come hither you delicious tyke
allow me to bathe in your beauty
wash over tongue and jaw
with fragility so sweet

white heated cankers throb
and dissolve with each swallow
one bubble haughtier than the last
crowded laughter chimes truth

the roots of your beginning
christened and blessed in
holy waters as throngs of revelers
belch into the face of the majestic

your powdered face tightens
as our cheeks swell with spiked
tears, legions of them falling
on tiny knees and wrists

bark away, bark you must, young sire
lets the angels shiver at your arrival
spill your poison down our gullets
make heaven wait another day

for now, we meet


Burrow your way
past the vines
past the roots
past the bark that hides
my inner self
and cut free the hanging fruit
that builds with soot
with shadows
with shallow uncertainty,
then release your blade
from its leather sheath
let it angle its way into
the heart
into the mind
into the soul of the trunk
surrounded by Whitman’s fallen leaves
protected by Abe’s grave branches
hidden beyond distant shores
of a naked face
covered in yet
another season
of forgiveness.


there was this young boy
with a smashed in nose
and a hair lip
that revealed but one nasty tooth
jutting out his face.

his daddy was a pig skinner.
the kitchen of his shack was filled
with hanging pig skin.

one day I sees that boy clawing
his way out the riverbank.

his eyes were wild and stricken.

then i sees him dragging his
own body through the bramble
and his legs were bent back and pinned
to his ass, just stuck in place.

he’s screaming of course.
and he’s using that hanging tooth
to claw his way through the mud and grass.

never seen that before


My whole mind
my whole world
for the briefest of days
was consumed with this
wall-eyed woman that spit lies
that grew horns
that seemingly radiated
in the rain
she was full of clouds and whispers
she wore lime colored clothing
her stocking were always torn
her toes smelled of custard
and her lips were tortured with praise
always going on about this
always going on about that
always going on about herself
i grew to love her narcissism
so baked in crashing contradictions
compounded fibs hijacked at night
she would wake up lying
she would wake up in a halt
she would wake up and immediately
launch into a diatribe about all the things
she was going to do that day
but never got around to doing
it grew tired
she grew sour
my face fattened with her lies
her lies lost light
they had no real edge,
no meat on them anymore
then one day,
she was gone
poof, just gone
a ghost
i missed her for a minute
her dirty stocking
and spring-colored blouses
her crossed eyes
and cracked lips dried out by fiction
but every story has to end
even the ones filled
with nothing but lies

Published by Mike Zone

Mike Zone is the former Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press and managing editor of Concrete Mist Press. The author of Screaming in the End: Poems and Stories, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture magazine.

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