OK….I Submit

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

Ghost Orchids

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.

NSFW

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

Get in My Mouth, I Said

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.