DIRTY LIMERICK CONTEST WINNER
(see iheardaboutthisreallycoolthing (www.droidarmy.com))

The email offered me ‘pr0n’
if I’d only download its .com
I fucked the disk drive
’til my poor dick was fried,
and still, I wasn’t turned on.

by Nogood Boyo

DRIVE YOUR SUV OFF A CLIFF YOU YUPPIE SCUM

Hugh Swift
Sharpie on Paper
8.5 X 11"

WHAT'S SO MAGIC ABOUT MUSHROOMS?

Hugh Swift
Sharpie on Paper
8.5 X 11"

THROAT FISTING A WRESTLER IN PARADISE AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO HUMANITY

1.

The body is unforgivably blonde with a flattened roman
nose.  It fucks like pure muscle, secretly needing
Kid Rock to come.  The body orbits a wrestling mat

wishing for revelation, accepting cauliflower ear as the whisper
of God.  The pelvis pumps only forward and back, wraps
itself in woolen uniforms, has aged at half the pace of the face.

2.

Moderately hung balls lay in briefs covered with baby powder. 
The anus coughs, screams the blonde’s name in a muffled plea. 
Gorgeously beefy lips sing empty verses while hot hands

shove inside and outside of the other’s throat, the sloppy
sounds taking the form of African back-up singers.  If the brown
hair were straighter, the world’s dick would fatten in applause.

3.

In the documentary a baby Black Bear and Sperm Whale
roll around in purple satin sheets trying to fit their mouths together
under florescent lights.  Bear claws leave radish designs

on the warming whale who slips and coos at an impossible
pitch.  The sound of the animals together mimics
a large bird throat, as heard by a parent delivering worm. 

by Pussy Marmalade

REPLICA ROLEX

Hugh Swift
Sharpie on Paper
8.5 X 11"

THERE’S RIGHT NOW, AMONG OTHER THINGS

 
He says, Let's take a walk to my cupola,
and she finds it rather windy in a round-about
way.  His manner, so still, yet vertical;
the masonry, spectacular. Thighs
burn so often because of religion.  She's
in the midst of a high speed
jet lag and wonders why he's asked her here
in the first place.  But, really, who doesn't love
the girth of a cold, stone monolith?

by Babs McVanderminge

THE CHILDREN TAKE OVER

Hugh Swift
Sharpie on Paper
8.5 X 11"

PEOPLE IN AND OUT OF HOUSE

Hugh Swift
Sharpie on Paper
8.5 X 11"

POTHOLE BLASTING FOR WILDLIFE

I slanged for a while but soon hit the harder stuff
the way whiteness  stretches its limbs in the cloned frustration of party animals.

Planet Who Gives A Fuck zooms in on the armageddon inside of a pack or herd or gaggle.

I’m a little stiff. I’m not in the missionary position.

The haircut police parade around the talons of an actors motorcade while the sun slaughtered the mirrored ceilings in everybody’s neuroimmune system.

Our hearts are metal detectors, e.g. nonhuman or post-biotic credit stimulators.

I’ve been dragging these things across your screen all day not being convinced by the glaring string section coming from the little orange pillar.

The fourth floor orgasms all over the third floor. Why not.

Lonesomeness on barbiturates in the sixties is entirely different than my wet jeans at a cineplex with battery fluid for a girlfriend.

Obviously, life synthesizers on. Even wet meat couldn’t stain this warm Spring night. So, come on whatever you want, call it photography, and move to the sixties.

I want your fist to trespass into my throat; I want the club to be an exorcist against the law.

Your crunked wheelchair is being lifted by the bus’s electronic arm, the sun reflecting off of the display monitor on your portable CD player, some teenage war protesters watching from the bar.

Animals don’t feel pity. Why not.

Inside the internet tent, virginity surveillance spammed on the Asian insert; melancholic nonlinear dynamical systems reach temporary autonomous cognition causing Paris to reinvent élan.

On your knees everything seems more tribal, e.g. broken glass balled up
holographing orchestral maneuvers in the parking lot like a protest stick in a bedroom

we are all in part assholes prowling for jungle forever.

Snapshot is how I feel inside. Snapshot is how the world feels outside.

LOOSE CANON SPINE SQUEEZE

by Rabbi Fuck You

WE WILL GET THIS RIGHT

Pimlico Bay Race Track
FILEFOTO
6 X 7"

THE SPELL

The Linquid
Ink and Gouache on Paper
9.5 X 13"

THE SPELL

The Linquid
Ink and Gouache on Paper
9.5 X 13"

COLOGNE

In the glacial solitude of the bathroom
I got a boner while shitting.
No one can say I don’t have a beautiful soul.

This thirst for violence and a pair of modern tits.
Waiting for the water to boil I loiter naked
at the window like the last guy at a saucy puppet show.

All the thwarted neon below.
I think about being buried face down.
And what I am going to do to get laid tonight.

by Hans Jungleburger

THE SPELL

The Linquid
Ink and Gouache on Paper
9.5 X 13"

THE SPELL

The Linquid
Ink and Gouache on Paper
9.5 X 13"

CRY, YE HOMOSEXUAL MAPLE GRIEF-TREES! CRY YE GIANT TEARS OF GERMAN WEEP!

I

I sometimes leave the remainder of your lips next to the toilet after a dull vomit-session. But no matter where I go in the house there’s a pressure over the skin of the arm you kissed.

This arm is so lonely now. This arm seems to be asking: “What’s up? Where’s that ass?”

“Good question, arm. Very good question.” (That’s what I would say to the arm.)

The arm was so deep in you that you went to bed embarrassed. Remember? Once you were so close that I could see New York Soil in your complexion’s breathing-holes (That’s what I call pores). Then your body next to mine on the big leather couch. I keep saying we won’t fit until you press into me and I’m asleep. Remember that? No abstract bullshit. No smarty-pants. Just tell me you remember that one moment. Then I’ll get back to making no sense.

There is so little of anything. I feel so un-man, you know? I’m just the next spoonful of ejaculate missing the ovum. Sperm transferred from PENILE to MOUTH to SINK.

II

…I’m looking at my arm again. “Arm,” I say, “you’re so lonely. I still love you, isn’t that enough?”

“I want her. Her beautiful hair. It was thick and weird in my fingers.”

“I understand, Arm. But would you settle?”

“We settle for nothing, you Jew fuck.”

“You’re right. We settle for nothing. I love you, Arm.”

“Goodnight.”

III

(Later.)

“Arm? You awake?”

“I am now.”

“I was just thinking: Do you think we should drink a little before bed?”

“It’s always easier that way.”

“Then we shouldn’t? There’s that vodka that she left.”

“If you need it then get it.”

“It’s not like I need it or anything. It’s just…like you said: It’s easier.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah…you’re right. It’s not worth it. Let’s just go to sleep. I love you, Arm”

“I love you too, Alex. Goodnight.”

by Johnathan Pimlico Bay Racetrack

THE SPELL

The Linquid
Ink and Gouache on Paper
9.5 X 13"

CRY WOLF (BRIEF MOMENTS IN NULL-MEXICO)

Dien perceives my B.A.C.,
serves me club soda and snails.
A realtor wearing a headset
eats Filet-O-Fish, places a finger into my butt-crack.
Some do coke, others talk about
how they don’t do coke, then fuck the people who do coke.
And the whole time,
my tampon disrobes
in my purse, begging entry.
Oh agent provocateur,
I can’t stand all this honesty down south!

by Upskirt Scorsese

THE SPELL

The Linquid
Ink and Gouache on Paper
9.5 X 13"

SLEEVELESS TEE

 
Plans to destroy the south.
Every newborn is pressed against tree
and reminded of history of lynching,
left to their own devices.
Many survive, new human territory
combined with bees, new hives,
skin formed from blood and detritus,
another Cormac McCarthy novel.
Books on my shelf also include
particles of dust and the aroma
of indifference. Tried to get into apocalypse,
sweat-damp summer sheets,
me looking off in a direction.
Dirty floors and empty objects,
the wall doesn't change for hours,
and the changes are minuscule.
Some sort of secret volcanic transition
beneath the surface. Eyes act funny,
eyes don't record, and they don't "see,"
only reflect images.
 
The person I sort of knew died.
Clothes get folded and then stretched
over the body, crumpled-abandoned,
pushing chair back from desk
on its little wheels. Hell is the apathy
of loneliness, objects being piled
as they fall forming unwanted architecture.
The weather often inspires in me a parallel reaction
 
I cover my summer body with blankets.
 
What are those dust particles floating towards.
 
I miss you
 
I love poetry.

by Darius Monkeytop

FROG STRIP TEASE

Blanche Pubes
Watercolor on Paper
11 X 17"

PRECIOUS MOMENTS

Blanche Pubes
Watercolor on Paper
8 X 10"

REVISIONIST BODIES

I.

Seamen like to cut a slit
and crawl inside, let
the fat fold in on them
and spew their secrets,
muscle muffling them—
a red and wet salty sex.

They don’t mind
the stench of rotting flesh
as they’re fishermen.
But they leave alone
the bleached bone—
there’s nothing to push into.

II.

I’ll come again.
So long as you lay
I’ll come again.
here in my bed
I’ll come again.
my tide is stronger
I’ll come again.
than your flow of no
I’ll come again.
I’ll make you glad
I’ll come again.
that you’re dead
I’ll come again.
gladder than
I’ll come again.
you’ve ever been.

Blanche Pubes
Oil on Panel
5 X 8"

A flat bug crawls across the mattress
and the floor. You know that bug
isn’t from filth. He looks like the kind
who burrows in your ear.

Where did you come from?
you ask with your face
to the ground, softly:
Where’d you come from

Bug? Where. Where.

Because the windows are closed. For god’s sake
we should open one. It’s awful in here.

We close our eyes on good faith.
Last I saw him that bug was going somewhere
not near the pillow.

My ear dams up the blood
at your elbow.
Your arm makes electricity sounds.

Your congestion is like a dog
gritting to get out, like a man
snoring in his bed, like a song:

variations on a theme
of do re mi
and do re do.

Blanche Pubes
Watercolor on Paper
9 X 12"

            Some argue that particular events have no primary cause.  Every primary cause, it might be said, has itself a cause—none-the-less, it can be helpful, especially when ascribing meaning to the events of our lives, to delineate primary causes.  In one case, approximately 26.38 trillion years after his death, long after the Sun had whimpered out to a cold ball of ash, long after the Earth had disintegrated into dust and inextricably dispersed into creation, Jamie Franklin came back to life.  It might be helpful then, in terms of meaning, to ascribe this event’s primary cause to a pubic hair, belonging to a man named Joseph (who is otherwise unrelated to Jamie), which had fallen, and scratched the surface of compact-mirror laying open on the floor of a small apartment unit on Ve Smeckach in Prague.  This mirror lay undisturbed for several months, until its owner accidentally kicked it out into the room, whereby a beam of sun reflected off the surface, and headed back into space.  By coincidence, the scratched surface of the mirror caused the refracted collection of photons to replicate, exactly, what would be the resonance signature of Jamie Franklin’s mitochondrial DNA pattern (Jamie himself would be born 35 years after this event).
            Fifty-six years after this primary cause, Jamie, still living and thriving at the age of twenty-one, was in the back room of a dive bar on Seventh Avenue, in New York City, pressed up against the juke box, talking to a girl.  They smiled and giggled, Jamie at times touching her neck or face.  “I’ve been told I have great hands,” he said, and grabbed her hand, moving the pads of his fingers on her palm, like it was her clit.  “I give great blow jobs,” she said, then flicked her upper lip with her tongue.  “Let’s get out of here, ” he said.  “Okay,” she said, “My friends can’t know I’m leaving with someone, though.  Meet me at my place in an hour.”  She wrote her address down on the underside of his wrist, and left. 
            On crossing Third Avenue, blow-job anticipation and a little drink blurring his senses, Jamie tripped into a large pothole, and remained there for a moment, while a black Honda civic, traveling at thirty-eight miles an hour, collided with him.  He died.
            Meanwhile, this small bundle of light from the mirror continued traveling, un-obstructed, for 26.38 trillion years, until it collided with a pocket of oxygen gas and carbon dust, mere meters away from Omega-Hungowie, the place where souls sleep.  Here, in this pocket, Jamie’s mitochondrial functions began again. Yadda, yadda, yadda, a few earth years later, Jamie showed up once more.
            He came to with what would be the cosmic-reconstituted approximation of morning wood.  He was hard, rock hard.  Though his mind didn’t grasp what was last going on, his body did. 
            Today was Tuesday, right?  Did I have to go to work today?  What is that feeling? Yeah, hard dick.  I’m hard.  Alison—right, Alison, blond hair and small lips.  Oh yeah, those lips on my dick.
            Crossing the street.  The black civic.  Willing the car to stop moving.  Don’t push me so hard.  The wheels coming over.  Heat.  Stop crushing me.  Then the memories drifted out again.  Something was due by 2PM.  Alison—the blow job.  The blow job on E. 26th St.
            One by one, he combed through the sleeping souls, shaking an Ariel awake, or an Alexis—a few accidental Aarons.
            Finally he found her, in one of the adjoining rooms off the corridors, like a booth in the pub.  The dark wood paneling, and the tarnished mirror glass on the walls; she slept on a bunk bed built out of the wall, covered in green-pepper vinyl.  Yeah, that tight ass.
            “Ali,” he said, shaking her arm, “wake up.  I’m here.” 
            “Huh?  Steve?  Stevie?  What time is it?”
            “It’s midnight,” he said.  “Steve?”
            Steve was her husband.  Steve was the one, she told her friends once, that made her understand what love meant. 
            “No, it’s Jamie.  Wake up I’m here.”
            She sat up, and looked at him, trying to know the face in front of her.
            “Who are you?”
            “Jamie, remember me?  We met at O’Flannery’s?  I was on my way to your apartment.  When…”
            “Oh…you’re the boy who died.  Oh my god.”
            Looking in her eyes, and then at her small lips, his dick got that much harder.  It nagged at him; his heart beat faster against his chest.
            “Yeah, I think that’s right.  But who cares.  I’m here.  I’m ready.”  He cocked his head back, brushed  some hair from her face, and smiled.  “How about that blowjob?”
            Her face got incredulous.  “That’s not a nice thing to say to someone.”  She said, looking down, and saw his swollen penis post out against his jeans.  She looked away.   “My children are older than you are.”
            “Come on Ali.  Don’t you remember?”  He grabbed her hand.  “Remember this?” he said, and began touching her palm with the tips of his fingers, like he did those 26.38 trillion years ago.  “Tell me this won’t feel good?”
            Touching her made him even harder, and his breathing heavier, and his face flush.  Now, bolder than ever before, he reached down, and touched her on the inside of her thigh, moving his thumb up along the seam of her legs.  She opened them a bit, and her eyes drooped.  She attempted a protest, but her body, too, remembered the feeling.  She merely whispered, “okay.”  Jamie removed his pants, and, yes, his penis sprang to attention. 
            She ran her fingers along the shaft, opened her mouth, and began to place the head of his cock in her mouth.  He could feel her breath on his penis skin, and it felt good.  As she closed her mouth around the shaft, but not before her soft lips touched him, a dense cluster of helium and iron, whose trajectory and primary cause could no be determined, and therefore had no meaning, hurtled through Omega Hungowie, obliterating all carbon compounds in its path.  Jamie’s mitochondrial functions ceased, as did his consciousness.  As did his dick. 

by Johnny Pussies

GO WITH THE FLOW

Blanche Pubes
Gouache on Fabric
8 X 10"

something like,
there was always this
feeling, some kind of
dirt under your nails, deeper,
under your skin,
but not dirt, dirtier, like
bugs or worms,
something, more alive
inside, that moved
beneath the surface almost,
almost like in the movies, and when you screamed
and i heard you, i wanted something
more of you, i would
imagine the feeling and
scratch the way you did, and screw
the red bulb into the socket
of my reading lamp,
the broken arm,
the plastic shade that melted more each time, it was
what i had,
i never knew you, but the lights,
when your window glowed red, i replied, i knelt
before my tiny alter soaked
in hanging red light,
the incense, the smoke
stream rising ecclesiastic,
you were burning opium too,
i smudged myself for you
felt your hands on my face, i knew where they were,
in the red light i breathed the smoke and walked into the bathroom,
you in this windowless place, this
safest space,
i sealed the door with towels, started the shower,
the room filled with steam, my body
tight against the back of the tub, the stream
scalding my feet, so much sweat and you,
where were you, i was burning in the tub,
forcing the filth through my skin,
were you in there, getting clean, i had to, it was so hard to breath,
i had already imagined the way it would feel, my body
curled around itself, the water
beat into my back, this face
beneath the hot water, i knew
i would do it
not to you
but for you
i knew
when i came out
you would be waiting, that i would be clean, that when i pulled
the razors up these two diagonal lines
when the blood
in streams
obeyed the funnel of my body
and rushed out of me
and over me
that it would be into your mouth
that it would drip
and that kneeling there
you would glow
and be immaculate

by Shamanic Odalisk

I ACCIDENTALLY USED THE BATHROOM ON MYSELF

Whoever Wrote The Vagina Monologues, Esq.
FILEFOTO
8.5 X 11"