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 Sep 2012 Jane Doe
to the cemetery.
Goin' grave-diggin',

It's three to three,
and I'll be back

At the half-way
house, in time for

Till then,
I'm chasin'
the ghost.
I used to call my reflection.
 May 2012 Jane Doe
david badgerow
today i'm feeling like a dead dog
on six day old
august pavement.
no lovers swarm around me
to remember their spontaneous moment.
only flies.
who among you will kiss
my fever-blistered lips?
my bloated stomach wretches
for the comfort of the
old green dumspter
i called my house,
so homesick am i.
i'm so sick of hope and
trust, and no sun has ever
shown me favor without
burning me first.
i'm wearing the best of
my saturday night special,
the old duck sauce t-shirt,
unraveled shorts, sandals.
i wear a culture-shocked heart
on my sleeve so everyone
can see i'm naive.
 May 2012 Jane Doe
Wade Redfearn
When I first sold myself there were
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All the marks of war
All that searing heat
With all that pretty malice
Spilling Paris in the street
‘Twenty marks’ I called
‘Twenty marks’
That was 1943
And Piaf was doing well

Nurse, do you know what it is like:
To have a man inside of you
that you could never love?

There was, once upon a time, a pretty little ****
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
Lying on my floor
And Maman was starving, and my sister, too
Dignity wasn’t half the tax it seemed before
He gave me a baby, and a disease,
That was 1944:
Piaf was quite successful, then

Doctor, can you fathom:
Having sores all over you?
Yes, down there, and
all up and down your thighs, your body burns.
Can you feel that?

Then, the Germans left, and the Allies came, all
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines
All of that decor
Fleeing, running out
On the French horizon
The Allies were the same
‘Three dollars’ I called
‘Three dollars’
That was 1945:
Piaf was languishing
Paris had died

Jacques, my dear:
Those were our times
smoky cabarets, sculptured croons, fine wines
your rifle on your back could wind my morning with worry
and with my scourges, you took me all the same
but what I remember is:
black cottons, brass buttons, iron crosses, steel machines


“Monsieur Boursin - she has passed.”

He sobs,
it sounds like
Just ask me. Also, if anybody knows any more appropriate French surnames (read:one that isn't a variety of cheese), please, I invite your reaction.
 Sep 2010 Jane Doe
JJ Hutton
the young lions won't want you

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.
Copyright 2010 by Joshua J. Hutton

— The End —