Love’s Passion – Poem by Darrin Phillip Henderson


Darrin Phillip Henderson – Love’s Passion

A sound, around, in my ear,
rushing, gushing,
it is clear,
not silent, or still,
but it does flutter,
a word, I dare not utter.

A heat,
a heartbeat,
with a zest,
thrilling, spilling,
on my chest,
a quiver,
and sizzle with every pass,
babbling, bubbling,
bold as brass.

A taste,
is placed, that I do savor,
bursting, thirsting,
for the flavor,
wet, and salty,
like a snack,
a blush, and rush,
coming back.

A moan, a groan,
like a roar,
jumping, pumping,
the heart does soar,
a hunger, intense,
starts to bloom,
desire, on fire,
fills the room.

Dream X – Poem by John Fineday


John Fineday – Dream X

Once we all had lined up for food,
the balding doctor grabbed hold
of Scully and went to town on her.

The two anorexic waitresses,
they hopped on top of him, too,
caressing and kissing everywhere.

I was last in the food-line,
witness to all madness from where
I thought it inopportune.

Yet I did not hold back, and I
waltzed right up to Scully,
lifted her skirt, and took her

from behind. Oh, it was moaning
and blurriness—the whole cafeteria,
watching in shock, started to

fidget dearly, especially Mulder.
Now, the good doctor looked up and
around, smiled, and shouted:

“We’re having an orgy in America!”
almost questioning his very words.
Then he repeated it, reassurance intact,

enjoying how hard the truth made him.
The cafeteria erupted in a scream of
disagreement, while all the involved

peeled slowly off the doctor.
Noticing he was newly freed
of such a bodily burden, he leapt up

and ran straight between the tables,
down the hall, toward the door.
While every other screaming occupant,

enraged and still waiting to be fed,
tore after him in a hungry orgy,
I stayed back to console Scully’s clit.


John Fineday is from Winnipeg, Canada, and is currently writing his master’s thesis on French poetry at the University of Manitoba. He has been published in Featherlit and the U of M’s Feminist and Queer review.

Such a Man – Poem by G.P.


G.P. – Such a Man

I could be such a man—
so much more of a man,
such a better man
I’d walk a million smiles
from dusty town to dusty town
just to get a glimpse of that
one true body—yours?

Then, when I get there, I’m totally anything able to
do anything about it.

I’m crooked in so many non-luxurious ways.

I might as well just walk up
the stairs and go to bed alone,
not even fantasize about your
hips, lips and other places

I want to have and hold but not
commit to, per se.

Here is a pink heart,
a strange trip

To be the reluctant hunter
meanwhile you make a game of
being game,
you are a wrinkled bit of
faded beauty.

That event inside our tent was
like looking into a mirror
and still wanting to fuck what you saw:
hit and run, like you said,
but you must’ve wanted something
some intruder, conqueror, magician to

your box’s box
with the lock on the inside.

O Betts, how can I even get near your cloche?

Here is all I have to give:
Time was

Time was beauty healed.

Youth soothed.

All I needed for sanctuary was
a thought of my flowing hair,
never an idea of the years that would
turn me frightened, unable, frozen.

I would never recover from the gas fire of tears,
real wrongs and all the lost dreams,
the mind-numbing daze of days.

How many breaths, dear Betts, is enough?

Harlot – Poem by Anita McQueen


Anita McQueen – Harlot

She plods pickles
until they lay straight

they can’t help themselves
as she extends them a-

tasting a twinge
her future rot

apartment of mirrors
suffocating walls

a sun roof
taped over in black

her clothes
just a fluttering cape

she hoovers over their beds
as they squirt
up with pride

their milk
drying in the morning
scabs over her scars

she told me this
as I walked her home

No One Can See – Poem by Anita McQueen


Anita McQueen – No One Can See

Rain coming down
my chest

open blouse
closed heart
nipples hard

walking alone
empty street
backside of town

feel like screaming
but I won’t
too many freaks hiding

but maybe I’m one
not willing to
admit the obvious

I want to strip
off my wet clothes
except my boots

but I won’t
because I’d have to stomp
someone limp

there once was a man
I trusted until
I realized I cheat

glad it’s raining
so no one can see
my tears with the wicked raindrops.


Anita McQueen runs the streets at night, feeling the wind against her face, and long shadows on her back. Her poetry has appeared in Deuce Coupe, Visceral Uterus, and others.