Our rapid fire expose of outsider writer talent! A rapidly rotating lit-zeen of poetry, prose and more! For general questions, queries etc, contact our Little John of the lit world , Pat King.
every night i sleep next to a reminder of how six years look untreated. how it can metastasize into awkward moments and divvy up intimacy into chunks of surreal humor. makeup over a ruined face.
just wanting her to rape me clean back down to base nerves and chemical treatments that burn eyeballs away.
it's unique to joke about your newly dead relationship with the she that passed with it.
talk about who you'd do over coffee or laundry folding in front of the tv. really deconstruct each others faults now in very unbiased ways. refer to one another as pal or bud.
and it's arterial gushes in tight lipped smiles and unsure eyes. the gore not even on the wall. it's knee capped and underlined in times new roman coliseums couldn't fill up with this stuff bubbling up to the cabinets a stew flavored with the end of us.
so odd it can only be defined in abstracts and liberally poured cocktails in rock glasses, even thick panes, not needed to see how very clearly suicided this bomber is.
poor trait
she dreamed you up in the backseat while he stuffed away.
daydreaming you more under sizzling spoons.
she didn't know you already existed.
across the globe role playing the world away to a soundtrack of glassy eyes. refusing its beat to the gush of night.
both running around looking for the best nothing to make all this work.
. . . . . . . . .
then it's hate. she hates so well it could be bottled up.
she barely exists in this world. more like an idea guys use to prove tragedies live walk and breath. rubbing society raw on the fringe. protruding, that high pitched elbow. gaudy with style. preferring target to kmart laughing at macys. telling it all to fuck it. with two french manicured fingers licking them clean on the way down.
a world, bee-stung and barely swelling.
googly eyes.
I saw a saint its bones ready to be relics starchy kissed by hand down worshipers.
Colored glass weeping at that brilliance and an empty congregation staring. Still filled. Taking bites from immortal dust.
Benny Hinn eyes looking right through the tube. Shaking in sane ways to the sway of Tammy Fae tears.
For fears could turn vapor rise in the cool calm of the Still. But instead crowds lost and found in the moment.
Our modern relics living legends shining hollow through white noise hymns purple and pink bushes burning on top of sinning heads.
The heat of a studio god’s watch. Canned howling trying in tongues till twisted times end. A revelation spic and spanned in three minute clips of our Madonna in the face of cheese. And sold on ebay.
pathology of swallowing
any food will work or not work. packaged enchiladas organic minestrone vegetable quiche. whatever. it isn't going down.
this time it was trimana’s famous bar-b-que chicken salad. the only thing saving You was the heaped on dressing. it's the lead up that kills. usually during preparation sumtimes by morning coffee on the exceptionally nightmarish days. the beep beep of the microwave, a countdown. breakfast, a thing of the past by this point with its bagels. a harrowing ordeal. the whole thing can reek of funny faces and knee jerk contortions to co workers if You’re unlucky enough to be dining publicly. working the newly chewed mouthful around the tongue. softening the delight storing it behind your cheeks cause You’re not ready to concede how fucked You really are. preparing. to try and get it down the right hole. if You’re lucky its just a brief freak out. jerk. time freezes, takes a piss in your eyes and then it’s on to the next portion of the same mouthful. there’s no enjoyment in eating. poking at that tube becomes a past time. a masochistic way to try and keep power. caressing the cartilage vertically agonizing over each ridge you feel is too prominent. losing sight of the day reenacting the fun times of gorging taco bell in the car. inhaling it all. not a phrase you can even muster in thought anymore. standing up while feeding becomes a way of life. the dance. the dance. smoking pot? out of the question. it only furthers your problems. going cold turkey has never been so easy. fear of choking turns to terror over food slipping into the lungs. dysphasia usually afflicts the elderly as they grow deranged. the whore of it becomes very evident upon internet research. all roads lead to anxiety disorders or throat tumors. wasting and malnourishment usually starts around the time dread sets in. Your ego failing with your health. You find yourself on the soup aisle a lot. examining ingredients opting for soaked vegetables….maybe a beef vegetable, but only ralph’s brand. their meat barely a step ahead of mush. being a smoker makes the swallower in question feel like a big old asshole. indicting himself all over the place. everybody knows your lymph nodes swoll right up against the esophagus. things really start to go down hill phantom food soon shows up in the back of Your throat. Now….this is when the shit truly becomes a vicious cycle of fucked. endless coughing. relentless pursuit of that invisible morsel rawing the trachea. creating the delusion that you can’t breathe properly. and when you do it’s only devastating your lungs with the soon to be staling ingredients for a bacterial infection. one that wont have a problem at all of swallowing You up. sum days better than others most unrelenting gasping. horrified moments hiding your bites behind a napkin or hand. soaking all of it in coke zero. taste becomes a myth. a legend told to Your taste buds at night. You’re irritable. opting out restaurants. only thinking about swallowing. everything fucking everything else seems like a joke now you wanna talk about it with sumone but the humiliation is too much. ridiculous thoughts like going on a liquid diet or letting your teeth go to rot so you have a reason, pop into your mind. these filthy things make sense. gristle filled steaks. dry mouthfuls of gala apples caramelized on a stick. sandwiches not doused in condiment. fantasies more valuable than blow jobs by strange women. screaming at food becomes a normal. window shopping delis with a gulp and a frown. fat people irritate You for all the wrong reasons. You’re getting punished tortured. all the while letting the blinding truth sink in that This is required three times a day.
Jason Neese:
When i sat next to him he defined me
as a very tall skinny man that needed
lots of shaving gel. this did little
for my complex so i wandered around outside
until i received four discrediting gazes.
ive never been back to nc since.
california rarely feels like my home.
Jason reports that he just recently took the helm at Kill Poet, a fine online zine. You can visit Kill Poet's myspace page here: www.myspace.com/killpoet and check out more of Jason's work at www.myspace.com/syntax311
This book reminds of a story I once heard. I don't remember who told it to me, I don't know if there is any truth to it, and to tell you the truth I've forgotten it till now. The story concerned two Jews in a concentration camp......
this is apocalyptic (or, fucking in the street after the tanks killed my brother)
did you see them move in their tanks and vacant eyes vacant from too many days in the desert and too many dead man tales
he had hips like a shotgun double-barreled boom he came twice a gynecological heartache standing at the edge of the night he introduced himself as james like dean? i asked like morrison he replied and we fucked violently
did you see their tanks the low-key eyes of a criminal they moved in they destroyed took the last remaining piece of humanity from the heart of civilization
amid the chaos we fucked in flames we fucked in love we destroyed
did you see them move in with their bombs and stories of death did you see them kill my brother did you see them kill your son
Click below to learn more about OW's first book and the winner of the Jack Micheline Memorial Award.
About OW!
Outsider Writers have been distributing chapbooks in dark subterranean caverns for too long. The corporate presses and literary institutions have no vision. The media is irrelevant. It's time to rise into the sun!
Our Goal: Unite the write! We will join forces where we are strong, eliminate duplication of effort where we are weak and put the power and authority over literature back into the hands of the only legitimate owners: the authors and the readers.
Sign our Petition!
Tell Amazon you'd like to see a category for Independent writers on their site!Sign our petition.
Lit Circus 
