by Anna Gray
I stand here
Inevitably, looking sweet
You see a halo above my head
I see it
beneath my feet
I'm stepping on it
I'm jumping into it
Pounding it into the dust
I plead with it to break
If only it would bust
But if won't.
Because I'm an angel.
An angel (with a gun)
An angel with a mission:
To have some kind of faith of fun
Let's start a riot
Total anarchy on the Stairway to Heaven
But it's not good
cause we can only stay til' eleven
Then we'll head down to Hell
There, it's an all night rave
We'll get us some good drugs
Some LSD and some XTC
Whatever gets you high
We'll dance til' we can't dance anymore
Then we'll go home
I'll have you on the floor
First I'll tease you
But in the end
I'll please you
Cause that's what angels are for.
After I've had
All my fun,
I know I won't get in trouble
cause I'm an Angel (with a gun)
Anna Gray wrote this poem when she was thirteen. She is now twenty-nine and often masturbates in toll booths, where she works.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Sucking Off Taz
by Misti Rainwater-Lites
His real name was Russell Boyle III but there isn't anything cool about that name so he went by Taz. I doubt he's still alive. We met at the Job Corps in Tahlequah, Oklahoma in 1994. I was 21 and he was 19. To reward him for writing badly misspelled rhyming poetry for me and sharing his weed with me I sucked him off on the back of a school bus on the way back to campus after playing Putt Putt Golf stoner style in Muskogee (we threw the putts in the water and made out behind the waterfall). His cum tasted like pickle juice. He dumped me a couple of weeks later. I was so distraught I hitchhiked to Los Angeles with a friend.
Misti Rainwater-Lites writes a lot of good shit. Her first official full-length poetry collection, Sloppy Mouth, will be available from American Mettle Books in May 2010. The name of Misti's blog is
Ubiquitous Dandelion. The strangest place Misti has ever masturbated is in the Mommy Room at the T-Mobile call center in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
His real name was Russell Boyle III but there isn't anything cool about that name so he went by Taz. I doubt he's still alive. We met at the Job Corps in Tahlequah, Oklahoma in 1994. I was 21 and he was 19. To reward him for writing badly misspelled rhyming poetry for me and sharing his weed with me I sucked him off on the back of a school bus on the way back to campus after playing Putt Putt Golf stoner style in Muskogee (we threw the putts in the water and made out behind the waterfall). His cum tasted like pickle juice. He dumped me a couple of weeks later. I was so distraught I hitchhiked to Los Angeles with a friend.
Misti Rainwater-Lites writes a lot of good shit. Her first official full-length poetry collection, Sloppy Mouth, will be available from American Mettle Books in May 2010. The name of Misti's blog is
Ubiquitous Dandelion. The strangest place Misti has ever masturbated is in the Mommy Room at the T-Mobile call center in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Rocks
by Paul Kavanaugh
A cup of hot coffee before a blowjob is wonderful, much better than hot tea, I am thinking about black tea, but both are inferior to hot chocolate. There is something about the texture of hot chocolate that clings warming the spongy interior of the mouth. A mouthful of mash spuds welcomes the penis like a pillow with a sleepy head, a mouth bulging with buttery sweetcorn teases the penis like scotch tape over an erect nipple, whipped cream is cloying and dissipates, fruit liquefies and cools. There is only one thing better than hot chocolate and that is smooth rocks. A mouthful of smooth rocks warmed with spit is a pleasuredome for any erect penis. Lilly wanted so dearly to be an actress. The only problem was she had a speech impediment. To cure this anomaly she was told by her elocution teacher to practice speaking with a mouthful of rocks. As she took my penis into her stuffed mouth I told her she did not need to speak. My dentist told me once that toothpaste is the best. The penis first experiences a cold sensation followed by a warming. It does not take long for the toothpaste to work its magic, it is similar to cocaine, the penis feels as though it is being attacked by flames, it burns, smarts, and finally it weeps, or seeps, it drips droplets the size of rocks.
Paul Kavanagh lives in Charlotte.
SSF: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of
Paul: Flying while reading the Selected Essays of Delmore Schwartz while Listening to Father Yod.
A cup of hot coffee before a blowjob is wonderful, much better than hot tea, I am thinking about black tea, but both are inferior to hot chocolate. There is something about the texture of hot chocolate that clings warming the spongy interior of the mouth. A mouthful of mash spuds welcomes the penis like a pillow with a sleepy head, a mouth bulging with buttery sweetcorn teases the penis like scotch tape over an erect nipple, whipped cream is cloying and dissipates, fruit liquefies and cools. There is only one thing better than hot chocolate and that is smooth rocks. A mouthful of smooth rocks warmed with spit is a pleasuredome for any erect penis. Lilly wanted so dearly to be an actress. The only problem was she had a speech impediment. To cure this anomaly she was told by her elocution teacher to practice speaking with a mouthful of rocks. As she took my penis into her stuffed mouth I told her she did not need to speak. My dentist told me once that toothpaste is the best. The penis first experiences a cold sensation followed by a warming. It does not take long for the toothpaste to work its magic, it is similar to cocaine, the penis feels as though it is being attacked by flames, it burns, smarts, and finally it weeps, or seeps, it drips droplets the size of rocks.
Paul Kavanagh lives in Charlotte.
SSF: What is one thing you did this week that you are proud of
Paul: Flying while reading the Selected Essays of Delmore Schwartz while Listening to Father Yod.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
OBSCURE BLOW JOB STORY # 5
by Kyle Hemmings
Of all the nursing assistants, she was the friendliest and had the biggest. She was from the islands, which one I don't know. Her voice was musical, this happy/sad quality. Over breaks, she complained about the low pay, how she just turned 37, the shortage of good men. Over time, her uniforms became tighter and shorter. One night, we negotiated money, and she gave me a blow job in the housekeeping closet. Her lips, sliding back and forth, mimicked, at least to me, the sound of a mophead swishing the floor. Even though the lights were out, I'd warn her when I was about to come, so I could aim it in the mop bucket. Her supervisor now walked up and down the floor, calling her name, "Matilda. Matilda, you're needed in room 106." After we finished, she creaked the door open, and left, first. The light hurt my eyes. Later, she was fired for having sex with the janitor in an empty patient's room. What's worse, I found out she was close to 58. From that time on, I had this queasy feeling whenever I smelled ammonia.
Of all the nursing assistants, she was the friendliest and had the biggest. She was from the islands, which one I don't know. Her voice was musical, this happy/sad quality. Over breaks, she complained about the low pay, how she just turned 37, the shortage of good men. Over time, her uniforms became tighter and shorter. One night, we negotiated money, and she gave me a blow job in the housekeeping closet. Her lips, sliding back and forth, mimicked, at least to me, the sound of a mophead swishing the floor. Even though the lights were out, I'd warn her when I was about to come, so I could aim it in the mop bucket. Her supervisor now walked up and down the floor, calling her name, "Matilda. Matilda, you're needed in room 106." After we finished, she creaked the door open, and left, first. The light hurt my eyes. Later, she was fired for having sex with the janitor in an empty patient's room. What's worse, I found out she was close to 58. From that time on, I had this queasy feeling whenever I smelled ammonia.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Quality Time
by Kyle Hemmings
It was somewhere during the middle of the day and in a porn theater around midtown. I should have been volunteering for some overtime at the post office. The guy, two rows in front of me, whose face I never did see, was masturbating with such a ferocity, that it sounded like a piston or maybe a car about to break down. Some of the customers turned their heads from the movie towards him as if to say Do you have to be so loud, asshole? On screen, a blonde haired vixen, with a pimple below one ass cheek, was kneeling in a field of daisies and wild horses. Her butt was to this guy with a shaft the length of Pinochio's nose after about 16 outrageous lies. "Let's do it like the horses do," she said with this Southern twang, thick as melted chocolate. Behind me, somebody yelled out, "Make her squeal like a pig." She reminded me of this girl I used to date, one who invented incredible versions of the past and stole a couple of my best watches. On screen, the two of them tried to outdo each other as if in a screeching contest, finished, and fell over. The camera closed in on a chestnut mustang running. The guy two rows up groaned, then left the theater. The lights went on, but nobody moved.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey, where he still attempts skateboarding and continues to fall. The strangest place he ever masturbated was in a bathroom at someone's funeral. The one thing he did this week that he is proud of: he complimented a 90 year old woman on her complexion.
It was somewhere during the middle of the day and in a porn theater around midtown. I should have been volunteering for some overtime at the post office. The guy, two rows in front of me, whose face I never did see, was masturbating with such a ferocity, that it sounded like a piston or maybe a car about to break down. Some of the customers turned their heads from the movie towards him as if to say Do you have to be so loud, asshole? On screen, a blonde haired vixen, with a pimple below one ass cheek, was kneeling in a field of daisies and wild horses. Her butt was to this guy with a shaft the length of Pinochio's nose after about 16 outrageous lies. "Let's do it like the horses do," she said with this Southern twang, thick as melted chocolate. Behind me, somebody yelled out, "Make her squeal like a pig." She reminded me of this girl I used to date, one who invented incredible versions of the past and stole a couple of my best watches. On screen, the two of them tried to outdo each other as if in a screeching contest, finished, and fell over. The camera closed in on a chestnut mustang running. The guy two rows up groaned, then left the theater. The lights went on, but nobody moved.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey, where he still attempts skateboarding and continues to fall. The strangest place he ever masturbated was in a bathroom at someone's funeral. The one thing he did this week that he is proud of: he complimented a 90 year old woman on her complexion.
Four Poems by RC Miller
KATHERINE HEIGL BIBLE
Four or more drinks every night.
Slip into an alien god like clear meat into whipped cream.
Oh, canals, my fishermen mush and spot
A gland mostly bone, hence boner.
With two fingers it's all cameras.
In the buff you're shooting up a high school.
That must be tough considering its spectacular ocean view.
Team sports splat pink commodes poolside.
Naleigh, bedazzled, spits up soy breast milk.
Studio wishes suck your right one.
Five or more pear-shapes every morning.
Slip into the ridge that runs along another leg on the stairs and
We can rub together as mostly muscles from none of the above.
With eight fingers you're so pensive.
I love to cook on your face once you orgasm.
BIG GRANNY DEEPTHROATING BLOND SOFASEX
Thrives on disappearances
And I get to dreaming
Black gay fistfucked missionary interracial
SEX SQUISH
I am your skeleton under the ground
You are my skeleton without the frown
Search for the real and you've become
Buttfucked by Air Force One
Defending delusion, lamb-sore
SPACE SHUTTLE DISCOVERY
Muff to tongue is always marathon.
I am with you girl, so teach me that there's nothing better
About your satisfaction than foot suckers
Submitting to the piss of the vampire.
She purrs redness like latex heats a shiver.
Her basement harbors an inescapable bush of golden veins wok fried.
Lard in my gagging presses double anal things
Not clipboards.
The plug stretching from her smile is named Sheath.
I look for a possessed toy while pretending to ride an emergency brake
Dressed as a cop making his asshole speechless and far from plain.
I piss with density of purpose and patriotism.
RC Miller lives in Metuchen, New Jersey and maintains blog at http://visionblues.blogspot.com/ This week he's proud of not dying.
Four or more drinks every night.
Slip into an alien god like clear meat into whipped cream.
Oh, canals, my fishermen mush and spot
A gland mostly bone, hence boner.
With two fingers it's all cameras.
In the buff you're shooting up a high school.
That must be tough considering its spectacular ocean view.
Team sports splat pink commodes poolside.
Naleigh, bedazzled, spits up soy breast milk.
Studio wishes suck your right one.
Five or more pear-shapes every morning.
Slip into the ridge that runs along another leg on the stairs and
We can rub together as mostly muscles from none of the above.
With eight fingers you're so pensive.
I love to cook on your face once you orgasm.
BIG GRANNY DEEPTHROATING BLOND SOFASEX
Thrives on disappearances
And I get to dreaming
Black gay fistfucked missionary interracial
SEX SQUISH
I am your skeleton under the ground
You are my skeleton without the frown
Search for the real and you've become
Buttfucked by Air Force One
Defending delusion, lamb-sore
SPACE SHUTTLE DISCOVERY
Muff to tongue is always marathon.
I am with you girl, so teach me that there's nothing better
About your satisfaction than foot suckers
Submitting to the piss of the vampire.
She purrs redness like latex heats a shiver.
Her basement harbors an inescapable bush of golden veins wok fried.
Lard in my gagging presses double anal things
Not clipboards.
The plug stretching from her smile is named Sheath.
I look for a possessed toy while pretending to ride an emergency brake
Dressed as a cop making his asshole speechless and far from plain.
I piss with density of purpose and patriotism.
RC Miller lives in Metuchen, New Jersey and maintains blog at http://visionblues.blogspot.com/ This week he's proud of not dying.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Life During War Times
by Matt DeBenedictis
Talking Heads hummed.
The room grooved with the up and down voice of Byrne.
He thinks. She hums. Tongue. Tongue. Finger. Repeat. Rotate.
Her skin rose delighted, transforming to colors still blind to a man.
A collapse.
A towel and a shared glass of water before they return.
She finds the keg.
He heads to roof smokes in hand.
“Was it worth it?”
“Yeah.”
“Will anything change?”
“No.”
Matt DeBenedictis has work featured in places like Lamination Colony, decomP, and Dogzplot. He is the author of the chapbook Congratulations! There's No Last Place if Everyone is Dead. This week Matt returned two phone calls; a record as he is a shy crouching voice through the line. He blogs at wordsforguns.
Talking Heads hummed.
The room grooved with the up and down voice of Byrne.
He thinks. She hums. Tongue. Tongue. Finger. Repeat. Rotate.
Her skin rose delighted, transforming to colors still blind to a man.
A collapse.
A towel and a shared glass of water before they return.
She finds the keg.
He heads to roof smokes in hand.
“Was it worth it?”
“Yeah.”
“Will anything change?”
“No.”
Matt DeBenedictis has work featured in places like Lamination Colony, decomP, and Dogzplot. He is the author of the chapbook Congratulations! There's No Last Place if Everyone is Dead. This week Matt returned two phone calls; a record as he is a shy crouching voice through the line. He blogs at wordsforguns.
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