Where are the rebels?


Savage Omnibus #6

September 3, 2008

Zygote in my Coffee print edition #5

this whores flesh ~ suzy devere

fear living ~ mikael covey

once upon a lifetime ~ lena vanelslander

Hate the Radio

story south ~ million writers award

Sweet, sour and bitter memories
Mistakes to be made
Failures to evade
Chase, race around her head
but no regret
for it was once upon a lifetime
the opportunity was met

With my little needle i will sew tiny stitches
in the gaping flesh that falls off the pole
when i dance.

And when you next see me and i am tethered,
skin and bone, to the steely rod, give me the
courtesy of a

And then cut me down
and lay me
to rest

in the earth where live things
will crawl inside me and breathe
maggot life
into this
whore’s flesh.

Fear Living ~ Mikael Covey

September 3, 2008

Cold black, nothing but stars in black night and pale street lamps decorated for Christmas in the dark village in the winter wind. Boys back from war. Johnny come marching home alive and whole in green Army jackets and tennis shoes. Young men still boys looking for young girls eager full of life. Finding them in the cold dark night. Throwing snowballs from rooftops of the downtown shops in the village, running the sidewalks filled with laughing glee anticipation and wisps of snow in the wind. We didn’t care. Just wanting to hold them, the young girls, soft round slinky and warm in zip up jackets and stocking caps. Or to be one of them now; one of the boys home from the war.

Kellen filling the pipe and telling us stories of war. How he lost a red white and blue knee-high boot at the Saigon whore house. House of a thousand rooms, all night and walking out into morning sun with just one boot on. Watching M*A*S*H at the theatre there. It didn’t impress me. “You shoulda been in ‘ Nam ” he says. Grabbing Missie, carrying her over his shoulder to the other room. Long legged little blonde girl with hot tight ass in tight blue jeans. Legs and ass all eager and happy. To be one of those twenty-year olds back from the war with sixteen-year old girls so happy to see you. Not afraid of war and beautiful young girls like touching the face of God with your hard on.

Equus, a boy who blinded horses, blinded horses he worshipped like gods, blinded them to his sex sin with the stable girl. Not wanting them to see. Sexing the girl with everything you have, everything you want and ever will. Or not. Sitting there on the propane storage tank big as a mobile home, round white cylinder like a giant cock ready to blow. Sitting there across from the dancehall as the kids arrive for the dance. The cars drive in and circle around to see who’s there. Watching them from that odd view across the road in the cold dark night by the dirt parking lot by the big dance hall.

Sitting there watching like an oddball scavenger out of sorts from the main. They pick up little stones from the dirt lot and throw at the propane storage tank. Echoing off the gas-filled metal hull. Ping and pong and again that sound of little rocks bouncing off the tank like being pinged on the bottom of the ocean under the stars. Not caring if they hit me or not.

They stone sinners in the Bible, stone them for doing wrong, being wrong. Wrong to be them. Wrong to be. A people thing, the crowd picks up the stones and throws them at the sinner. Wondering if it might explode, the storage tank might have a seeping leak, not so much as to worry the loss, but maybe a spark from a stone might set it off, ignite the whole damn thing in a monstrous blow of exploding gas, like napalm. I want to die but not right now but don’t want to live this way.

Another night of ‘no thank you’s’ and beer and drugs and all that and that and that some more. We drive down to the off-sales liquor store in the back seat smoking the pipe and each grab a quart or a half-pint or a bottle of wine and back to the dance hall and the half’s gone but it tasted good and now it’s gone. I can’t remember her name. She told me her name a week ago or was it two weeks ago but anyway the prettiest girl I ever saw blonde and breasts and round little ass so wantable and the prettiest face I ever saw. She was nice to me. Told me her name but I forgot. “What is your name again?” Go away she says.

And I never ask the ones who want me to ask them, only the ones who want to say no. And I don’t know why but I don’t want to live this way. Sitting there in the cemetery across the road from the big dance hall all quiet now in the cold dark night of four a.m. in the fog and mist and deadly silence. Big stone cross in the cemetery, Jesus and all his saints. Sitting there on top the cross crying in the dark light rain. Alone and so alone and always alone. Another night of ‘no thank you’s’ and beer and drugs and her name I forgot her name and just go away.