Two Poems by Wayne F. Burke

spit
a sweat-hog in the bed
beside me, one of her tits
a flattened loaf of bread, the
other like a torpedo–
I wonder when the last time
she brushed her teeth;
after she spits
into her hand
I cannot go through with it:
I hang-out at the edge of the
bed
until
she starts to snore.

Facial
She took it like a sword-swallower
in and out, the
length of it, her
lips gripping me like a baby’s fist.
I jerked her head back
as I shot
a full-load that
splattered her glasses and
her red lips parted, white
teeth flashing in a broad smile,
I squeezed another burst
like bullets from a machine gun
and was surprised
afterward
no pock marks on her.


Wayne F. Burke is author of 8 published poetry collections and one short story collection. His poetry has been widely published online and in print. He lives in Vermont.

Frame Chain [Poem] by Peter Mladinic

Schaeffer tells Amanda:

Elsie Pym, in her early fifties,
her hair coiled, a braided bun on top,
took pins from her hair.
The coil came undone, her hair fell
to the small of her back.

When I’d see her mornings in Embers
she’d take my order, her dark-rimmed
glasses fastened to a silver chain.
The glasses on a chain, the coiled hair,
and, given her age, she looked
school marm prim in Embers.
One snaggletooth marred her smile.

But here, on my bed
she looked different.  I lay back
and she mounted me, her iron gray hair
falling down naked shoulders.
Her small hips moved up and down
as did her fairly small boobs.

Clenching my sides, she whimpered.
Tears welled in her eyes, trickled
down her cheeks.  She humped faster,
harder.  Sobs.  Softly, then loudly.
Right before and during her climax,
passionately, uncontrollably
straddling back and forth, sobbing,
even at times wailing,
her face flushed with tears.


Peter Mladinic’s poems have recently appeared in Punk Noir, the Poetry Village, Goat’s Milk Magazine, Pink Litter, BOMBFIRE, Yolk, Founders Favourites, and other online journals.  His book of poems, Knives on a Table, is forthcoming from Better Than Starbucks Publications.  He lives with six dogs in Hobbs, New Mexico.

Tinder [Poem] by Noel Negele

It got that bad
and so I got on Tinder
after being turned down
by maybe five or fifteen
girls, drunk in bars
I’d hit on them with what I thought
were good opening lines
and some would talk for a few minutes
before retreating because I guess I drank
too much, or talked too much, or touched too much
or maybe I’m just not that pretty
or interesting—
I kinda suspect all of the above. And so on Tinder
I matched with this girl
who catfished me

we met and here comes this
large and wide girl
obese by all standards
and I acted as if I didn’t even notice
because I was lonely of course
and because I pitied her

she was so stressed and anxious
and I could tell it was a big deal
for her gathering all the courage

to meet me
and I respected that
and we kissed and she kissed well
but the cellulite on her inner thighs was
monstrous

and when we went to her apartment
it smelled like she had pets
but she didn’t have any pets

and we exchanged books,
her 144 pages long “Hell” by Barbusse
against my 1104 pages long “Infinite Jest” by Wallace

two shy souls peaking at each other on a midnight
through private, unshared fondness

and fucking her was like
fucking a hillock of flesh
and she smelled bad because she got all sweaty
and I don’t know how much good of a person 
you think you are
but you are not as good as having a fragile
overweight girl’s armpit accidentally mask your face
while you are turning her with the same difficulty
you’d turn a beached whale
and still maintain a hard on
just for her
just for her tight pussy that so desperately needs to feel
like a normal and desired woman
and as her sweat still drips from your nose
you go on for 20 minutes 
of courageous and altruistic fucking
just so you can make someone happy.

When I left her house
I still had her taste in my mouth
and I puked my guts out on a broken pavement
and then again outside my house.

No more Tinder for this guy.

The Rose of Sharon [Poem] by Larry Oakner

The Rose of Sharon isn’t really a rose, 
but it’s still a flower as real as the name 
you whispered in my ear in a voice 
rubbed smooth by a thousand hours of midnight and
smoke. The space between real and imagined 
is a close as your breath on my cheek. 
What is real are your eyes that burn as blue as gas flame 
and all that I imagine when I close my own. 
The memory of your breasts, 
like “the ghost of a rose under dew” 
haunts me for months. 
This is real: 
If I could touch the milk of your skin, 
luminous under blacklight, 
it would be real as my own. 
The fire of your hair enflames my mind 
where what is real becomes hotter because it is not 
and where the Rose of Sharon blooms over and over and over.


Larry Oakner is the author of several books of poems, including  SEX LOVE RELIGION (Blind Tattoo Press) along with the forthcoming chapbook, The Canticles of Private Lucius Swan, (Pen & Anvil Press) as well in Red Eft Review, WINK, The Oddville Press, and many others. Oakner lives in New York. 

itch [Poem] by Ben Newell

Hot blonde in a sundress
[big tits, no bra]
approaches the reference desk. 

“Can I have some of that hand sanitizer?”
she asks. 

“Of course,” I say.
“That’s what it’s for . . .”

She pumps
a liberal amount into her hand
then applies it to her ankle—

“Mosquito bite,” she says.  “This stuff takes care
of the itch . . .”

Some 20 minutes later
I go on break,
slip into the restroom
and take care of mine. 

Marianna [Poem] by Noel Negele

We hooked up on a drunken night
somewhere in Bergen Op Zoom, Holland
where I told them all outside a club
they don’t know how to live
this isn’t how you party,
you drink soft drinks first, in a soft and nonchalant environment
where you talk and joke and nag each other
while it hopefully plays Springsteen or something sexy and old school
like that and only after you’re faded you head
to the dark corners with the loud music
and that unbelievably obnoxious congestion of intoxicated
young morons stepping on your shoes and spilling their
drinks on your self-ironed shirt
and it was the first time we talked as well, though we’d seen
each other a couple of times
she wasn’t interested and I was heartbroken from a previous lover.
In the club we pretended to be brothers, who the fuck knows why
and she kept bringing me girls and I kept failing
and we drank more because of that and somewhere inside the
laughing throat of this night we all were
she danced with a black fag who danced better than her
and I watched her suddenly with the predatory eyes
of an intoxicated horny man looking at a beautiful woman
and she noticed, she noticed because I made sure of it
and she brought to us a beautiful angel, she was an incredible
blonde dutch girl with crystal blue eyes we kept looking at
as if we were on drugs, her skin incredible, which we kept touching,
and the dutch angel kept laughing
but then she told us she was sixteen and we both wordlessly
agreed that it was immoral to try for a threesome
and while the herd thinned in the club, dawn now, tired and sweaty
and completely shitfaced I got in a fight with some Turkish blokes
who were kind of right to fight me because I was hitting on one
of them’s girl
and she kept me back, kept me from getting my ass handed to me
and I pushed her aside but she pasted herself against me again
and said look at me, and I said, the fuck you want and I looked at her
and she kissed me, our mouths watered by our saliva
and after, in our hotel room we had an incredible time having sex
which is a rare case with me to be honest,
kissing her thighs, the tattoo that said “fuck you” right over her clit
and in the following weeks we were six roommates in this house and my room’s window looked outside on the back of the building, over a roof she’d place a straw chair on
where she sunbathed and read her book of self-improvement
and we talked at times, me from the window, her there almost completely nude, me shirtless, trying to look cool, smoking
a beer on my hand, noticing her face while she narrowed her eyes
because of the sun
and then she lost her dog back home and she got sad
for a long long time, nothing would help, long talks deep into
the night at Saturdays, the drugs I’d bring to her, the ice creams
and then she decided to head back and look for her dog
which is such a stupid thing to do when you’re 28
and at the same time such an amazing thing, you can’t help
but judge it and be amazed by it.
And she’s in a flight now, piercing through the clouds
and I don’t care all that much, but it’d be nice to ride those bicycles one more time with her
through these brick-paved streets, these beautiful western European roads and forests and hear her sing and hear her
say those things she was so convinced were wise
and I just hope she finds her dog because it’ll be such a shame
otherwise, y’know?