I used to play hide and seek
with the truth
Seven knocks up front
The hidden man from the back.
now I’m just waiting to die
like everyone else
I hear the bad voice
My nerves take another hit
she moved my waters
and I took her virginity.
Ours was a love of necessity.
So please plug my ears
I didn’t live like she wants
Here’s to vices and virtues,
To living without apologies or regrets,
I can’t say goodbye
But his knife beckons me to
And somewhere in Arizona
in a box she never opened
is the rest of him.



Original content by Mar Del Sol
eggmanequine@gmail.com
Additional content assembled from works by J.M. Romig

my oblivion
Beautiful humanity
the heart on fire
The **** is personal identity
In the hell of dusty memories
He created the Wasteland

by Mar Del Sol
eggmanequine@gmail.com

like a paper ball,
I am better than anyone I have ever known.
I think,
Therefore **** the Earth
Punish me.
The lump created my throat in front of the E-MAIL



by gimad@mail.com
Assembled from works by Ryan P. Kinney, Predictive text, and Unknown

by Ryan P. Kinney

What’s the sound of a man breaking?
Is it that slow drip drip echo of depression?
The wind rushing through the hole in your chest

Is it silent like the nights of empty beds;
Sleeping abandoned and reaching for nothing?
Just hoping for anyone to drown out the cacophony of one

Is it the metal crunch, glass break of the head-on collision with the guardrail
After drinking your dinner alone again?
Is it the slow babbling brook trickle of blood and tears blinding, burning your eyes?
The wail of an overgrown, overdue infant
The squishy mush trampled beneath your feet

Is it the sound of rolling eyes?
The “not again”s
The “are you over it, yet”s
The “*******, you’ll never understand”
“Please, someone ******* understand.”
Is it the patronizing coos?
It is the sound of the words you can never say?
Never WILL say

Is it the sound of the wrong question?
“Are you ok?”
With the wrong answer every time
The ringing of the church bells
Some long dead “Here Comes the Bride” confessional
Melding with the hangman’s funeral dirge war cry of the apocalypse

Some lifeless musician strumming OUR song in the wrong key at the wrong time
out of tune
Upon your hermit’s rib-cave harpsicord
Played by DJ HeyZues
Creator of all
Knower of none
Who died for your spins

Is it the sound of the lighting sizzle ripping through your veins?
The dubstep beat beat tantric jungle crescendo
Filling that whole with ******
The sound of waves crashing upon the shore of the most ragged jagged shredded bitter pill you’ll ever have to force down past that acidic lump in your throat

Is it knuckle cracking bone on the cinder block wall behind your bathroom mirror?
Is it the chip-chop, swish-swish on the executioner’s-butcher’s block?
Is it the gasp at the ****** of your favorite book you never wanted to read again?

A broken man sounds like nothing
You have ever heard
Will ever hear

And
         Neither
                        Did
                               She

(do I like it?)
by Ryan P. Kinney

And now, I’m 3 minutes overdue
When I came in underdue
And Underpaid
And under-******
But, boy am I ******
In the head
With a bullet
Straight to the heart
Of the matter
What’s the matter?
It’s just that there’s all this matter
And space
Empty Space
With no time
Know what I mean
You could be mean
But I choose love
Because in all the space
And all the time
It’s all that matters









                                                                             It’s not my sound, man.
                                                                                         It’s not my noise.

I’ve been told that I am part of the Millennial generation. I never liked being called that. I’m right on that line between Millennial and the previous generation. In high school I was told I was part of Gen X; the last class of X. As a comic nerd, I always thought this was much cooler. Like it was some kinda superpower to be the last kids to know what the world was like before the Internet; to know how to do things without it. I feel like some supervillain stole our power and knocked the generation line back as Millennials got older. They made us in-betweeners part of something we are not; stuck us somewhere we could never belong. When I hear Millennial I think millennium: those who grew up on the other side of Y2K. I graduated in 2000. I was already a man before there was a second millennium.

by Ryan P. Kinney

SMACK
The hand hits hot across my face
I am sniveling, crying, shrinking
POW!
You are not a man. You are weak.
The words never come from her mouth
But streak across her fists
Lay buried in between layers of her spoken words
BLAMMO!
I don’t love you. I don’t trust you.
You were never good enough
Never strong enough
Never what I needed when I needed it
I’m done with you
You are worthless
Pathetic
  CLICK CLICK
I pick up the knife
I will ******* **** you

Instead, I just close the mirror
Shut the door
And stay right where I am