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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II

 
Poetry


Rien Ici
Raymond Farr

After 7 lbs
Mfd at Ogden

The mailman was kidnapped

He dawdled
The deaf
With his beef
Of the blind

I took grief
From his couch
Where he lay
Little stains

His itinerant rhapsody
A ballad of self
He bribed what he saw

A tub of
Galore
He spilled conch like a saint

His finches were right
A bride's perfect wrench
Isn't the dosage

He is stunned over Warsaw
He perpetuates a cube
He gnaws the specifics

At times like a pier
Under fathoms of chicken
He seems like the pliers

At fourteen
He was all about boot

& article 5
Has sent him some nougats

The age of his Guinnessence
Precedes a balloon

He is upstaging Joe

His life in the boondocks
Has doused me in petrol

At night
He's a walrus
Named beautiful Warhol

Just a pitch
Of a kid
On Niles Rd

I connect up with 7s'
Strange little book

I am zinc in his bath
& blanker than butter

It matters to trigger it

His voice box
Will cost ya
Yr sweet mama's honey buns

The revolution, dearest
Speaks like an egg
He cooks it with Pam

His whiskey is wooden
A Cy Twombley of wooden

If he is a waffle

I sit down in my science
& find it all wrong

If I hold my own tongue

I am the six on his suitcase

He swills down a chub

Disbelief
Is everything, he sd

My own barbarous dumbbells
Answer a numbskull

I am something invented
Painted on hair
A dot com of spoken

He too was Worcestershire once

Where is my bold
Sickly shillelagh?

He batters up Orkney

His flapjacks are somnolence
Which sicken the data

I am both species
Pink as a one

Our commas have necks
At Tonkin Gulf News

Our verses are toffee

Sarcastic as
Who figured that out?

His revolver seems cold
As a bag holding air

Dear Prudence,
His cry is out
Rien ici
Ici rien, he cries
Yrs, the Androgyne

 

 

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