Friday, 6 December 2013

DICK – Tom, when the little hand is in yer mouth, and the big hand is up yer bum, what time is it?

TOM -  Half past six?

DICK – Fucking numpty.  No Tom, it’s not half past six.  Try again.

TOM – Twenty past twenty two?

DICK – For fuck’s sake Tom.  Poemy time!  It’s poemy time!  And we got a brand new, never been out the wrapper, 100% full of words, poem.

TOM – But the thing is what I don’t understand is why is yer big hand up yer bum?

DICK – Just the one thing you don’t understand then, eh?

TOM – Yeah, but …

DICK – Just push some buttons, or wind-up some keys, or plug yer self into the matrix, or whatever it is that you do, but make it happen.

            Lunch Break by Holly Day

I can only imagine why he takes so long
To return from the bathroom every day at lunch, picture
Him straddling the toilet, left arm stretched out in supplication to some
Drug god like I've seen on television, needle
Dangling precariously from the vein it's rooted in
His eyes rolled back in his head in delirious orgasm

Or maybe it's some official religious thing, not a heroin-based religion at all
He's kneeling before the stand of urinals, facing some static
Compass point, dragging an ancient stone blade over his body
Tattooing new lines across his stomach
Piercing his tongue and ears with a practiced hand
That draws little blood. For all I know
He could be covered in chicken excrement from noon to twelve-fifteen
Every day, using his cigarette break to entreat his homeland gods.

All I know is that I will not continue to use my own lunch break
To answer his phone line, will not take orders from warehouse men
Redirected by the note on his door to ask for my help instead.
From now on, I am in an official state of meditation when his desk is empty.
I am sleepwalking, and am not to be disturbed.

Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes  at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Tampa Review, The Comstock Review, and the St. Paul Almanac,and she is the 2011 recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton
College. Her most recent published books are "Walking Twin Cities" and "Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch."

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

DICK - Ever wondered about poo smoothies, Tom?

TOM - I remember that strawberry and banana one you once made.  Shame we didn't have any strawberries and you used raw meat.  Gave it a lamby taste.

DICK - We didn't have any banana either.

TOM - What was that then?

DICK - Brillo Pads.

TOM - That might explain why it was a bit stringy?  Didn't like it that much, sorry Dick.  Not a drink I would order in a restaurant.  Can't beat a steaming mug of brussel sprout tea.

DICK - So true Tom.  The magic green brew.  But Tom, you really should try a choclatey poo smoothie.

TOM - Yeah.  OK.

DICK - I'll be ready to make you one … in about … an hour I reckon.  Meanwhile we could read this new poem from Jordan Moffatt.  I found it very inspiring.  Do you fancy pancakes tomorrow? 

TOM - Plan.

Liquidy Poo by Jordan Moffatt

Liquidy Poo

Liquidy poo.
Poo so liquidy
you could drink it
though a straw
Or pour it on
your pancakes.
Class, turn to page 216
in your textbooks.
Look for the heading
"Liquidy Poo".
Who likes to read aloud?
Who likes liquidy poo?
Who would like to read aloud about
liquidy poo?

Friday, 25 October 2013

DICK - We've another offering from Miss Amy, Tom.

TOM - She's good ain't she?

DICK - I believe it's 'cos I'm her cartoon dreamboat.

TOM - Could be me.

DICK - No Tom, it couldn't.  Let's face it, you're a sock counting wanker, and I'm a cartoon girlie magnet.

TOM - But you still wear socks.

DICK - Not in bed, Tom.  Or the bath, come to that.

TOM - When did you have a bath?

DICK - It was a dark night and the wind was rustling through the tree tops …

TOM - Fuck off!  Here's Miss Amy, and her information is as below.

Kneeling Before the Porcelain Throne by A. J. Huffman

Kneeling Before the Porcelain Throne

Corrosive waves
attack me from inside.
I am waiting for eruptive

Saturday, 12 October 2013

DICK - Miss Amy's at it again.

TOM - That girl must go to the loo everyday.

DICK - I think yer supposed to.

TOM - Really?  I went in there last year to tidy up all your Playtoons.  I think we got a damp problem in there 'cos they were all stuck together.

DICK - We don't need to go 'cos we're toons.  We just go for fun.

TOM - For the crack.

DICK - That ain't how yer spell it, numpty.  Here's Amy:

I Am Toilet by A. J. Huffman

I Am Toilet

paper, random roll of almost attached pieces,
thin as air.  Crumpled in fist, I become barely passable
tool to clean up, dislodge random shit.  I am raw,
irritating, a pain in the ass.  I am disposable,
dropped and forgotten with every flush.

A.J. Huffman has published six solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest.  Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Tuesday, 20 August 2013

TOM - A gnat's like a flying gnu ain't it?

DICK - What you on about now, sock brain.  A gnat ain't nothing like a gnu.

TOM - Is so, smarty pants, 'cos when you get one buzzing buzz buzzing around yer, yer go ‘oh gnoooo’.

DICK - Goooo away.

There Was a Gnat by A. J. Huffman

There was a Gnat

in my toilet.  Just flying around
inside the bowl.  I tried to shoo it out.
Ignored, I flushed nothing, hoping
it would spook.  Finally, I could hold it
no longer, dropped my pants, prayed
it would not fly up my butt, then laughed
at the thought of the poor creatures surprise
when it gets hit with the first drops
of an unexpected golden shower.

A.J. Huffman has published five solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  Her sixth solo chapbook will be published in October by Writing Knights Press.  She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest.  Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Thursday, 8 August 2013

DICK - We have another poem from April, ain’t we Tom.

TOM - Yeah, but would you wanna read this when yer having yer tea?

DICK - Give up Tom, would yer?

TOM - Maybe.  I read it yesterday when we was having those squidgey pasta type things in that cheesy tomato sauce.  Nothing untowards happened.  Me dinner didn’t exxplode.  Saucepans didn’t fly about the room.  No knives misbehaved.  My chair did catch on fire though.  I’m pretty certain that was nothing to do with April, or her poem, but something to do with you and that can of petrol and box of matches.

DICK - Yeah, that were fun.  You should have seen yer little glowing face.  You loved it!

TOM - It were funny.

DICK - Anyway, you put April’s poem on our blog, ‘cos I’m off to our bog to have a read.

Blood Pools by April Salzano

in the rectum, causing hemorrhoids in men
who sit on the toilet too long, hiding
from their families, barking children,
whining wives. Reading magazines
and books to pass the time pretending
to shit, they become pathological
(the men and the vascular structures
themselves). If thrombosed, they can
become very irritating, causing itching,
sometimes bleeding. The prognosis
is good—removal, though surgical,
is relatively simple. You just cut them off.

Friday, 26 July 2013

TOM – We’ve another poem from Miss April

DICK – I like Miss April.  Her poems are about bottoms and poo and stuff.  My sort of poems.

TOM – You said it was about piles.

DICK – Yeah Tom, this one is.

TOM – You always leave piles everywhere.  I don’t like piles.  Piles of dirty clothes, piles of them dirty magazines you buy, piles of dirty dishes, and piles of toenail clippings.

DICK – Tom.  Tom.   Tom.  Them ain’t dirty mac men mags, them is literature, sweetie.  Literature.  I’m saving money on washing up liquid and saving to buy a dishwasher, seems a waste of pennies to wash them dishes.  You’re always telling and telling and telling me to take care of our pennies …

TOM – Yeah but …

DICK – No buts Tom.  And for the record them ain’t a pile of dirty clothes, that my little bird-brained matey is an art instillation.

TOM – Really!  Goodness I had no idea.

DICK – And ain’t you proud of our nail clipping collection?

TOM – Deffo.

DICK – Anyways, different sort of piles.  Here Google.

TOM – OH!  EW!  WHAT?  HOW?  I don’t want a bottom.

With Toilet by April Salzano

as chair, I release my shit,
a line, an edit,
a phrase captured like seahorse-
shaped feces floating in a bowl.
This is not the place for beauty.
Hard core stuff is wiped away with witch
hazel to prevent skid marks and shrink
the prolapse of anal veins, prone
in people who sit too long. Blood pools
in rectum, the doctor says. Fissures
bleed bright red rivulets into water,
the remedy for which is a scalpel slice,
a cure that hurts worse than the affliction.
This is as close as I get
to a room of my own. 

Tuesday, 9 July 2013

With Shit by April Salzano

to do take read, I wipe
the slate clean this morning, space out
my tasks chores missions into micro-
managed molecules of mediocrity.
I am determined to complete nothing,
I think, which then becomes a challenge,
double-dog dare to myself that I do not know
how to complete. Where do I begin? The word
itself is so empty that it’s full
of (im)possibility, ripe with meaning.

April Salzano

Bio: April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She recently finished her first collection of poetry, for which she is seeking a publisher and is working on a memoir on raising a child with autism. Her work has appeared in journals such as Poetry Salzburg, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, Convergence, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Montucky Review, Visceral Uterus and Salome and is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. The author also serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.