now I talk about vomit in terms of stain radii. 
Targets. Blast zones. I mean this sexually. I told you. I told you

that Tyra Banks should
let plus-sized male models on American’s Next Top Model.

Please talk about my body like you would new construction equipment.
That conversation’s just an industrial washout zone remembering couch loaf now.

Where was I during the autoerotic conversion boxing and truck loading
of housemate mortal iconography? Shit,

I was getting my nails did.
I love the sound of you peeing.

The word girl comes from the word pee, which means to squat, which means to meet your limbs.

I was a supermodel but now I’m. You are reading. I am having sex with you.
You are a mountain. This has nothing to do with your weight.

I love to slap you around and tell you things in the dark about my bedtime.
I became a model because of my need to drive straight into you

until I was a panic of trees and a ramble of falling rocks.  
I name rocks for my poses and for the shirts that though once so fit.

On days in the universe like this we tell just-so stories of once-was, anytime
while people are waiting for us to pull out so they can take our parking spaces.

It’s a good day for models to be competing. I saved vexation’s X’s and O’s.
This cascading earth nature that keeps growing reminds me of a TV show.

Television, named for the televisual vortex within which we aren’t super sure about anything else, watched my signature strut. From atop this throne pile of TVs

and neony things
 I love you,

For Chris Mortanson, Becky Dewing, Mike Edrington, and Martha Meiners (TV Club)

No Craigslist search in the world can cover the latitudes of my mortal lack.
I know that now.

I’m an excellent flex. I’m an excellent death. I’ve a killer glare. I have the nose
of a waterslide. I have a talent for listing talents. I’m good at qualities. So xoxo.

Also, I have no home that isn’t a tooth smile of straight suburb streets. I’ll never
find what I’m looking for here online no matter how I word it.

This is my long way of saying abandoned missile silos are expensive. Also
that I want to infect you, quarantine you, and peel off your flesh and lick it clean.

Some come with fences and compound cameras. All are B-Y-O-Deep-Holes.
I want post offices, gas station drink deals, this-space-for-rent manifestos, pictures

of my family.
They left and I have to take care of myself. I am going to be a big boy on my own.

We are household pets that way. I am good at winning stuffed animals in claw machines. We are replacement fluff. I’m being so me when I rip and throw your fluff.

Lover mother fucker, we will write the kind of poetry college RAs
would write in creative writing class and read at home

to their family members affixed to tan living room variations
during holidays where American fences are frozen with rain.

Listen: once-was so lethal’s now empty “duh.” Hello? Ello? Llo? Lo? O?
Any field, USA, I am given to you, but never forgiven. I’ll remember. Your turn.

We aren’t good filmmakers but the stories are good enough to tell themselves clean.
Lover, face the (compound security) camera: This will only hurt a little.

I take myself apart for you as my family before me.
I donate my organs to the post office boxes of the American night.

I give. I give. For the sake of a taking-away fetish.
For the want of small amounts. For the lack, lover, deep and shared.

- - - - - - 

Russell Jaffe lives in Iowa City and is the co-editor of Strange Cage, a poetry chapbook press that runs a reading series. He collects 8-tracks. 

July 12, 2012


Dina & Darlene Tunnel, Supermodels
by Katie Jean Shinkle

Dina, being the slenderest side of the conjoined twins, would always be the half to walk the runway, Darlene would be the face in all the photographs, the still shots, because Dina could not pose correctly: her nose was bent and crooked, her mouth perpetually slightly slacked, in pictures her eyes would go wonky to one side, up or down, even though in real life outside of the photograph she did not have trouble with her eyes, Darlene did. When it was time to hoof the runway, Darlene would wear a sheet like a ghost and shadow Dina. The designers who loved them would accommodate if they wanted Dina & Darlene to be in their shows, creating special ensembles hefty and necessary enough to hide Darlene, resembling how mothers would hide in pictures under setting and scenery with their children in a much different era. Darlene was merely prop. Darlene, the pretty face. Dina, from the clavicle down, the much prettier side of the body.

This is the story of the day Dina got her nose smashed in, making it impossible for her to do high fashion photo shoots. They were not supermodels yet, they were horror porn stars, in the market for a fetish clientele they were not prepared for yet expecting nonetheless. D&D Tunnel Will Make You Beg And Sweat the back of their DVDs said, Two Ladies For The Price of One, Put It In Their TunnelS it said, with the capital S for no reason at all, an odd typo. What their clients were always curious about was their genitals, and Dina & Darlene believed people bought their films to fetishize their bodies, as if something explanatory and revelatory would be bestowed about the viewer about their conjoined bodies, how do they fuck, how do they cum. In every film they were fully clothed in latex and leather, ambiguous genitals never revealed, the ways in which their organs and tissue were related still a mystery.

Dina & Darlene had agreed to a double-penetration film series (Every Hole Fulfilled, D&D DP’d To The Maxxx so said their agency’s trailer for the series), only they were not aware that this request meant taking their clothes off, revealing themselves in ways they never had before on camera, their agency did not tell them this, that double-penetration meant gentialia all over the place. When the time came for clothing to come off, for body parts to be smashed together, Dina & Darlene protested, this party is over, we’ll show you double-penetration, Darlene said. They threw things at everyone around the set, a lamp as long as their legs, a bottle of unopened champagne that broke in three pieces before the cork blew out the end right into the lens of the filming camera, they flailed against their scene partner with claws out, fists wailing, they broke a chair, we’re leaving, they said and as they left the producer threw the Gideon’s Bible from the top dresser drawer of the hotel dresser at them, hitting Dina smack in the nose, blood dotting her hands, dotting Darlene’s white latex boots. The nose never set straight or the same, out went her supermodel-face career.

Dina and Darlene, after that incident, began working on their stride on the makeshift catwalk they made in their parent’s backyard, realizing after several nights and mornings of practice that Dina could slenderly and with fluidity walk down a runaway, a seamless specimen of beauty, curving the left side of the shared torso, the long leg, the perfect breast into a perfect trunk show pleasing moment, making her look unique and unequivocal. Darlene, unfortunately, with the most exquisite face, the high cheekbones, the fullest lips, frumped down the catwalk like a corpse hanging on the right side of Dina, could not keep pace in a high heel, hurt Dina when stretching her leg to hold a pose, she could not pose, pulling uncomfortably where they were attached at the liver, one fluid body and one lump of a body. It would not do. Dina could walk, Darlene could not; Darlene took stunning photographs, Dina, quite literally, hit in the face. Together, however, they formed a supermodel never seen before. They decided to sell themselves as a package like in the porn industry, Two Supermodels For the Price of One.

- - - - - - - - 
Katie Jean Shinkle is the author of The Sadness of July, forthcoming from dancing girl press. She lives and writes in Denver, Colorado. 

July 07, 2012


Be A Star
by Delaney Nolan

       Felicia wants to play Be A Star again but my feet are tired from walking around on the shoeboxes that we cut up and taped around our feet so that we could walk with tall clompy legs like they do on TV on the runway with the lights and the long hard bones in every face. I say, no, I’m tired, can we not. I want to play Kidnapping instead. Kidnapping is a game where we sit under Felicia's shiny black grand piano in the carpeted living room with a roll of Scotch tape and we tie each other up. Felicia puts the tape around and around my wrists. She puts it around and around my ankles and my baggy socks. She puts it over my lips and mashes it flat, careful, with her finger, but it gets fogged up from my wet breath and Felicia has to smooth it down over and over, running her hand across my mouth like that. It makes me feel helpless and funny and glad and like my legs are falling asleep. We take turns. I tie her up next.
But Felicia knows which games are best and we are at her house like always and she says we have to have one more Walk-Off! Have to pick a Star! So: we turn the radio on and walk in circles in front of Felicia's mom's big big mirror and we model. We put our hands on our stomachs and stick our elbows forward. We twist our heads around and look over our shoulder and smoosh our lips. Felicia walks first and spins and looks at herself hard like she is going to beat herself up, then walks and turns and turns again, always looking at herself very serious. Then it's my turn on the runway and I go up to the mirror on my wobbly shoe-box high-heels, taking big steps, and Felicia says, NO you are doing  it wrong. She says I walk like a soldier. She says I stomp like a lesbian. Like a faggot. My face gets red red red, not like a Star, but like a dummy, like a baby, like a stupid little kid. I tell her to Shut Up and she says it's her house so I have to only say nice things to her or she can throw me out.
 Now, she says, now is the photo shoot part, so we have to model together. She gets down her mom's fur coat from on top of the cabinet, very careful. She puts it across both our shoulders. We turn. We look sad and smoosh our lips out again. Felicia says, like we're at the beach! and I throw my arm up to block the Invisible Sun and make my mouth a big O like I'm excited or too hot. She says, like a skating rink! and we both lean forward and stick one leg up in the air behind us, wobbling all over. She says, now like puppies! and we turn to one another and nuzzle, and I go yip-yip-yip and lick her nose, snuffle in her hair, and she goes rrrr, rrrr, whining a little, and she licks my cheek, licks my eyelid, buries her face in my neck and nuzzles there, keeps nuzzling like a sleepy puppy, stays there breathing in deep whatever smell is the smell of me and not telling me how to pose, not telling me where to put my body next, just standing there next to me like that and breathing and breathing. We stand like that a long time. A long time. And I don’t know what to do but I don’t want to make her mad again. Finally I say, Felicia? and she pulls away sudden like a bad dog that got hit; she has that twisted-up look on her, the hooked-gut face, and she’s staring at me like she can’t remember which game we were playing. Then I say, what's the next pose? And she says, oh, she says, the photos hoot is over. She takes the fur coat and pulls it away, leaves my shoulders cold, especially where my neck is still wet from the breathing. She puts the coat back up on the cabinet. Downstairs Felicia's mom calls that lunch is ready. Felicia's mom makes the best lunch. She makes Annie's Mac & Cheese and then adds the extra cheese packet from another box plus pepper and other stuff and it’s way better than my mom makes it. I say, I'm hungry. Let's go. Felicia says, wait. Just wait. They have to say who won.
So I turn back. She looks in the mirror, listening to the panel of judges that’s always there, the one that I cannot hear. She looks back and forth because she's remembering the poses, the good ones and bad ones, the puppy faces and the ski poles. She doesn’t look at me when she says: I won. I won this time. But you were close.
Good smells are coming up from the kitchen where lunch is hot and ready and there are two wooden chairs pulled up for us at the kitchen table. But we don’t go. We stand there while Felicia keeps talking, while she keeps trying to explain, keeps saying, You were really close. Maybe next time. Maybe the next time we play, then, then you can be a winner too.

- - - - - 

July 05, 2012


I am interrupting Supermodel Summer to make mention of the fact that after 16 years of internet-knowing Tony Pierce I finally met him.  In a purely accidental and random magnificent way.

There was really no time to talk which was a shame because out of all the blog-peeps I've know, he would definitely be the one I would want to sit down and talk to at length.

16 years.

I met Tony during dial-up times.  When we were poets.  Tony was the reason I started a blog.  Probably the catalyst for the writing I'm doing today.  We go way back.

And I met him for the first time last night.

I hugged and kissed him several times instead, shouting his name in his face.  It was nice.

Tony. tony. Tone.

p.s. I'm not Asian. lol.


Pasted in the body

Brushstroke we fuck like hairs

We fall away white push

Comes to shove & plush
Shave off surplus weather
Lather skin in leather

Moist hot leather
Must prayer hands stretch hunted skin?
Tanned hide of super models
Model of the universe
A true love-making hole
a la mode

Royal Palms caught on camera
Really a desert & an ocean painted background
Dead dolphins anyway
Screen magic save us
Teach us fuck & darling

Now I am a marsupial.
Daring in piles of birth pouches
The wreckage is regenerative.
There are scattered brain cells
Sure sells generating movies

This film my life is B-Movie.
Fascia is Vaseline
The body skin
Holds together the padded actor
I kickbox to save my life.
I kickbox my wife my way
I kickbox my way into a million dollars.
My way is heralded

My way is the new way
My natural new way is law
Is heralded the primordial
Clam soup
The pearl-tongued clams resemble diamonds

diamonds diamonds
diamonds diamonds diamonds

They are pearls
The pearls come reassembled
The pearls are come.
The come assembles dollars.
I’m coming on camera on a million dollars

My pheromones are Chanel
My moans are Bengal tigers in Chad
Italy space & time collapse on my cock & i come
I come to in my dream of a million dollars
I suck global dreams in my international dollar dreams
I’m living the dream
I dream in your instructions
I dream in this instant
I dream in instinct zoosMmy dream fund is funded by a million million dollars
Of funloving
I, simple, have to come.
I simply funlove the girl i love
I simply rublove the boy i love
In the marsupial glove we hide & make love
We make love in the hide on the TV.

In the TV TV
There are levels of watching
Awash with whatever
Awash with win
Wash of eros & Vaseline
New bodies with winbirth or
Are our stuntdoubles of each other
Of the time of our life we’re having
The time of our life recklessly hours
Wading under the grey Chanel
Clouds of the beach
Over the beach
Refuse in the trash
Heap of eros

Everyone go inside & channel!
It’s yoga time!
& everyone comes inside.
everyone comes.
everyone wants to come in the mirror.
Everyone come & go!
& everyone parades private cunts
Across the night
Stiffy of sand.

-- --- --
Jared Joseph lives in Iowa.  His book, Commuting: Have Gone to Ithaca. -Frank Quitely is available at Varmint Armature Press.  More poems & protos at www.jaredjosephharvey.tumblr.com.