"zines" poems
i am grateful for stretch denim on days
when
**** it
is a fashion statement
for lavender laundry detergent
because that smell reminds me of the home i've built in my head
for tea at
2 a.m.
when all the things i've done race in my head
because the next morning, i usually get my **** together
for colds
because they make eating an entire roll of cinnamon buns
completely justifiable
for the mountains that surround me
for NPR and good, rated M fanfiction
for def poetry when i can't find the right words
for finding a pack of cigarettes when it is only
11:30pm on a thursday night
and i am well past drunk in a slightly damp armchair
for harry potter and neil gaiman
for when twenty dollars fills up my gas tank
for my grandma's potato salad and biscuits with honey
for feminist zines that make me want to smash the patriarchy
for burts bees chapstick and jasmine-green tea
for friends who let me cry on their
bedroom floors
for books that keep me entertained
(even if that means me crying in my bathtub while reading them)
for courtney love and joan jett because those *******
have ridden in my car with me over many
heart-breaks
for well-water and sulfate free red wine
for johnny cash and new orleans and whiskey
for salt-- because that **** can wash away anything
for farmer's markets and co-ops
for bottles of water and for cookie dough
when my mouth
is the consistency of cotton and my mind is a little bit gone
for warm days in January and cold days in September
for breakfast and for hikes that begin at five a.m.
for summer nights drunk on wine and a little too much fire
for friends who call me 'momma bear' and for friends that call me 'baby bird'
for poems that give you cold chills
and flowers stolen from my neighbor's yard
for skin that smells like the sun and sage
for beeswax candles
and the smell of clean laundry
for days when i wake up and realize
i could have died on a bathroom floor
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Hello all. I have been pretty busy with projects I've been working on.
I have been putting my poems up in PDF format and all of the new poems are available for download here:
http://deadbeatantihero.wixsite.com/thereisnothinghere
This website works best on a desktop. I tried accessing the website on my phone but some of the titles are buried within the other titles so I think it is best if you just access the website using a desktop. All you have to do is click the title that you want to read and it should automatically bring you directly to the PDF format of the works. You may also download them for free if you wish.
I am converting these works into PDF format with the intention to turn them into zines and chapbooks in the near future, given the right price and resource people to help me come up with the projects. Feel free and read away, all of the works are free and downloadable.
The website currently has 19 titles for you to read and download (if you want to, that is). Let me know if I could help you with anything!
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
she thinks I am not listening,
her breath upon my neck,
so she pitches me 'zines:
ALLURE, allure me?
she lures me to beaches:
soft amber sand
settles in valleys
between toes and heels;
tanned images dance;
a lounging goddess shimmers ~
ebony strands weave lace,
pattern after pattern,
into a creamy satin gown;
sapphire laps flames
from her eyes to mine,
mesmerized.
the caption reads:
*only the finest *** comes from Puerto Rico*.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 9:39 PM UTC
witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront
rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor
i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay
Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks
nursing secret heresies of insurrection
colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or *Read A ******* Book*
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room
a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question
why?
the banner
cheerfully pirouettes
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
Open your lustful legs
do so when a man begs
Let them spit in your face
‘cause you should know your place
Make their violence portray their passion
since you are born to tolerate this aggression
You are nothing more than some holes
nothing to say, ‘cause it’s the man who controls
Be beautiful, be youthful, be skinny- be tight
Who else is going to show you love tonight?
You are nothing more than a temporary human incubator
“After 18, you expire”, says the **** infused manipulator
Some of us are stuck in blue online vending machines
they pay girls posing like in pervert playboy-zines
Once, I was this carefree and happy sweet little one
now I have to fight against the lust of someone’s son
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 6:04 AM UTC
ash stains and cosmopolatin zines
bathroom savoring night-rain
like lorn and lone trucker tobacco
sky forged in dark blues outside a cracked
window, like you in the closet ****
but the door opened up enough to tell.
1. flesh simpering but the voice a sullen
conversation of silence and broke dreams
television with hundred and forty channels
and half open beer cans.
2. silence still drags kissing and murdered
autumns, shadow of hands over flush skin
lurking moonlight invited.
in morning i'll wake with a human
but tonight you are a god with your hands
roaming my hipbones & sleep with
you, my mind running thoughts
like trains on spinal cord railroads
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
Just alright are e-books and
just okay are e-zines
I suppose they have their place in the
natural progression of things
but I
love Books...
Old books and new books
soft books and hard books
to sniff an stroke and even listen to
when antiquated stiff bindings moan
after sitting unopened for far too long
I just love books...
to pile up beside my bed... and
trip over in the night
to scan and browse and finger titles
and check dates of copyrights
to feel the vibrations
from cover to cover of
previous generations of
fellow book lovers
to peruse
for forbidden doodles and
marginal ramblings
personal rememberances
and briefly noted things
purposely yet
inadvertently left
for future word finders
like myself
Okay... so... e-books and even e-zines
now have their space
in the way of things
but I still hold
a special place
for
Books...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
I had visions, wasn’t in them
They’re reflected into the mirror
Absence couldn’t be clearer
There’s nothing left inside of me
Fingertips have memories
Sightless, jaunting above my body
And then they feel a little bit naughty
I run it up the flagpole and see,
Who salutes, but no one’s ever does
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell
Went through the roof and found
That only stupid people are breeding
The cretins cloning and feeding
And I’m not even watching T.V
Absent minded upward in the place of nerves
Something wrong about me
Starting to seem a bit crazy
They cut off my limbs and now I’m an amputee, God **** you
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And it was a sin, to live so well
Torn blow the covers of ‘zines
Ripped in the cogs of machines
Forced to hold my tongue
It doesn’t hurt, it feels fine
Precariously sublime
I’d like to turn back time
And **** my mind
You **** my mind, mind
Paranoia, Paranoia
Everybody’s coming to get me
They are all pulling at me
I’m running underground with the moles, digging holes
I hear their voices in my head
I swear to god it sounds like they’re snoring
But if you’re bored, then you’re boring
The agony and the irony; they’re killing me
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And it was a sin, to live so well
One, two, three, four
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
You're not an Alcoholic but sometimes
you wonder.
It's not how drunk you get,
it's not even how much you drink,
it's the way you do it.
It's the way
you come back to the word
Alcoholic
like it's a girlfriend,
like it's a Lover,
like it's a soul mate,
like it's home.
It's the way
you keep telling yourself
that you need a break -
not Sobriety,
which you think
is maybe what you really need,
no,
just
a break.
But not drinking
is just
a little bit
terrifying,
and the zines you've read on quitting
aren't enough,
and in the end
you break your break
the day you make it.
It's the way
you don't need an excuse
to drink when you're out.
One, two, three, four drinks,
hey, if someone pays ...
once again
dissolving the barely formed
boundary you set with yourself.
It's the way
you sneak
your drinks
when you're at home.
Wine, beer, ***
anything you can get
into your system
not because you particularly like
what's there,
but because
it is there,
because
it's something
and
you're not an
Alcoholic,
but you need
something.
You're not an
Alcoholic,
would be out of place in rehab or AA,
but sometimes
you wonder.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
zealous
not jealous
make a zen
count to ten
will be in the
zone
no zip
no buts
all those
zzzs
and
zooms
let's turn them to
zephyrs of hope
zines of bravery
zero negativity
but trust the zodiac of love
for every year is
always us
yours
and mine
xo
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 1:13 AM UTC
“The Test of a Man...”
-Ecclesiasticus 27:5-8
Friends are the chief ornaments of a man’s life
Through fishing trips and schoolyard baseball games
The brotherhood of barracks and camp and field
And ideas served and volleyed in courtesy
Among those men who have seen something more
Of the world than movie screens and gossip ‘zines
Men as familiar with rifle and rosary
As with a crescent wrench and single-malt
Men who can work both plow and metered line
Then lift a glass in thanks when the first stars shine
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
alternately titled: breast ****** fallacy hi-jinxed!
In her “60 Minutes” interview aired
Sunday (March 26th, 2018),
the **** star known within red district
as Stormy Daniels bared
her "naked lady" version
swearing oath of honesty,
she emphatically **** cleared
on a stack of video nasties,
and ****** 'zines
now she can live rest of life
guilt free offloading
hush money endeared
a posteriori into infinitely
jesting bordello loop
with calmly enchanting bug eyed,
drooling media hounds,
whose nostrils flared
squelching the trumpeting Don,
who maliciously glared
for traitorously breaching
“genital man's agreement”),
playing the (sock it to him role
of goody two shoes)
christened Stephanie Clifford)
shaggy long haired
pseudo Mayflower madam averred
to right justice in sought after
****** free nation,
where the turkey
ought tubby national bird
mandating free codicil
to second amendment as of furred
thus, that *** hide from right to bear arms
premature sea r man ***********
of Peter ought to be heard
where sudden sound
sans ***** seams burst
**** strapped unseen bulging Johnson's
onslaught hail of expletives cursed
out the mouth of salty sailor spewing Prez,
hook halled for a recess first
and foremost before
questioning resumed
automatically immersed
within ****** tabloid pulp pit
***** sing Bacchanalian refused to quit
particularly when groin
set zipper (flimsy – obviously,
NOT put thru linkedin
locked down rigorous paces
realized, when pry vet eylit
of trouser snake split)
yielding singular (nada so sterling)
gamut gallimaufry variegated erector set
with singular bulbous
ram rod rocket like trivet.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
The Desperate Princewives in Toronto
On Christmas eve a lineman hoists herself
Far up into the blowing ice to mend
The power that keeps our children warm at night
While waiting for good Santa Claus to come
On Christmas Day a cop patrols the streets
Alone against snipers with ‘47s
Keeping us safe while we grumble about cops
She’s left her children with her mom to watch
The morning after Christmas another mom
Jump-starts her ten-year-old car so she can drive
The slushy streets to her shift at Dairy Queen
For her career ladder at the deep fryer
In a studio in Canada two men
Well-guarded by their secret services
Well-fed, well-dressed well-chauffeured in their ‘zines
Escorted, piloted, guided, scripted
Express their happiness that working folk
Are wealthier and healthier than ever
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC