In a small canoe
I was passing thru
the wee town of Spark
Bridge when it was dark
on the River Crake.
Made a big mistake:
I forgot to duck
So I yelled out ‘F-udge!’
Geoff Holme is a couch potato and co-curator of flash fiction contest microcosmsfic.com
Forever in me, forever in you.
am I just another James Blunt song
or are we the Fitzgeralds?
The fall air breathes
upon my neck in the early morning
Giving me chills across my body
and all I can imagine
Is your stubble rubbing across my thighs
Jess Mize is a blonde-haired surfer girl from South Carolina. Her favourite author is Stephen King. Vampire Weekend has three albums in stores now.
This poem is not suitable for work.
Think of it as an uncomfortable masturbation
in a toilet cubicle next to your boss
while his Thursday night bhuna explodes.
This poem is not suitable for work.
In layman’s terms it resembles
a piss-poor German porno,
acceptable only with a fetish for functional.
This rhythmic ensemble is highly unsuitable
for the corridors of power,
like your Auntie enjoying a golden shower
while you watch Masterchef down the stairs.
This poem is not safe for work,
but may grow on you slowly
like a genital wart
caught from the Head of HR.
This piece of writing is NSFW,
particularly in New South Fucking Wales –
where cracked photocopier glass
was caused by a fat sweaty arse.
This poem is not suitable for work
due to many reasons already mentioned,
but mainly because
I say fuck, shit and cocks at the end.
Ellis Hawkes writes the things you’d like to, but are afraid your Aunt Mavis might read and tell your Mum. It’s mainly just swear words strung together loosely. You can follow Ellis on Twitter @ecosserotica
Scrumptious dumpling,
get in my
mouth! erst i crawl after you,
crumbing over linoleum.
Humble
concrete be
my napkin; delicate and
cock-frilled grains
congealed hard.
Co-labored
in the slick of ooze mud
like four score and flour
in my saliva netting –
Be gone and get into my mouth,
as if ocean sand.
Don’t muffin me; i told you;
just get in! i said.
Elisabeth Horan lives in Vermont with her long-suffering husband and two young boys, Peter and Tommy. They are the apple of her eye. She also enjoys knitting, riding dressage and singing Selena songs, drunk at 3am.
Lotsa freaky women and girls cluck and carp
in falling snows, gad about in sandals showing
off their toes, or take the elevator upward
into Juneau’s downtown library. This one here
wears a foxtail clipped to her belt. When
she walks, ambles or sashays, the foxtail swings.
“Nice tail,” I say, and for the front desk she trots.
“I need you to call the police,” she says. “There’s
a man who’s been chasing me and saying crude
things to me. Please call the police now.”
The library lady, bless her heart, looks around,
sees no hunter, says she can’t call the cops
unless a person is in danger. The fox is upset
and a little bit desperate, her foxy eyes darting,
looking for avenues of escape and safe
spaces should I jump out and reveal my pistol
and take aim at her foxy tail.
Oh, these trials and tribulations oppress her, but
here comes her savior! It’s a man of brawn
musculature and brown skin. He’s come off the
cruise ship docked outside and on his shirt, in big
bold white block letters is: SECRET POLICE.
She trots to him. “Are you the secret police?”
says she, and the man smiles. “Yes I am,”
says he, and winks at his friend.
The fox tells him of the perv, but the joke, sadly,
is over. The Secret Police do not help her. They
leave her, just leave her there, standing all alone,
and so helpless. The frightened fox knows not
what now to do, so trots for the elevator, me
following, her tail swinging furry and soft.
Opham Denyer lives in New Jersey where he loves life and looks forward to the future. He is poor, but who needs money? His favorite things are dumpster diving and speaking in Korean.
Sometimes, I think I want to be a teacher.
Other times, I think I want to be a rare creature
Like a unicorn, because what else could I be
But teetering on the edge on insanity?
I’m a mentally ill wreck that sometimes
Can’t get out of bed until the clock chimes
Past noon. Why would people trust me
To look after their children. Humanity
Is not yet that desperate for educators
That they would look past the many indicators
Of my insanity. Surely, they must see
My frequent and loud use of profanity
And dismiss me as an irreverent anarchist,
Preferring the more traditional protagonist.
But I think, these kids, they need to be free.
It’s not just a pathetic form of vanity,
Born of a need to be helpful and good
At something to do with adulthood;
I think they might really need me,
Along with my own type of insanity.
Emily Ash is a 19 year old from Britain. They are retaking their A-levels right now, and hope to go to uni next year. Their favourite poet is Spike Milligan.
The other night I was thinking
About teeth
I was drinking rum
And reading
A message from a friend who felt
That the amount
Of fight and purity
I craved had nothing
To do with the cardinal winds
A pin dropped
I heard the stop sign
A nightingale and a raven
Made angry love
Midair
I was thinking about secret agents
How sometimes their teeth
Are hollowed
Capsules full of cyanide
How other
Times they’ll kill
The landlord or sleep
With your teenage daughter
Then look you in the eye
And say
This never happened.
Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.)
When my number is up
and I lie helpless on my mobile
state of the art electric bed,
will I mind if they call me “darling”?
When I have lost control of my bowels,
wear pads in my pants, a tube on my dick,
my piss in a bag down the side of the bed,
will I mind being called “sweetheart”?
Will I mind having my pants pulled down,
my arse wiped by a teenager in uniform?
What will I feel lying stark naked while
she lifts my balls for a bed wash,
removes the sheets I have soiled?
Will I care when I fart in her face,
and burp while she inserts a straw
between my dry lips, to ease the passage
of those putrid pills I don’t have
the muscle to swallow?
When they have rolled me from side to side,
side to side again, creamed my crack,
brushed the shit from my nails,
squirted stuff in my armpits,
stuffed my arms into pyjamas,
done my buttons, lifted my flabby legs,
socked my swollen feet, shaved my double chin,
talked down to me in practised platitudes,
covered me up, patted me down,
and then ask – “how does that feel?”
If I can still speak, will I say how I feel?
will I say how,
it actually,
fucking,
feels?
John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids, has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.
Crimson beams of your dream uphold my sentiments,
It is indifferent to normal, I yet have no resentments,
The chilling twilight tide might answer better,
Our questions were few but we couldn’t cater,
I’m not your mistakes, love!
You sought below, I neither reside above,
Mine too nurtures magic, like every other hand,
I can butter up behind your eye lids without a wand,
My potions don’t blemish the pathos of a dark,
I can hug your instincts, I can ignite your spark,
We could open a book together,
We could mark it with a feather,
Or we can embrace this destitute path,
Let’s enlighten their infertile wrath,
Clamp the blue of your heart with red,
Open the mixed purple together, let it spread,
Or bury these love beads beneath the sand,
Let go the lit ends, burn cigarettes bearing no brand,
Time will upheave your nostalgic thought,
I’ll hoist a sad flag, I’ll buy whatever you brought.
Rida Akhtar Ghumman is a 19 years old dilettante, successfully pursuing a Bachelor degree in English. They love writing for the mere sake of self pleasure but nobody minds some pounds handy. Their poetry is a reflection of what goes in their mind, obviously. It’s usually boggling with unadulterated ideas & then they decide to write.
Pantyless, I lay on cool pink cotton sheets, scrolling through a weekend’s worth of messages on my mobile. Your pussy looks like a flower, my boyfriend said suddenly. A flower? What the hell kind of flower is that? He shrugged his shoulders in that, how do you expect me to know gesture he often uses. Leaping off the bed, he grabbed a pen, a piece of paper and began sketching. Open your legs a little wider, hon, I need a better view. I looked at him with an arched eyebrow, but did what he requested. Lying there, I look up at the ceiling thinking of flowers and bees and if the drawing of my pussy would look like a Van Gogh or a Matisse. In about two minutes, my sweetie placed the pen and paper on the nightstand and smiled his one dimpled smile at me. I asked to see the drawing, he didn’t answer as he climbed on top of me and watered my flower.
Toni G. had dreams of becoming a rap artist (Hence the name Toni G.) but due to life struggles (such as being an old fart and not having enough money to buy gold chains or gold caps for her teeth) she decided to forgo that career and become a poet. As you can tell by her piece being published in WFP, she hasn’t made it as a poet either.
Wanton Fuckery Poetry 