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Whenever I Believe I Miss You By JPR

I go on a good bender, then stop when I see some roadkill and fuck it for fun. As its wretched stench reminds me of you. And as I feel a bit odd from the strange looks from the random passerby I have to remind myself you were only dead on the inside So, as I wash off the maggots, happily I laugh in relief. For, at least in this simulation, the end result is not syphilis. So much for precious memories. Ciao. JPR is the current Editor-in-Chief of 10000 zines. He is largely hated by pretentious twats, but enough about his close friends. He is currently holding his Open Mic in the Shower Series, where he has already rid the world of 69 poets. Because it's basically like a bug zapper but for annoying ass poets, including himself. It's a total buzz. He runs a roadside petting zoo filled with animals who all have rabies and mental health issues. He also is selling his own signature Napalm Do It Yourself Kits through Walmart. He enjoys paying for sex and nachos. He drinks almost eve

Home a cadralor By Lauren Scharhag

1. Abuela’s House Beside the old rotary phone, the Aztec warrior, in heavy Talavera ceramics, keeps his perpetual vigil over the body of his beloved princess, their bridal chamber a tomb. Home is where the heart is, even after it’s stopped beating. A Sacred Heart Jesus tapestry dominates the bedroom. In the kitchen, a gimme calendar from the panaderia is tacked over the washing machine, day-old conchas in wax paper, a lingering scent of onion. Tortilla dough kneaded and ready to roll out for tonight’s dinner rests in a steel bowl. Bottles of aspirin and blood pressure medication line the windowsill, along with the last of the season’s tomatoes. If our family had a sacred heart, this house would be it. 2. The Butterfly Festival Swallowtail caterpillars, black and red, nestle in our palms. Crysalis boxes filled with pupae in various stages of emergence, leafy greens and golds and browns spun from the silk of their own bodies, walls of shed skin, site of transubstanti

Spray On The Cheese By John Patrick Robbins

My ex phoned me up and said. "Hey guess what you no longer getting?" I took a sip of my cocktail not batting an eye. "A reason not to have to visit the free clinic every month?" "Hey fuck you asshole!" She said as she hung up. Sure she was married now with putz of an old man with a steady job and that whole nine yards bullshit. But as I looked around at my dumpsteresk shit hole of a room. I knew somewhere deep down in her blackened heart. She totally, still wanted me. I was truly living the dream that oddly resembled a nightmare. John Patrick Robbins, is the current poet laureate of both Valhalla and Hel. He stands as the editor in chief of over ten million magazines yet oddly enough has been rejected by all of them. He is currently in college working towards his masters degree in fine ass appreciation and slurred social studies. When not annoying the living hell out of lit snobs and grammar nazi's he enjoys drunk dialing poets on Facebook to ask the

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