Menu

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

 
Poetry


from Dusk Bowl Intimacies: 23
Thomas Fink

 

It's very tough when you get involved with any random lug. Sometimes, if he kisses you, it doesn't mean he likes you: you're there. The widows are always figuring it out, the kind of love that goes away. Don't give it away because you can use it here. Or put it where nobody can touch it. My so-called boyfriend, until today, he's never encountered such love in a roomful of girls—with the rounded buttocks, which Jewish girls don't have. Sand is really what they think. I shouldn't have ruined my pictures by showing them to the other chick. She always has new colors, and I know why. She borrows the lies—and has a nice billow. If you need a little chicken. I gave him great aspirations, but inside he's jelly.

He's
like an
angel., empty-headed.
You'll
see him—
at my funeral.

 

 

//   Advance   //