Dear Poet,
Sorry, but my Russian
Wolfhound, Dostoyevsky
ate and defecated all the
submissions for Issue #3
the smell and smear damn
near killed me.
Was your poem about
catching your brother
cornholing his buddy while
watching Andy Griffith?
Or was it the one about Sandpaper
Sally, the chick with scabs in her
vagina? Or the nuns with the dildo
and splinters? Please resubmit.
Having never heard of any
of this, I poured a glass half full
of icy vodka squeezed a lime in
and drained it, the mirror smiled
The cinnamon moon was
a slice less than full, shining
through the web in the window,
where two buzzing flies struggled
and a centipede slowly joined them.
Fat Fuck
Fat Fuck offered me a job in
his Chinese restaurant, but said
I’d have to work under the table
I thought cool, cash money, so
I put on my tight waitress outfit
with black lace nylons and a golden
Beaded snake vein running up the
back of my legs, disappearing under
my blood red leather mini-skirt
On my first day I grabbed an apron
and a serving tray, the kitchen staff
looked at me and each other and
Broke up, laughing, Fat Fuck said,
“Working under the table, means
you’re the blow job, girl.”
Dumpster Fire Press 