Most read stories

Blonde Woman with Sunglasses

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Sometimes everything becomes as meaningless as a blonde woman with sunglasses. Still, there is something reassuring about the blonde woman with sunglasses, as she sits there alien to any regime, while I build my new empire of vanilla ice cream, so…

The Full Treatment

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She rolled onto her back and spread her hind legs. Her lewd poses were fine on a fat cat, but as I rubbed her belly I wondered if that’s what might have gotten her into trouble as a human. I tried to reassure myself that her indiscretions weren’t my fault

Elephant.

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How could he care less what those below thought, when everything below him was demonstrably beneath him?

Fantasy of Hands

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Rhapsody On The Edge Of A Knotted Finger

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Meditating on a Bottle of Salad Dressing

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There's a man in a Mackintosh reading Harper's Bazaar, I think many things are bizarre, I think the possibility of things not being bizarre is bizarre. Sometimes I'll have a great notion, doesn't everyone? I dreamt I fought in the civil war in the…

Feline

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The Silence in your Silence

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The Two of You

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The new kids never even met you. They know the story of you. They will have it by heart by the second week and include the gruesome part in a letter home.

A Red We Hope Is Not Of Earth

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Twenty.

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His face is lined, lost, resigned,

The Journalist Sips His Tea

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It isn't fashion or politics, centipedes or Morgellons, but the sanctity of melons, the squeezing out of juices. Now that we are purified,addicted to the colour red, neon signs announceelectricity is dead.A tranquil crowd of strangers, anxious…

Antiphony of Sighs

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IGlasgow, its swollen bleeding face, its unrepentant eyesProud inside its operas, vain within its shames.Watch these sanctities unsound shrink into their oneness.Set these centuries alight, peer into the flames.Into their time descending the pedestrians now cease,all is…

Never Read Literature When You're Drunk!

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A pale-faced manwearing a bright yellow wigonce said to me“never read literature when you're drunk"now here I am,at a window tablein the Libertine cafe,eating my words,wishing I had been a monk.Across the street loomsa gallery front,where, in large red…

The Absolute Goes Round In Circles

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I Did Not Write This

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PhD's in remorse. Babes without eyes. Presbyterian church-goers baked in their pies. Miss prim-and-propers stranded on meadows. Men rescuing cats then queuing for medals. I did not write this, I swear I did not write this. Saurian…

The Buddha on my Wooden Desk

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The Buddha on my wooden desk says all things are Chaplinesque, that all's a self-containing joke, a cube of ice in a glass of coke, a sunbeam dragged thru autumn leaves, the residue a lover leaves, a kind of vein,…

Circle Jerk

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Taking a Bath with my iNuke

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Mickey Mouse mini-nukes are often placed in children's school lunch boxes for cooling sandwiches, though an accidental meltdown could cause the food to become dangerously hot in both senses of the term.

This is Paradox

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Concupiscent you cling to a truth like a demon,but please, contain your self.By all means, exert, but once in a while,rest, the illusion of love is love and you have always known this, like cherriesand ice cream and pictures of Mount Fuji.One who has found yourself in a…

Anyone Can Do What They Can Do

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Cut my karmic rip-cord. Shower me in angel dust.Let me embrace the gray, this isn't loveat first sight, this isn't blindnessat the twinkling of any eye, this isn't the timefor the blowing of any trumpet.Anyone can dowhat they can do. Didn't you know this? Or are…

Six.

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She smiles at strangers,

Favorite Child

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It was in the early sixties when my mother discovered she was my father’s second wife. Four years before, they were married quickly, by a justice of the peace, because his transfer to the States had come through. He’d charmed her with his dark chocolate e

The Crack

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'You gonna throw it or what?'

Unconditional Unbroken

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It's house has seen every day and every night From its windows stars are born and die

Dog Meat

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The squad comes upon two of the long-snouted dogs gnawing at the bloated carcass of a third.

a poem by Darryl Price restructured by Samuel Derrick Rosen

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Shovelling shit.

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“Whatcha doin'?” “Moving this shit.” “Why?” “Well, I can’t leave it here!”

After Watching Zardoz

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Infinite storage space for unreflected patterns.Pretty pictograms from the fields of time and motion.Uplifting monotones despatching Jupiters and Saturns.Remember? The second we crawled from out the ocean,vulgarians of the sunpoised against the tip of a cosmic…

Shopping List Mind

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No-one ever sits beside him. As if he might urinate, or spit. Or, worse, engage in conversation about God.