Any poems you can’t find here that used to be here have been moved to either Opium Poetry 2.0 or to Asphodel Madness.

by John Rocco

On the asphalt flesh road

Northern Blvd.

Queens, baby, Queens

old Indian trail

the starving ghosts chase

used condoms and Taco Bell wrappers

anything for a taste of the lost time.

I’m on my way in the middle of the day

to go porn shopping

the cool colorful shelves

exciting and calming

but I can’t get there

because of the traffic suicides

Tanya Tucker on the radio

and the big white truck right

in front of me has painted on

its rear door in big red

white and blue:

THIS IS AMERICA!

LOVE IT OR

GET THE HELL OUT!

Succubus sunlight

explodes my windshield

cooking up

my brains

what’s left

but soon I’m

inside the porn store

cool and peaceful

shopping for guilt.

by John Rocco

Fritz Lang

monocle

and at least one big martini a day for life

told Hitler to go fuck himself

cast big boy Death in Der müde Tod with lots of candles

loved high-priced Hollywood call girls

invented high tech demonic city serial killer spy movies

the master criminal

Dr. Mabuse

King of Crime

Hypnotist of Modernity

and then there was little

Hans Beckert

child murderer who can’t help himself

based on the real

Vampire of Düsseldorf

who killed big wild swans in the park

drank their blood

gushers of deep blood

shooting from their necks.

by RC Miller

I’m choking on Chris Martin’s dick near my thymus.
It’s tattered with Amnesty International symbols.
St. Peter is hauling out newts.
The turkey and cheese ones are really wet.
I sit here tensed a stair cause I’d rather be alone,
Pounding away
South Jersey or somewhere pluses staple the clash below.
Around 11PM people finally change their drapes.
Too much much too soon, all that loose fabric
Opened wide.
The Mexican breakfast specials make my little mammal special.
And I always hear of a good
Industry or old age ahead.
But to be honest with you,
I don’t think I can wear pain to work.
Thing is,
There’s a numbness inscribed on every denouncement.

by Zach King-Smith

I stayed with a
woman who was
tough as a bed
of nails drunk.

When she’d
get drunk she’d
swing at me.

Take a swig
from the bottle
then swing.

I didn’t sleep
much at all
those few weeks.

One night
she swung at
me with everything
she had and hit me.

I told her to
get out the next
morning.

Some women are
lovely vicious things
and some men
take it like me.

I’ll never understand
those sleepless weeks.

I was a coward.

by R.B. Morgan

        I live in a nearly empty, dying

        Mid-Western State.

        It is the unwinding heart of the

        Broken hearted country.

        It is haunted by love:

        The absence, the with-holding, the cruel,

        Thoughtless promise of.

        Death on cue appears constantly,

        An ambiguous art-house character

        Either stalking through ruthlessly

        Or standing by a window-sill

        mild, soft-spoken, determined

        To be well dressed and cordial.

        It becomes, like love, whatever

        We can stand to believe,

        Either one great stroke of cancellation

        Or an eternity of praise and absolution.

        Or neither, depending on

        The urgency of our need,

        Rising in our memory, an

        Ancient predator circling

        The antic, screeching troop.

        Its close and real menace is

        What makes us love, and agonize

        For what must be paid

        As our own ransom,

        The unconscionable price.

        As a prisoner of this broad and bleak

        History, I am forced to love as some

        Are driven to flimsy ceremonies

        They don’t, they can’t believe in,

        But must cling to with devotion

        For the promise of a

        Momentary salvation,

        A savior and his millennium

        Endlessly deferred.

by Jack Henry

i drove my father’s pickup truck
to Hollywood and parked
on a side street just off of
Sunset

a friend of mine played
in a punk rock band
and said i should come
to the show at Gazarri’s that night

it’s ten o’clock or better
before they take
the stage
and drive a crowd
of twenty-six into
a pitched frenzy
of booze and pill
inspired insanity

i met a girl with
a foreign name
and took her into
the bathroom
for a blowjob
but each stall
was occupied by
nervous junkies
or grunting
homosexuals
lost in their ass-fucking
abandon

she needed my cash
just as much as i
needed her mouth
she took my twenty
pushed me into a corner
and blew me with
balanced aggression

a few came in and watched
more junkies
more queer middle aged men
more punk rockers
looking to piss

she spit my cum in
a sink, accepted another
20-dollar lover and
disappeared into a stall

i took a piss, laughed
and just went back to the show

by Brad Liening

The trick is containment.

I’m thinking: cancer,

zombies, fire.

Keeping the river

within its banks

and away from us.

The river is hard

to get out of

once you’re in it.

I’m thinking:

tall pine bending,

parabolic

under invisible weight.

Going up

in a flash.

Zombies are

as frightening as anything

else in this world.

You’re miles

downriver

before you

even realize

you’re in the river.

The galaxy: dust,

gas, a couple cells

dividing in wet brains.

by David LaBounty

the car came in, a Buick

from ’89, and the brake

pedal was going to the

floor and there were

leaks everywhere, like

so much automotive

stigmata, so we ripped

the tires off and

the back brakes

crumbled at our feet

and the kid driving

the car was full of

piercings and homemade

tattoos and said the car

only cost two hundred

bucks and that he

was going to call

a junkyard to haul it

away because it would

take a grand to make

the car safe and right.

he left, the car was

pushed out and it

sat for a day

until he came to clean

it out, leaving

the car empty save

a little notebook

on the cigarette

burned front seat

and I couldn’t help

but flip through it

after he left as it

was full of notes like

postal exam on Thursday,

Applebees Tuesday, first interview

Wal-Mart, Bob, second interview Monday

and I had to wonder why

he left the notebook

behind, as it seemed

to contain important

details of hope

but then I

realized why he left

it behind,

because in this,

the Motor City,

you’ve got to have wheels

to get a job.

by John Rocco

The dead like it here.

You can tell by the way

the hot skinny stray dogs

drink from the spigot.

In the middle of it all:

Man & Woman

pulling drawn inescapable

into the mouth of death

called Monument aux Morts.

Me and Jim

potless weedless

smokeless in a hot

foreign Paris lost

looking for

Lizard King grave.

Don’t find it

but walk into

band of sitting kids

smoking drinking

just back from

Amsterdam.

They invite us to

join them.

One day I’ll write

a novel called FUR

to thank those

dead kid angels.

Life & Death

were never so

stoned together.