Happy Holidays from Pink Litter

As our special gift to you, a special holiday issue featuring all of the writers whose work we’ve been hanging onto far too long. I’m really sorry about that. And bam, just like that we’re all caught up. Thanks for everyone’s love and support this year, I only hope this makes things a little brighter

Beaten [Poem] by Chris Butler

Beaten Beat me out of me, beat seeds out of me, beat the skin off of me, beat the need out of me, beat me until tender meat, beat me until you’re sticky, beat me until I am sleepy, beat me until my heart ceases. Chris Butler is an illiterate poet shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. The final two books

Laws of Attraction [Poem] by Larry Oakner

Laws of Attraction How can bodies still elicit sparks  when memory persists in melting time and what was shared over thirty years past be just as present in both our minds? Secreted in a wooded room, candlelit, serenaded by the shushing surf, our steaming skin still scented from  the scald of mineral springs, I silently lead you by your hand  to the table where

Going down [Poem] by Larry Oakner

Going down I called her pussy Little Scarlet for it was as red and sticky sweet as English strawberry preserves. But that patch of ruby tangle is long gone, her memory overgrown by seasons passed. But O how delicious she was!

Erotic Exchanges [Poem] by Frederick Foote

Erotic Exchanges She wrote, “Dripping with affection for your erection.” He replied, “Steeling myself in memory of your affection.” She said, “Dreaming of your deep injection.’ He penned, “Longing for your wet, warm reception.” She scribed, “Offering my openings to you without exception.” He closed with, “Here’s toasting our connubial perfection.” She added, “Here’s hoping

Two Poems by Wayne F. Burke

spita sweat-hog in the bedbeside me, one of her titsa flattened loaf of bread, theother like a torpedo–I wonder when the last timeshe brushed her teeth;after she spitsinto her handI cannot go through with it:I hang-out at the edge of thebeduntilshe starts to snore. FacialShe took it like a sword-swallowerin and out, thelength of it,

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 fellto the small of her back. When I’d see her mornings in Embersshe’d take my order, her dark-rimmedglasses fastened to a silver chain.The glasses on a chain, the coiled hair,and,

Tinder [Poem] by Noel Negele

It got that badand so I got on Tinderafter being turned downby maybe five or fifteengirls, drunk in barsI’d hit on them with what I thoughtwere good opening linesand some would talk for a few minutesbefore retreating because I guess I dranktoo much, or talked too much, or touched too muchor maybe I’m just not