We Meat Creatures

are easily damaged,

prone to age and spoilage.

Not understanding

our habitat

or each other

or ourselves,

we survive

by hiding from fact.

Reason by emotion

is compromised,

honor by opportunity.

We are content

to admire our meat

in those mirrors we devised

to fool us into belief

in distorted reverses.

After all, inevitability

is actually optional

in the cosmography

of our minds.

Alchemic connection

to some other’s meat

justifies all our crimes.

After all, an impossible entity

of infinite opposites

exerts omnipotent

omniscient allness

to the exclusive end

of salvaging us from our natures.

We mistake for a miracle

the mirage the mirrors reveal.

What’s the Pointillism of it All?

The dotted bourgeoisie dress in their careful dimanche best

to be seen at the beach of the Grande Jatte.

After the coy voyeurs perform their routine blushes

at the nudely refashioned Temple de l’Amour,

they pose at their accustomed spots,

as static as the models of Seurat.

There, these stoïques of Paris stare across the Seine.

at the prolétaires on the other side.

Perhaps they envy them their energy, their skin.

Or perhaps their affectless attention is drawn by, — what?

Nemo surfacing in the sun?

Possibly they comprehend what Nautilus portends.


All those nights my testosterone howled,

amped up by incessant commercial lectures,

I hunted my much-hyped rapture.

But I felt dwarfed by architecture

and isolated within the crowd.

(The average penis is some 5 inches long;

multiply by the city’s male population.)

I once courted a turner

and imagined contorting together,

gliding and sliding ourselves against gravity

before landing on our feet.

But she refrained due to twisties.

(The rubber band vagina, also 5 inches deep,

may expand to seven.

Multiply by the number of women.)

And then there was that diver,

so inviting in her mask and leather.

I pictured us slipping and dipping in liquid,

barely taking time to breathe.

But always she would plead the bends.

(Subtract one genital total from the other

to find the sex desperation index

measured in pussy feet.)

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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