Rauan Klassnik was conceived and born in South Africa, achieved puberty in Dallas, TX, and now uses Viagra in Seattle, WA (just kidding, maybe?). He has two books of prose poetry through Black Ocean.

[ from Bug Time (3) ]

If he’s not praying, breathing slow, over young soldier dead, he’s praying drunk and mumbling and sniffing at a girl, as she leads him up stairs and into a small room. And the smell’s a lighthouse, throbbing, as they kneel together. And the smell’s a sea—ships heaped up in cold, silver, swollen, and trembling—as his mouth bug-smudges all over her dimpled flesh.

[ from Bug Time (5) ]

At the grave site the worms in the canopy have suddenly grown wings and they’re on my stomach, tickling. And they’re staring wistfully into my aching eyes. And they’re face down on the mattress—ass angled up. And my hands move back and forth on their engorged genitalia. And they’re groaning: kind of like a death rattle. A girl’s holding a dog. The trees are fierce. Everything’s turned to marble. A giant spreads his arms out. And flies.

[ from Bug Time (7) ]

I stared through the tiles at the pool’s edge and, then, lifted my body up, slowly, and ran through the ringing. I’d sworn off sex, alone in my jar, but then all this death, cringing about like an old dog. . .And I beat her, and I beat her, and I pulled her against me as we panted in the cold pain. . .Her face, in my arms, lit up. Then dried away. . .Nothing has stopped.

[ from Bug Time (12) ]

He sits behind her, for hours, and pulls bugs off of her. They used to be lovers and this feels great. But now she’s a friend, standing, topless, in a parking lot. And he’s kneeling down, licking, at her navel. The sky’s gold and red—smoke, lifting. On each birthday he sends her a small note.

I am an Alien, with a green card. Originally from The Netherlands. Have lived in South Africa, Switzerland and now some thirty years in the USA. Yes, I am an old fart. I write for fun and have been published, most recently in the Soundings Literary Review, summer 2012. I also self published a couple of volumes of short stories.

My Website

Our Books

—

Emily

When age is catching up, youth always appears lovely, desirable and longed for. Even young people that are rejected by their peers will still be attractive. We only see the youth and ignore the minor defects and blemishes, such as, excess of girth or the smallness of breasts. What are pimples to me in comparison to my wrinkles and slight potbelly? I can easily overlook them.

I did just that when I met Emily, flatchested, pimply Emily. She attended a class I gave on dog training. Most of the students had brought a dog. I always use my two standard poodles as examples of well trained animals and Emily brought her poodle. Mine are cole black, hers is snow white. There was an immediate connect. I noticed her insecurity. She made great efforts to hide her face behind her hair and hands. Her dog, Mandy, was well behaved and Emily, smart and quick to learn. Both, she and her dog moved with balance and grace. Emily had great legs and a pert little butt.

After the second class was over, she lingered while her Mandy romped with my boys. My older guy, Ripple, in spite of being neutered, showed some intense sexual interest in Mandy. As he was trying to hump her, she blushed, her pimples turning purple. Poor thing. I just laughed and said, “Don’t worry, he is neutered, but he instinctively recognizes a pretty girl. Like mother, like daughter.”

“You mean . . .?”

“Yes. I mean you are very pretty and as an experienced old guy, you can trust my judgment. You are attractive and very sexy.”

The pimple on her forehead was about to explode and feeling rather sorry for her, I walked over. She aroused me and while I adjusted my oncoming erection with my left hand, I hugged her loosely and said, ‘Shall we let our dogs get acquainted a little better? I live nearby and I’ll make us all some dog chow. We might wash that down with a glass of wine. How about it?”

She looked up at me, smiled and said, “I want you to know that Mandy has a highly refined taste. Her lines go back to the old country, France, and she will not eat fast food.”

“In that case, lets go pick up a bottle of French wine. You might want to leave your car here and I’ll bring you back after we have eaten.”

The five of us piled into my little Prius. Other than some instructions for the three dogs, nothing much was said on the way to my place, but someway the sexual tension was palpable. My painful hard-on, was trying to breach my tight undershorts and I was wondering how I could hide my condition without embarrassing myself, once we arrived at my place.

I parked the car outside the garage and busied myself with the dogs that started romping around the yard as soon as they were released from the confines of the car. Emily and I both played with them for a while and the physical activity helped to temper my bloated dick into a more manageable form, for now.

We fed the dogs, poured ourselves a glass of Bordeaux and after I popped a pizza in the oven, we all ended up on the couch together. My dogs would normally not think of getting on there, but somehow they sensed that these were special circumstances. It was a total mix-up of bodies. Attempting to shake off a couple of sixty pound poodles that were lying on top of me I ended up with the back of my head on Emily’s thigh and looking up noticed that her nipples under her thin shirt were as erect and pointing. As I touched them lightly she grabbed my hand and pressed it against her little tits, the nipples begging to be kissed.

I got up from the couch and convinced the dogs to spend some more time in the yard. On my return she had not moved from the couch but sat there with her hands hiding her face. I gently moved them away and brushed my lips over hers. I then kneeled in front of her and unzipped her jeans. She lifted her butt a little, allowing me to remove them. Her panties came down at the same time. It surprised me to see that her pussy had been shaved with just a small tuft of reddish hair remaining above her clit.

I kissed that little thing and stuck my tongue in her tight cunt as far as I could. She gently pushed the back of my head and then groaned, “Please be careful, I am a virgin, please don’t hurt me!”

I did not. During the following twenty minutes I gradually brought her to a pitch of readiness. After she was starting to really get wet, I turned her over with her knees on the carpet and leaning over the seat of the couch. I slipped on a condom and very slowly and gently entered her in little increments, until I was fully inside her. To delay my orgasm as long as possibly, I moved as little as I could, but then it was she who started to move rhythmically and I knew I was going to lose this endurance test.

And I did. Both of us came at the same time with an intensity I had seldom experienced before. That night there was no need to go outside to see stars.

Our pizza was waiting and after we had devoured it, I took her by the hand and led her to the shower, a shower large enough for activity other than cleansing the body. I peeled every stitch of closing off her and she helped me remove mine. Her skin, other than that of her face was alabaster white and smooth as satin with the slightest touch of silky fine hair on her arms and down the cleft between her buttocks. I don’t know why, but that really turned me on. My dick was hard and pointing up towards my navel. She thought that was funny and pulled him down to then release and have him jump up again like some mechanical toy.

I said, “Playtime is over. Now we get back to business, but this time you tell how you want it.”

“Without that rubber thing. I am not ovulating and it is safe. I want you to come inside of me. I want to know what that feels like. Please!”

Build into one of the corners of the shower is a small shelf and just at the right height too. I lifted her up and with her butt perched on the shelve, I raised her legs up with her feet on my shoulders. However, I then changed my mind. First things first. Before loving her again I wanted to eat her. Her come was dripping off her and delicious. I brought her close to orgasm by gently sucking her clitt that stood out like a miniature penis. When she started moaning I lifted her feet back onto my shoulders and very slowly, inch by inch entered her. I myself was so aroused by now that had I just shoved inside, I would have lost it there and then. For a while I just stood there with my dick all the way up to my balls inside her, taking great care not to move. The slightest friction would be too much. Gradually I gained control again and slowly started to pump her, taking care to slow it down every time we came close. I sensed she was totally in sync with me now. We kept it up for almost thirty minutes, building up the energy and the tension to a level that resemble agony. When at last we agreed it was time for the finale, she whispered in my ear, “Now. Fuck me now and put it all inside!”

And I did. She came screaming like a banshee. Afterwards we were so spent, all we could do was sit on the tile floor and giggle like a couple of kids.

It could be said that I’ve not learnt anything from the lessons I’ve been taught. Friendly advice from well meaning confidants, self-help books and internet articles. Pages and pages of acquired knowledge absorbed into my brainbox that I have not yet properly road tested. It galls me a tad that I haven’t used this information because I remember telling a friend of mine about the Red Pill last year, and he successfully adopted the theory, becoming proactive and resourceful. Most importantly he was able to stroll around like Billy Big Balls and become a confident Casanova figure. A surprise hit with the ladies, which wasn’t bad for a man who described himself as a hopeless geek.

I however have not managed to chance my arm, say to hell with it and live life like I had a deadline. I have not swallowed the Red Pill. For example, this message was drummed into my skull when I was listening to the Radio one evening whilst cooking my meal for one. I overheard a stomach cancer survivor talk about his urgent approach to life. He paraphrased Samuel Johnson, who once said – “Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.” I think his point was – never mind about the what ifs, the buts, or maybes and simply be a dear and get on with things because anything else is wasting valuable time. There is no point farting around and having doubts, you’ve got to go out and enjoy the ride.

When it comes to dating I’ve adopted a scattershot approach, despite playing the game on only one field because of my busy schedule. I decided to use OK Cupid, a site where I’ve had some success in the past before (i.e. women have endured the pitter patter of my typed wit during a long winded exchange of electronic messages enough to agree to meet me in ‘real life’), there was recently a rare occasion when I thought at last I’ve met someone with potential. It turned out not to be the case.

If this is to be an accurate representation of what happened then I fear that I must be a bastard and share a few choice cuts from the back and forth exchange on OK Cupid which led to us meeting up for the first time. Certain details are protected because although I may be a bastard, I’m not a naughty c word.

Me: Hello ****, it really surprises me that you’re a fan of Menswear. They were one of those bands that kinda existed in that tier below Dodgy, Ocean Colour Scene and Mansun back in the halcyon days of Britpop. I’ve got to ask why you like them so much?

Her: Oh don’t start a conversation by saying my favourite band are a lower tier than Dodgy!!! How rude. They will always be credited with getting me into rock music away from pop and dance. I saw a picture of their guitarist Chris Gentry in smash hits, fell instantly in love with him, bought their album and discovered I’d been wasting my life without indie rock. Can you think of a better reason to love a band than them changing your life?!

That was the first message, a textbook example of picking something interesting from her profile and asking an innocent question, in this case about the shitty Britpop band Menswear. After getting a reply, and seeing, if we are to talk in angling terms that the fish had bit the lure, I shared my own music tastes and asked her what tunes she liked at the moment. I gave her my name quite early on the piece, made an empty boast about how I’d done a little Music writing, I then asked “What can I call you?”

She waffled on a bit more about music and gave me her name. This followed…

Me: I’m currently doing a ***Mental Health related qualification***, which will hopefully lead to a ***another*** course that begins ***soon***, after that I will be accredited and can begin a new career helping people fix themselves.

Your turn. Why do you consider yourself a workaholic?

Her: Table Turner?! Fine. …when I wrote that I worked in hospitality which was all absorbing! I now work in ***doing something*** for a charity which is lovely and gives me much more free time. Although we are currently in silly season so I spend all the time I can getting out to the ***things*** I arrange to see how things are going which is fun.

It takes a lot to look after people with mental health issues. My *** a relative*** has one so first hand experience tells me that! You’re brave to make a career out of it.

A few more messages followed about work and future aspirations. I think it is important to demonstrate that you have some ambition, women tend to like that. It would have been terrible to admit that for a large chunk of my life I have been largely banging my head against the wall in frustration, trying to figure out if there is a point to anything. I’d like to call that my adolescent existential crisis period, which extended up until I turned twenty five.

In return she shared something personal about her relative, I did the same. We had a personal connection of sorts. I then injected a little humour, and made a cheeky comment about how she could get her employees, or underlings to pull their weight in the workplace through bribing them.

Me: People tend to respond well to biscuit bribes, this probably extends to chocolate and sweets as well. Everyone has their price!

You know what, here’s my number – ***my mobile number***. If you want to meet up for a drink or something then we can discuss Britpop and other things some time.

Her: With me I find doritos are amazing bribes. I love the chilli ones! Not a fan of sweet food.
How was your wild day? I had the day off and treated myself to a trip to beauticians to treat myself plus a little shopping.
Was the number thing an invitation to text? If so then why not… my number is ***her number***

The communication moved over to mobile, since I delete my text messages on a weekly basis I can’t recall exactly how things progressed via text, only that after several messages we agreed to meet a couple of days later at a local pub called the York Tavern.

I arrived there first, ordered a rum and coke, and since it was a warm evening I sat in the beer garden. Two lads were sat on the table behind, talking about stuff that real men do. I twiddled my thumbs and flicked around on the Guardian website checking the latest cricket scores.

She strolled in fashionably late, and didn’t look much like her pictures. By that I mean she looked gawkier. I took it to be that the pictures on her profile weren’t very recent. She was drinking ale that night, and boy could she drink, in the course of the nearly three hours we spent together that night she must have knocked back five pints. Whenever someone out drinks me on a date… actually no, this has never happened. It was a strange sight to behold.

We talked in greater deal about interests, a bit of pop culture chinwag, and surprisingly a shared love of the work of the satirist Chris Morris. First impressions, she was nice, and we clicked, but did we click in a matey way, or was there attraction? I had some reservations, but as we parted after a polite hug, and a kiss on the cheek there seemed to be something there, growling deep in my loins… no, scratch that. I had a gut feeling, that’s all.

So, I sent the “had fun last night, let’s do it again sometime” text and she was receptive. We texted back and forth over the next few days, and she invited me out again, starting at the same pub. We met a week or so later.

On the second date she apologized about not looking her best, something about not having time to straighten her hair, but I thought if anything she looked better. She was wearing a low cut top that diverted… erm… I’m not sure if including this information is relevant. I’ve been involved in a few arguments with women about low cut tops, and the reasons as to why women wear them? My humble opinion was that women wore them to attract men. This has been disputed by several of my female friends, some of whom took great offence to my innocent Louis Theroux like line of questioning. Call me naïve but that’s what I thought. I don’t know maybe what she wearing didn’t matter and I was reading too much into it. I was wearing a tight pair of jeans (why do men wear tight trousers?) and a stripy jumper, over which I wore a long grey winter coat as it was chilly outside.

Whilst we were in the York Tavern she suggested we go over to see a gig across town at another pub called The Blueberry. Her housemate / ‘best friend’ was there, along with his girlfriend. Since I was attempting to follow the #YOLO path of the Red Pill lifestyle, it made sense to try something different, to throw myself into this new situation and embrace whatever was to happen wholeheartedly.

Eventually after a pleasant long walk we made it to The Blueberry, and immediately I knew I was overdressed (wearing my smart casual attire, and especially my tight trousers) and unprepared for a night of gutter punk and Ska, with a bill that included Tyrannosaurus Alan and the Nelson County Steppers. Everywhere I looked I could see people that looked like they were OCCUPY squatters. I was introduced to her housemate, a smiling guy with a Morrissey quiff and also his much younger girlfriend. They chatted together, and I kind of stood there, not knowing how to play this.

Deep in thought, drinking a JD and coke, it suddenly dawned on me, and I’m not the brightest spark when it comes to things like this, that perhaps this was a test. I felt uneasy. I believed that my date wanted a second opinion of me. I was on a trial, I was the potential boyfriend. Therefore I must make a good impression on the housemate, show that I’m alright and not the kind of person who would write about the date on the internet.

To the punks around us, it must have looked like we were two couples having fun, but I was ruminating about my next move. As the housemate and his girlfriend moved closer to the stage, the music got louder. I struggled to talk to my date; my voice was lost amongst the riffs and horn section. She was saying stuff to me, and I caught every third word.

No opportunities arose for me to impress the man I needed to impress most, the housemate. He was elusive. When I went off for a tinkle in the Gents, he turned up, I could smell his Lynx Africa scent, but he took one look at me and went into the single vacant cubicle. I couldn’t make small talk with him through the door. That would have been weird. I couldn’t wait by the sink, because other blokes might have wondered why I was lurking around in a toilet. Ok, maybe chat by the bar.

He went to the bar, squeezing into a space between two mohawked giants. I couldn’t get close, as these giants were joined by their petite and surprisingly attractive multi-pierced girlfriends. Every opportunity was foiled. How could I demonstrate to him that I was a suitable man?

The chance never came, and therefore what came next shouldn’t have been two surprising. I attempted to make up for last ground, by being the keen conversationalist as I walked my date home. But in truth, my ears were ringing, my voice coarse and I was tired. I tried to muster up something, but it just wasn’t happening. When I said goodbye I noticed the distance between us.

Two days after the second date I received a text message telling me that I was a “sweet guy”. She told me that there was no spark there and wished me luck with the rest of my life. It was a patronising text that got me thinking about everything I did wrong, and what I could have done in hindsight.

Something bothered me about this. Yes, this was an unsuccessful date, and there have been many like this before and probably a few more in the future, but I felt completely unself-aware this time around. It felt like a true defeat, that somehow this was the point in my dating life where I must truly evaluate my approach, or lack of, and consider how on earth I can make myself more appealing.

I moaned unreservedly to friends and colleagues about the date and then I turned it into this hack piece for HST.

- RJW

’48th Street Press’ is pleased to announce the release of Paul Harrison’s second chapbook ‘Corrugator’.  The chap contains 51 poems and dances with several styles including raw narrative confessional, symbolic interludes, temporal and metaphysical battles, and a peppering of concrete forms.

It is available directly from the publisher until the end of June for $10 in the U.S. and $12 anywhere else.  Contact Chris at 48thstreetpress@gmail.com

- Paul Harrison was born in Belfast in 1969 and has lived in the world’s most isolated city, Perth, Western Australia, for the last 18 years. 

The Internet loves nothing more than cats, but it’s rare that we look beyond the cute photos and memes to more seriously consider their place in our world. Flavorwire’s Highbrow Cat Week is an attempt to remedy that, with a series of pieces devoted to analyzing their impact on the cultural realm.

“The crazy cat lady is one of the oldest and most persistent cat-related cultural stereotypes — the eccentric old spinster with a bazillion cats whose company she prefers to that of her fellow humans. Cats are traditionally identified as feminine, and they’re generally characterized as pets for women, while men have dogs. If this was ever reflective of reality, it certainly isn’t in the 21st century, but cat-loving men remain curiously underrepresented in both the media and in popular culture. Into this breach step Australian filmmakers Cam McCulloch and Ben John Smith, who are in the process of making a feature-length documentary called Cat Men. The film explores the relationship between male cat fanatics and their pets, and it promises to be fascinating viewing. Flavorwire spoke to the duo about machismo, stereotyping, and the folly of talking to deaf cats.”

Read the whole interview here: http://flavorwire.com/397220/meet-the-directors-of-a-documentary-about-men-who-love-cats

WILD ABOUT YOU 

I split your cast open and played with the broken bones
that were floating around inside.
I kept pressing my fingers together through the loose pieces of bone until my thumb and index finger were touching each other.
You didn’t make any noise.
Too scared to scream?
Too painful to utter a sound?
Too drugged to feel it?
The bath water is pretty cold now. The floor is soaking wet from your goddamned flailing.
I thought that zip ties would do the trick, but your strong torso enabled you to almost empty the bathtub.
Remember when I would have you take ice baths before we fucked?
You would get so cold that you wouldn’t be able to move your lips, arms, or legs.
You would get kind of cold on the inside, but not cold enough.
It’s always gonna be just you and me baby.
Tell me that you need me.

—

I CAME THE SEA BUT WIPED THE SAW

“Baby, baby please, I can’t eat anymore fucking spaghetti.”

It was the olive oil and cum glistening around her lips that caught my eye as we sat at the tiny breakfast table writing letters to each other after a long night of oral sex shared out of boredom.

“No one ever licked my ass before.” she said to me.

Well la-te-da, it’s time for a smoke. November Rain was playing in my head and I was embarrassed that it took me so long to get it up. I’m talking hours. All of that Lexapro and Zoloft made it nearly impossible to get and stay hard. Sometimes though once it was finally back in business, I would thrash it around any orifice that I could snake my black seed of lies into.

If I could find a spot, warm and wet, dry and tight, to fill up with my throbbing silver beads, I would sleep a happy boy. Once the wall was splattered with sperm and tears, once the floor was stained with Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum and Pall Mall ashes, then I might be able to eat an ice-pop before slowly sinking into the other rarity, the sterile boat that keeps me wide awake while I sleep.

W.J.P.Newnham was born in Melbourne in 1965 at the Royal Women’s Hospital and whisked away from his mother as part of the white stolen generation policies where un-wed mothers were stripped of their children. He was adopted and raised all over country Victoria having at age 17 lived in 11 different houses and attended 9 different schools. At a grade 6 literacy test he read at a university level and when matriculating he won the schools humanity score prize. His attendance at university was sporadic.

W.J.P.Newnham has hitchhiked around Australia working as barman, bum and waiter; slaughter hand, deckhand and master spending 25 years working in the Northern Prawn Fishery. He has travelled extensively in south-east Asia, the Americas and Japan and speaks market-place Indonesian with some fluency.

 2 of W.J.P.Newnham’s early stories were published in the inaugural edition of the seminal Melbourne literary magazine ‘Nocturnal Submissions’ in the early nineties, a recent story accepted by ‘Overland’ for publication, and 3 pieces accepted for Web-Lication[1] on ‘horrorsleazetrash’

He lives in Brisbane with his partner and 2 blue-heelers.

W.J.P Newnham has written 6 books of short stories and burnt 3 with only remnant scraps remaining where held by friends and still existing. The three remaining books:

• ‘BOMBED IN HIROSHIMA’
• ‘TRAWL TRASH’
• ‘CON-VERSATIONS’

Still await recognition and publication.

‘These stories speak to character and choice. Obligation and duty are given and choices made according to need and want are not always wisest as accounts add up and balances are inevitably reached: the universe holds no mystery it just is as it is and ever shall be.’

wjpnewnham@optusnet.com.au

—

>Infestation<

He sat in the open sided iron roofed convention centre as summer storms pelted on the tinny in a roar and  back fed thru amplifiers as a mezzo-soprano of some note with-in the true faith belief  trills ‘How Great Thou Art’ at frequencies that set the hounds a-baying and into his head like a dentist’s drill. He leans forward retching and squeezing tight his eyes and moaning and digging at his temples with his thumbs as his first true migraine erupts in his synapses with the radiance of a thousand suns and Hiro-Shi-Ma.

His mother whispers vehemently in his ear:

‘What is wrong with you?’

as she colours with embarrassment as rows of kith and kinfolk and fellow communicants turn to look at the commotion.

‘The voice………my head………. he cries.

‘You are embarrassing yourself before the Lord!’

She hisses as she forces him upright back into his seat and smiles wanly at the now staring congregation.

‘Stop it. Stop right now!’

The singer finishes her protestation of faith and as the ordained pastor takes hold of the microphone and turns to face the Christless cross praising the exsanguinated saviour a vicious feedback takes hold and squeals at decibels throughout the PA systems and roars in echoes throughout the auditorium. He collapses to the floor and writhing in agony he hears curses and swears that he recognises from the schoolyard and realizes that he is shouting these words at the very top of his lungs as he tries to beat back the waves of pain that envelope him in a vertiginous retching horror.

His mother is mortified and rising to her feet she slaps his face as the entire congregation stares in silence. Women start into praying with folded hands and bowed heads and as the spirit takes them they ‘Praise the Lord’ in the tongues of both man and angels

His kin and kith folk swarm around him and hold him down and lay upon hands in fervent prayer as wave after wave of nausea and agony compete for supremacy until finally he screams:

 And

Women scream and cover the ears of their children as men-folk leap to their feet with pointed fingers decrying:

“Get Thee Behind Me Satan!”

And

“He Is Possessed Of An Evil Spirit!”

As the pastor speaks with the amplification of electronic authority and commands:

“Bring him unto me!”

His body is lifted and as he screams in a passion of agony the men pass him hand over hand towards the pulpit. As he passes over the women peck at him like crows and tear at his clothing and beat at him all the while shrieking and cawing:

“Unclean!”

And

“CAST OUT THE EVIL ONE!”

And

“In the name of Jesus Christ I cast thee out!“

As he is borne forward he cries:

[1]

 As darkness and the flock descends.

>possession<

The congregation stood to pray as the pastor exhorted and exalted the ‘Virtues of The Lord, His Greatness, His Omnipotence, His Forgiveness and Terrible Vengeance’. As he worked himself and the flock to feverish heights of religious ecstasy parishioners begin to speak and pray and rave  in tones and tongues of the language of the angels; with eyes tightly shut and  dancing on the spot from foot to foot they raise their arms to the heavens and sway like pussy-willows in a high breeze.

The pastor quotes scripture:

[2]

He is surrounded by shrieking and moaning and wailing in mother-tongues like Africa as the congregation is transported in an ecstasy of immolation and praise. He looks up and down the rows for the girls he had seen earlier now lost in abandonment to the Lord and imagines assignation scenarios of lust and flesh and consummation.

He holds aloft his cigarette lighter and ignites his own ‘cloven tongue’ and joins with

 The

Jabbering Throng:

And

[3]And

>He is taken forward at the curtain call and is held firmly by stewards well versed in the struggles of the evil ones and is held still and upright before the pastor who is seized of the spirit and smites him with fore-hand to the fore-head.<

>With A GRADE 1 Concussion, A Child Has A Brief Period Of Confusion And Appears Dazed Without A Loss Of Consciousness. During This Time, For Example, the Child Will Respond Inappropriately To an Easy Question<

>Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

Do You Hear Voices? You Do. So You Are Possessed.

You Are A Believer Born Again And Yet You Hear Voices And You Are Possessed.

Okay, Now Are You Ready

Put Your Hand Over There.

Okay, You Have A Jezebel Spirit Within You. You Have A Spirit Of Grief, And You Have A Spirit Of Destruction.

Jezebel! Spirit of Grief! Spirit of Destruction! I Bind You With Chains Of Iron! I Bind You Be Bound In Heaven! Loosen Your Hold and Come Out Now!

Start Blowing Out,… Out… Out, Jezebel! Come Out Now! Go Ahead… Out In The Name Of Jesus! Come On Destruction! Come On Grief! Jezebel, you’re Gonna Listen To Me! Jezebel! Go Ahead, Keep Blowing… Jezebel, I’m binding You! ………He Was Intended By God To Be Virtuous You Have No Right!……. Out, Jezebel! Out! Out! And Jesus Said: “… That’s Right, I’m Gonna Break Your Power Jezebel! Go Ahead,… Go Ahead,…<[4]

> He Or She Should Be Spoken To Twice In A Five-Minute Span To Confirm That The Child Is Not Experiencing Confusion. <

>Do you hear voices? You do. So you are possessed.

You are a believer born again and yet you hear voices and you are possessed. <

> Okay, you have a Jezebel Spirit within you. You have a Spirit of Grief, and you have a Spirit of Destruction.

Jezebel! Spirit of Grief! Spirit of Destruction! I bind you with chains of iron! I bind you be bound in heaven! Loosen your hold and come out now! <

>Oppression<

He had been on the hunt for days with eyes wide open and scanning the beaches and hotels and night-clubs until he runs into a head he knew whilst body-surfing the mornings early outgoing tide and on recognition they greeted each-other as homeboys from fishing:

!x2

They lock fore-arm, wrist and fist.

‘So/?’

“So Fucking What!”

HÅH²

!

“What’s kickin’?”

‘Fuck-All: got a gig playing bass’.

“Rock-And-Rollah!”

x2

HÅH²

!

‘That’s right Cuz: Rock-And Fucking Rollah!’

“Name on ‘The Door’ plus One?”

“And Drinks?”

‘Fucken A-&-R Men True!’

TRÜʲ

             x2

HÅH²

!

They lock fore-arm, wrist and fist.

And plan to meet for drinks

And the other, the good stuff!

He met

them in the park at night when the moon shone least and there in the darkened park lit only by the incandescence  of his eyes blazing  being fuelled by Rock-And-Rollah and debauchery . They conducted alchemy and extracted the secret hearts of stolen pharmaceuticals and with enteric coatings dissolved the pure heart s of oxytocin  is left and cooked and loaded and rapture is dispensed like the warm zephyrs of [G]gods breath upon your face and the world grows painterly and soft.

He Sees In the Skyies: Great Portents and Signs. He calls to his [G]god as stars fall from the Skyies:

Elohim!,

אֱלֹהִ֔ים?,

Andoai!

Yahweh?

“Get Down NOW ……On The FUCKEN’ Ground CUNT……Get Down On The FUCKEN’ Ground…Face-Down CUNT!

NOW! “

Q. what is your name?

A. my name is many.

“Smart Arse Eh? Give Him Your Fucking Name Cunt!”

Q. what is your name?

A. my name is legion.

“This cunt is off his fucken’ head. He matches the description of one of them fucking junky cunts seen shooting up in the park.”

Q. what is your name?

A. my name is no-one.

“I’ll give you Fucken’ no-one Cunt…..Put Your Hands on Your Head…..Put Them Up Cunt…..NOW.

[Hand-Cuffs]

_[click]^[click]

S. You have been given a lawful directive to permit and allow a search of your person under the Drug Misuse and Trafficking Act.

Q. Are you in possession of prohibited substances or any danger or impediment to this lawful search?

A.————.

Answer The Fucken’ Question Cunt: Answer It Now Or So Help Me God I’m Gonna Fuck You Five Ways From Sunday.

Q. Are you in possession of prohibited substances or any danger or impediment to this lawful search?

The world grows hard again and the stars freeze in the skies and [G]gods’ breath becomes as a mighty roar in his ears as realization comes back to him. He shakes his head and clearing his throat he speaks once again in the tongue of man cognizant of action and consequence:

‘I have sinned; I have forsaken the Lord and served the Baals and the Ashtoreths. Deliver me from the hands of my enemies, and I will serve you.’[6]

Answer The Fucken’ Question Cunt!Cross references:

1. 1 Samuel 12:10 : S Jdg 3:9
2. 1 Samuel 12:10 : S 1Sa 8:8
3. 1 Samuel 12:10 : S 1Sa 7:3

A. Yes.

Q. Will you now willing submit to a search of your person having identified any prohibited substances, dangers or impediments to this search?

Almighty God our heavenly Father, graciously comfort your servant in his suffering, and bless the means made use of for his cure.  Fill his heart with confidence that, though at times he may be afraid, he yet may put his trust in you; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

FOR FUCKS SAKE: Answer. The. Fucken.’ Question. Cunt!Cross references:

4. 1 Samuel 12:10 : S Jdg 3:9
5. 1 Samuel 12:10 : S 1Sa 8:8
6. 1 Samuel 12:10 : S 1Sa 7:3

he is transported in revelation as he stares down the hard faced years of fear of empty toilets and the leering faces of the condemned like swine to slaughter and concentrating and distilling the evil till he too shone with the ruddy light of the damned.

He humbles himself and makes contrition:

A. hang on boss…..give us a minute…..I have fucked up bad you know….alcohol and low company…..mate I’m a clean-skin.

Q. Are you in possession of prohibited substances or any danger or impediment to this lawful search?

A. 300 bucks……..30 oxytocins’…..like  I said I fucked up bad ….I know…….I’m a fucken’ clean-skin….is there any other way?

What do You suggest then Cunt; something that’s fair?

A. you take the money and the shit.

And?

A.I cop a flogging.

Black and blue

And back striped like a zebra

Three day concussion with flowering bruises

And visions of salvation.

Doug attends Wittenberg University in Springfield Ohio.
He has been published in various poetry publications like Poetry Quarterly or Inwood Indiana. He also has been published online like the Spinetinglers website and The Carnage Conervatory website.

–

Wild eyes stared through a kitchen window. A crazed man silently stood, statue like outside his victim’s house. The woman inside the warm house was named Maria Morales. The man outside was named Alex Sanchez. His spikey hair was black, the voyeur wore a mask over his face, and his boots were caked with mud. The mask Alex wore was made of a soft rubbery material that only covered three fourths of the psycho’s face. The mask was open at the mouth. The mask was designed to look like it was fashioned out of human skin. The rain poured all over the masked man’s head.


Seated across from Maria was her Aunt Rose who was confined to a wheelchair. Maria laughed as her Aunt Rose told her a joke about auto mechanics and how they are such con artists.


“I’m so glad you could visit me on my birthday.” Maria said. Aunt Rose wheeled herself over to her niece. Then Aunt Rose placed her hand over Maria’s and squeezed gently.


“I wouldn’t have missed my niece’s twenty first birthday for anything, dear.”


“I know Aunt Rose; you’re the only family I have left. Alex held a hatchet in his left hand. Then Alex cut the power.


“I’ll go check the fuse box” Maria said. She quickly hurried into the living room to find a flashlight. Once she found a flashlight, Maria ventured down into the dark creepy basement. Next the kitchen door slowly creaked open. Rose wheeled over to the door and reached for the doorknob. When Rose squeezed the doorknob, a hand grabbed Rose’s wrist. Rose screamed as Alex came into view. His outline was barely visible in the cold moonlight. Alex dumped the eighty year old Hispanic woman onto the floor. He tossed the wheelchair outside and locked the back door. Alex smiled behind the mask as he watched the elderly woman drag herself across the floor.
“Help me,” Rose screamed. Cruelly, Alex stomped on Rose’s neck; he heard her neck make an audible popping noise. She died instantly. Then Alex flipped the body over; he viciously hacked into the stomach and chest of his victim. He pulled out the woman’s heart and chest and carried them downstairs. The basement was dark, dank, and smelled musty.


Suddenly Maria heard heavy footsteps and a hatchet hit the cement floor of the basement. Maria races out of the circuit breaker room and gasps when she finds a bloody hatchet in the middle of the floor. Sinisterly Alex snuck up behind Maria; he dropped the heart to the floor before wrapping the intestines around Maria’s neck. She thrashed her arms and legs wildly as she struggled.


“I’m going to fuck your corpse!” Alex screamed. Finally Maria was dead. Maria’s body fell to the floor in a cold dead heap. Alex placed the heart in the dead woman’s lap. He ripped off his mask and tossed it to the floor. Alex bent down and kissed Maria’s lips.


“You stole my heart, sweetheart,” Alex whispered in the dead girl’s ear. Alex left his mask next to the corpse. However he picked up the hatchet and climbed up the basement steps. He shut the basement door behind him when he exited the basement. Just any gentleman would.

Don’t be shy, this is going to be amazing, i promise you. Take our hand; come down the garden path.