Issue 2, Spring 2007


A blatant rip-off; a cure for writer's block
by Nathan Murphy

lying, sitting up in bed
and a fresh cup of coffee resting
on my stomach flat and cut by way of malnutrition
by poverty
by the accompanying words and
dead old dogs
who have always done it better than me

still amazed by my bodily dexterity
and calmness
a cup laced with blue acid lust & memory
carries my mind from the page to someplace
someone else
from phone calls already come
past and through some other
to repeat I know

but there is a pen
black and
someplace close

there is a
and an orange in the refrigerator
both charitable contributions
to the cause
support networks that
worry over my
with broken logic
and the algebra of need
the real estate
around the eyes like paperclips

for them
with thanks and
flowery language
warm and crisp from pre-heated ovens
I will start with the croissant
saving the vitamin C
for later on
as I have rightly learned
not to be
patient and wait
for the late afternoon when
I will drive to the market
on South Bay and
buy beer with the money
I have saved
from being poor
because of oranges
and ignoring
phone calls and
Mondays all together

and better yet
time and
starved responsibility
will pass and
in the evening
I am going to get
my hands dirty
and stained with
black, hellish resin
a promise to somebody
that I was beyond
and never would again
smoke that terrible high
in the distraction
I find relief and
take no comfort in knowing
that my word should mean
close to dogshit
everyone and I
but trust is
a hot market commodity
easily forged or stolen and sold for
a fortune of guilt
and always

my coffee is still warm

who says Mondays
will always be

a woman like that

sometimes I imagine just to listen to her read.
the contour, the story of the figure of her voice.
it is the hook. included with everything else. and deadly charming.
a lot like home. fallen asleep under the sun in the grass.
and everything in the shade of blue. simple. adventurous.
remember bullfights and the Life. and romance. the benefits of drinking wine.
and one beautiful woman. a mind and a figure, endless miles of….
cool blue. all class, though she would never admit to being.
bound to the south tropic zone. her magnetic movements. still soft country lips. baby.
the sentiment forms at the mouth. cross my heart.
you can't imagine a woman like that.


dirt and irony

sometimes you forget that you're attached to shit.
and wait for the water to boil.
it's not as bad as watching
for the boil to stop. and
powdered food that becomes liquid food. no
licking the spoon. there is not always
cooperation when you want it. even
the hour. god damn.
it never ends. to wish
everything was made of cocaine. opium.
coke and opium.
and the ability to stop.
god comes through again. pound your fist.
you can best him.
at cooking shitty inedible food. amazing.
take pictures. keep an
on negative space.
an old man dancing. mad as the hat.
lost and took a picture. it. eyes closed

over the mudflat. there are no sounds.
except the animals. bone drums.
the rolling

tomorrow is on the move. for good. cooked with dirt and irony.




I'm far too old for
a junkie once
and probably still for
fashionable politics
I do not kid myself in
to thinking that
it is something more
than fascination
with the
grotesque and
the absurd and
morbid interest of
viewing the
first hand as
person and
groups of humans
for that line
spans the globe
by opinion always
stubborn with
for hope and
and mistaken identities
and I want
no part and
nothing more
than the time to
my family and
friends and
beautiful women just
enough to not
screw them over too
badly outweigh the
damage and
I may cause
as I fight and
for a lawn chair in
the back to shit and
sit on and
and will the
inevitable forces in
to action already taken
to motion as
the gods
this world in
to little
just watch
until I tire and














god breathe slow.
swear up and down the vast green creation. where the table

stands empty. and every body stuck around. bitch about hunger & quality.

suckers. every one to the window. at point A. rarely does it lead to the point. b.

the grossly polluted human dump-heap. my definite bread and butter. the

business of being alone. caught masturbating with your left hand. bad haircuts.

the anxious wait for phone calls. in the absence of results discontinue. and

consult your doctor. repeat as needed. dissolve. and experiment with every chair

in the room. for the better view of nothing in particular. nothing is made simpler.

it is all just unmasked and quiet. some days when even the rains wait for the

right music. and you've gone thinking madly. just then in an aged unintelligible

language. the invisible lady says, "don't worry biscuits." a low growl heard. the

hounds stomp the terra in search. as for my departed head. I chopped it right off.

and boiled it. like all great artists. essential to the silence.
paint the skull for practice.












today.  it starts with her.  sitting.
resting against the side of my body.  and the divide.
two worlds for every action.  continue through the moments.
and only in the mind.  a loose fitting blouse.
wild. over her electric gypsy body.  a soft exploration
of her arm.  pressure point caress the neckline.
follows the rush.  down
the center of her body.  charged.
take hold of her heart.
and a hand slides beneath imagination.
her shirt.  her breasts rise and respond in kind.
fingers spread and trace the curves.  slow
and gently spoken.  in the language of touch.
clothes.  spectral vapors.  evaporate along the walls.
and the air is warm with sex.
an absolute addiction.
to match the danger
of her fire figure.  burn heaven to the ground.
in front of me.  on her stomach.  one hand shadows the blind curve.
from hip to navel.  lift and carry her on the rise.
a moon full in broad daylight.  then
in the dark recess. bury myself in
the taste and depths and smell of her.
she climbs beyond gods.  stretched
full in blinding fashion.
it is never complicated.  always.
sleight of hand.  slid across the arch of her back.  slender.
no chance. explosion of sex and attraction.  above
the contours of the movement.  of her hips.  pressed against
and suffocate reason.  tempt even the holy.  curse
the boundaries and the unobtainable.  felt to arouse.
to understand the sexual form.
unbound.  the body line shapes each thrust of blood.
straight iron bullet to the heart.  pull her close.
reach round from behind.  find the need and the pulse.
one hand on her throat.  the other
on her inner thigh.  radiates the touch of sun.
fires the entrance to sweet lasting damnation.
the irresistible surge.
of everything that is beauty.  held close.
too close.  even within imagination.
there is no cauterization of the wound.
only blood.
of the endless flash moment.  lost.
and it's all her beautiful fault.


history of the showdown

the building tension was unpleasant. smelled
like rot and guts left to the sun.
follows close the junk aesthetic. our man looked sharp.
an almost knifed image of a starved desert tarantula. remarkable.
and weak with hatred. a poisonous lunatic. was madness
on eight legs. hollowed out. and crippled.
the mastermind behind misfortune
and humane decapitation. in theory.
at the very least by law. a magnificent fraud.
witness to the action. and the wave of fear
creeps right in. head over heels. for her.
just about anyone could be smoked.
by that kiss. straight bullet to the heart. still.
missing. still she loved him. terribly dead had it been.
a knife. he slept on at night. on rock. bones froze. sustained
by saltines. booze. and courageous mexican border music.
the monotonous fashion of revenge. one outfit.
dark blue collared shirt. black pants. and a temperamental
pair of six-guns. the rusted handles read. jesus. and tequila.
is one style of weather. twelve. thirteen months of the year. comfort.
you understand. prescribed to the gruesome notion of concern.
depression. drugs. and rock & roll. the dark luck.
on the graveyard shift. and skeleton gardens. unearthly
by the moon river they will find her. the head is gone.
her mind is gone. replaced
by the monstrous honesty of a still-life time lapse. came up fucked.
was every body counted? at the scene.
a cup of tea. red rose. sweet vermouth. an illusion.
the masked heart failure in the corner. dictated by heavy gunfire.
he noticed she was crying before she did.
a matter of second nature. will power. the mighty concern.
bit through his inside. taste of the blood. atoms
kick start the motion. certainty is close. outside.
countless frogs fuck away at the night. to the sound of trumpets.
walking spanish. one will be the disguise.. for the other.
the dangerous escape. his heart will become hers.
and only to the beauty does he say.
the flipside to the one-sided coin.