Category Archives: 05/2009

Philosopher Debutantes

Written by R.S. Janes

The philosopher debutantes
were gathered at the mall
He has a nice car, said one,
But he makes my skin crawl.

Batting eyes at a window reflection
another mentato said,
Chips buff but, like,
he doesnt have any money
and without money youre dead.

Does my ass look fat in these jeans?
Another in the gaggle snapped
head turned backwards
to admire her pants
that rode just south of her
thonged crack.

Like, stop being so vain, girl,
one of her colleagues carped
as she stopped to smooth her hair
without a mirror,
vanity bumbling around in the dark.

Another piped up,
What about Einsteins theories on time?
which brought the rest to a dead halt,
eying her like a freak-show mystery
floating in a jar of brine.

They stared at her for a moment
perhaps pondering her query,
then Jeans Girl offered,
So, anyway, like, Brad asked me out again,
her statement dropped thick and weary.

As her jeans worked themselves down,
gravity itself was on display
showing a sliver of red thong strap
between her adolescent bass cleft
two kittens in a bag at play.

Oh, exclaimed Thongie,
top so tight she mustve been
breathing through gills,
this is all, like, such a bore,
and you just know
the Bohr wasn’t Nils.
R. S. Janes
All Rights Reserved.

A Simple Thong for Ms. Einstein

A Simple Thong for Ms. Einstein

Our Enemy Flicka

Written by Ken Carman

The detective could hear her over sized Playboy Bunny slippers softly slap their way to answering the doorbell he had just rung. The door opened and he was face to face with a barely clothed woman: full figured in a way that was popular in films many years before his TV set dominated earlier days… back when he himself was a big star.

“Ma’am, could you please go put on some clothes and I’ll wait here? I would like to keep this professional.”

She smiled seductively. The detective wondered if she knew how to smile any other way…

“I’m sorry, this is all I own, really. I’m a well kept woman, officer, my husband even put it in his will; as long as I never left the house, my every wish would be provided for, so I rarely get out. It’s pretty lonely. Would you like to come in?”

“‘Detective,’ Ma’am, and I would like to just stick to…”

“Wait, don’t I know you from somewhere? I think you’ve been on TV or something.”

He sighed and repeated, “Ma’am, I would like to just stick to…”

“Well, if you’re not going to come in, this is getting cold, tell me what you’re here for…”

“Yes, Ma’am, we’re looking for your husband.”

“Well, yesterday one of your detectives came to my door he did come in…” she smiled as if remembering something fondly… “and he told me there had been an accident they were investigating where my husband’s head had been torn off.” She smiled again, seductively. “But it seems you’d know about all this, being a detective and all.”

His lips twitched a little and his demeanor turned even more stern than very formal and serious; never crack the slightest smile, attitude that, if poured, would be like dumping used motor oil over an ice cream sundae.

“Different department, Ma’am, but let’s just stick with the facts.”

“How could that be? Aren’t you both detectives?” …she asked herself silently.

“You don’t seem very unhappy, Ma’am; especially after your husband’s death.”

“Look, Detective, ours was mostly a loveless arrangement. He was a horn dog, I’ll admit that, and if you’re so interested in ‘facts,’ Detective,’ I’m glad he’s gone. I just discovered an old movie reel; he was apparently out ‘editing’ the other. Oh, how he loved the old ‘flickas,’ as he used to call them. Then I found a lot of pictures of women dressed up like old movie stars. I know he would have claimed they were trying out for some role but I went on the net and found out that “Flicka” was actually a horse. Knowing him he was ‘auditioning’ them for some porno flick involving a horse. Take it from me, Detective, he was that ‘out there.’ And he did like to use old movie equipment to make ‘movies’ of us when we were, um… intimate.”

She smiled that seductive smile, only with more than an extra dash of “seduct.”

“We know all that, Ma’am. We’re here to ask him where he put the second roll of film so we can find out what’s going to happen.”

“Well, I had some very sexy young man go out and burn everything like that after we, um… uh, well, it’s gone.”

“That’s very unfortunate, Ma’am, we really needed to know what was on the second roll so we know how to defeat…”

“Why, Detective, do you need the second roll? I’d never guess you might be such a horn dog too by your serious attitude.”

“Ma’am, we’re not looking for porno. Your husband had his film ‘blessed’ by a witch doctor who found out your husband had just had relations with his very young daughter… so he hexed it instead.”

“Wait, he wasn’t making porno?”

“No, Ma’am.”

There were some screams in the background that seemed to be getting closer.

“What was he making Detective… Detective…”

“‘Friday,’ Ma’am.”

There were some screams in the background that seemed to be getting closer.

“You’re kidding, right? ‘Friday?'”

“No. Ma’am, I’m not ‘kidding,’ and he was filming a monster film with every monster ever imagined, and with look-a-likes, and act-a-likes, of old stars; both TV shows and movies.

The screams were getting louder and louder.

“And the hex…”

“Yes, Ma’am, your husband was murdered by a werewolf.”

Just then fire shot around the corner coming from something as high as the building.

“And that…”

“That, Ma’am, is Godzilla, and he is only one of thousands that came alive. I’m sure even ‘My Friend Flicka‘ is out there somewhere, but the process drove the animals and monsters insane. So he’s no “friend;’ probably trampling a citizen right now. The hex was pretty complete. Fiction became fact. So Ironsides, Kojack, Perry Mason… even Mike Hammer are out there somewhere trying to solve this. So, Ma’am…”

“Yes, Detective?”

Screams getting very, very loud; the sounds of flesh being burned, ripped, shredded… and the disturbing sound of some huge bug-like creature eating something.

“…is it OK if I take you up on your offer to come inside now?”

Copyright 2009
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Me thinks you might taste good.

"Me thinks you might taste good."

Mud Puddle Muddle

Written by R.S. Janes

Yes we are all lying in the gutter
Looking up at the stars
But some of us have had too
Much mud puddle to drink.
Let’s shirk off then
Into the night
Our mortal coil that
Traps souls like a bullwhip
In paradise.
(Hint: Here lies the tomb of
The Unknown Sulker,
abbreviate in speech,
tinker of thinking,
bounded only by limitless

It’s a quantum quirk that meets
itself going in and out
of the revolving door all alone.
So, let’s not bore too deep
Else we find mystic harp strings
Singing below the concrete street;
dirt and asphalt underlie
each we all know that
What does it teach?

Better the Buddhas of
Irreverent flotsam
Than the Jesuits of
Impertinent jetsam,
with all the rye to catch them,
Always on the beach
and yet never wet.

Beneath, the sewers surge on forever
Put your ear to the ground
And sup on the manifold wages
of pleasure squared and
indignity divine
where the stink of decay
is the sign of a growth leap.
R. S. Janes.
All Rights Reserved.

Drink deep

Drink deep

Pretty Little Housewife

Written by C. J. Fox

“So… you don’t love me?” I asked, calmly despite the loaded question. I leaned up against our blue Camry and folded two skinny, dingy arms across my chest.

He threw a hoe down into the ground but not with anger or any sort of feeling that might have made me feel better. It was emotionless. He was contemplative only in what he was doing, not what he had done to me. He rubbed a dirty fist against his eyebrow, slowly revolving around on two brown, unlaced, muddy boots. I bent over and picked up a red screwdriver and handed it to him.

Taking it, he said, “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

This was not my soap opera and this sure as hell wasn’t my fairytale. Plain and simple, not even then the concern over a business deal. I was just a bottle of antifreeze he had decided not to buy.

He moved from his project in the yard and started wrenching at something in the car, the source of the loud gurgling noise I got when I tried to get to work.

“So what now?”

He looked up at me with two brown eyes, the color of the richest dirt. He snuffed out an itch on his nose with his forearm and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, nothing.”

“You can’t stay married to me if you don’t love me anymore.”

He pressed his arms down on the front of the car, the answer so obvious to him. “Sure I can. People do it.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded. This was my life. I had a car that didn’t work, a garden that wouldn’t produce a bloom, and a husband that didn’t love me. The way it should have gone, what I should have done was pick up a Phillips and chuck it at his head and then leave him triumphantly. But I didn’t. I knew what happened to the women who did that. They ended up living in shabby one rooms just off the highway out of town and watching television that came in and out like their love lives. Maybe that was for them but it certainly wasn’t for me. I went back inside and sat at the wicker dining table, finishing my crossword. The last clue was “a postnuptial tradition” and it was a nine letter word. I scribbled “honeymoon” into the white spaces and dropped my pencil, shoving the puzzle away. The puzzle was done and I’d found my answer. Nobody ever said the key to your puzzle unlocked your dream life anyways. My father wasn’t madly in love with my mom any more than my husband was with me. My key didn’t unlock Barbie’s dreamhouse. It unlocked my inheritance and I can’t say I was altogether surprised. I’d been taught long ago that you keep the other woman around because you love her. You keep the wife around because you need something to make you seem honest, no different than adding high school to your resume.
Copyright 2009
C. J. Fox
all rights reserved

Cocooned World

Written by Millie Jenny C.

(Revised 9/27/04. For Ryan.)

You stand alone
In your own cocooned world
Flashes of lightening skirting the edges
Of your vision
Sounds of the crowd jabbing out at you
Senses at a hyper sensitive level
Nerves pulsing just beneath your fingertips
Exposing the highest level of your epidermis
Extremely exposed…

Bright lights appear to burn you…
Spontaneous combustion…
A distinct possibility
In your own way you are colorful
But you try to camouflage yourself
Calm down the internal fright

Loud sounds multiply and intensify
The wild carnival adventure
You’re constantly riding
You circle ’round and ’round
Constant repetitions
Curving tipsy-turvey on the pathways

You line all the pictures neatly in a row
You march back and forth…
Back and forth,
In a static pattern… Robot-like
With a smirk upon your face

Some joke that we failed to catch, I suppose
Because you are locked in your own bubble
The surface of the shell though transparent
Appears to you more like a mirror
It is a one-way mirror…
We can see you…
But you cannot see us
Or you choose to set us aside…
Ignore us
As we observe you…
As time careens on
Copyright 2009
Millie Jenny C.
all rights reserved

"As we observe you..."
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