exsanguinate | issue 6.2

volume 6 issue 2

Red Hott L.A. Sucubine
on Leggs of sheer flesh velvet heaven.
Unencumbered XTC served up on a nylon platter,
Paid for with plastic.
Walking,
Breathing poetry in killer fucking boots.
Perfumed black lite planes somewhere betwixt heaven and here...
Or Hell and Eternity.
Same ending,
Same smell too
for anyone bothering to listen...
Jazz...
No I mean Disco, Dig?
Slump shouldered Vagabond Voyeur down to his last 15 clams.
God Damn it...
...I've become wretched again.

[untitled] - irene

I have a stone
In place of a heart
And it weighs
About as much
As your footsteps
Stomping away.

I wish I could dig it out --
This stone --
And hurl it through your window
Because I never asked 
For your interference.
I liked having a heart.

hot poem #1 - nadine kachur

men lust red bare feet &
languid summer woman
delicate pink goddess
like spring love
who whisper smooth
beneath rock water spray
like lathery rain music.

together
they sing easy
eat raw tongue juice
under sweet rose mist &
peach leave crush sand bed;
honey sunlight floods sea moment
into a thousand petaled diamond dress.

!rehtaeH - josh kern aka asilas

Cross country drives,
thousands of intense highs --
I remain entranced,
by visions of your eyes,
those sweet curvy thighs and
your soft voice soothing of mind.
Still, my battered words remain stuck,
stuck in some thick mouth mud,
the drooling drivel of confused adrenaline.
Slap me and tell me it's alright,
so I can keep guzzling from your cup of fast life.
I will do anything for just another night.

fraith - r s dyer

Do I not believe in god, the father almighty, the maker of heaven and earth? Of all that is seen and 
heard? Of me? My sins and crimes? Do I exist in the face of guilt, the rawness behind my throat? The 
buzzing in my head close to dawn?

Am I the man in the moon? Do I worship old gods, summon up daemons, make sacrifices, consort with 
aliens and fuck monsters? Do I shoot at heads of state, burn babies, drown kittens? Am I a dealer, a 
murderer, a rapist? Without blood, there is no remission.

Am I America? Am I baseball, mom, apple pie? Or am I just a strike, a guilt-trip and 1000 calories a 
slice? Am I really a character on a sit-com? Do I retain a sense of humor? Do I love Oprah? Do I need 
my MTV? Do I lose myself in the cunts of cheap women or the asses of desperate men? Do I fuck small 
household appliances? What have I felt? What can I feel? What can I do?

Do I abase, abuse and ruin myself? Broken strings have a thought. Guaranteed free fall. Will I slide the 
needle in and build open a foundation of neuroses? Is the needle hanging out of my arm, the hole 
burned through my nose for you? Do I tattoo my flesh, pierce my body, brand and scar my chest for you?

Do I feel a rage so pure, so burning that nothing is sacred or safe anymore? Would I become a base 
and dreadful thing preying on innocence, human life and ÒHard CopyÓ ratings? It makes me smile. Satan 
is the god of this world. Satan controls the lost immortal.

And when I lay dying, a cold, wet, tired doll alone in a back alley, was it your name on my crusted lips?

And when I sleep, is it the sleep of the dead, alone and helpless, one side of the bed as cold and empty 
as one side of myself? Do I blame you for the way I am today?

And would I take you again into my arms and hold you and caress you? Would there be no secrets 
again? Would I become lost again in your cold depths?

I pick up the needle with the motivation of a gun.

I deny nothing.

malignant fears come clean - peter soards

I can't think of a single pleasant thing that happened to me today. Things wash over me and I let
them by, apathetic to their ways.
The dry dirty streets exhale stale tar vapor from their bowels. A dead pigeon juts violently from the
fruitless black pavement. I can't tell where the slather ends and the fowl begins.
Man ape with his hat backwards stares begrudgingly at the frozen-haired anger victim with the
blue-violet mohawk. Nothing changes their mutual stance of sober disgust. I meekly slip past both; an
appartition that unnoticeably allows the time-honored ceremony of disdain between these easily
categorized militants to continue in its own bland manner.
Back at work again. White globs of sludge float on the surface of the murky water in the stainless
steel sink. Upon closer examination, the stagnant aroma of some biological germ, now long deceased,
grinds acrid torment in my nostrils. Plugging my nose only traps the olfactory nuisance in the chambers
of my sinus. I can barely make out the pearl-colored cups and saucers in the gray mire. To my surprise,
they have bits of boysenberry danish cemented to them.
Jerry, with his open-mouthed exhaustion, enters the cafe back room. He stands there beating the
sink like a Caribbean steel drum and singing: "dirty dishes don't stop/ filthy platters won't drop/ scrub it
'till it's raw/ covert downside mon/ just wash."
Luckily, Jerry leaves quickly and I can once again hear the mechanic groan of the ice machine and
the insistent hum of the freezer. Cherished white noise.
I unhappily drain the sink. The coarse fluid is hypnotic, nearly as attractive as it is repulsive. Lost in
my thoughts, I begin to create scenarios in my head...
Bright lights in the reserved darkness comfort a satisfaction-free soul. The means and the ends are
completely overlooked. Thrust directly center in the prime of compassion. Love pours undauntingly from
the rows of moment collectors. Questions are posed but won't ever need to be answered. Holding hands
with destiny and being aware of the stations bestowed, I kneel on the carpet and face the wind that
blows, finally, at the much anticipated temperature --
Suddenly, the vision is blotted out when the service bell rings, and I am gazing at my Pumas again.

today's special - stanley roberson

"I'd like five pounds of fresh ground."
The butcher stepped forward to lean on the counter and get a closer look at her.
"There's a special on this month," he replied with a lilt in his voice that left Allison with a creepy
unsettled feeling. He was a large man with a ponderous stomach, a pencil-thin mustache, and large
liquid eyes that didn't blink.
"Oh?"
"Yes. Would like to hear about it?"
No.
"What sort of special?" she asked tiredly, her gaze drifting about the suprisingly empty supermarket.
The parking lot had been filled to capacity, and she had been forced to park behind the store... So where
was everybody? The place was like a tomb.
"Simple: you can get ten pounds of ground meat -- fresh -- for the price of five."
"What's the catch?" she asked bluntly, drawing herself upright, hoping to project the same air of
importance and authority that she wielded at the office. She was not one to be trifled with. Especially not
by some... butcher.
He uttered a deep, throaty laugh that reminded her of the bottom of a clogged sewer.
She crossed her arms.
"There is none," he declared, moving down the line of his display showcase, his eyes fixed on her the
whole time. "'Today's Special'," he said with a sweeping gesture of his arm, like a master of ceremonies
presenting the next act, his hand pointing at the last case in the train.
She looked across and then down. Her mouth dropped open. For a moment, she could not catch her
breath, as she came so very close to losing that afternoon's power lunch.
A red, pulpy mass rested uncomfortably on the grimy tray. The slab was oozing with a thick black-red
juice. Some was splattered on the front of the display case window, running over into the other meat
items on display. She blanched at the horrific mess.
"You, you can't p-p-possibly mean that?"
"Lady," he said, as if he were a weary parent explaining something to a slow-learning child for the
umpteenth time, "It looks funny, sure, but thatÕs just 'cause it's fresh -- real fresh."
He began to laugh, clutching his huge belly which quivered like a balloon full of jello. And, from
somewhere back in the meat department, another laugh came issuing forth through the swinging doors
behind the butcher.This one: high, shrill, mocking.
Allison Ross, 34, corporate lawyer, twice-divorced, turned on her heel and marched out of the
deserted store, into the encroaching dark of evening and a still packed parking lot. She was too angry to
notice anything. As she stiffly walked around back to where she'd parked her car, she was determined
that that bastard of a butcher's boss was gonna get a call. Hell, screw that! The friggin' Health
Department was gonna hear from her!
As she reached for her car keys, a light gust of wind swept part of a discarded newspaper to her feet.
The headline: Butcher Still at Large. She suddenly felt faint. Clutching the lapels of her smart gray
business suit, she fell heavily to her knees, dropping her purse, scuffing her new pumps, and running her
hosiery.
The heavy back door suddenly swung open. She was met with a blast of refridgerated air. The sound
of piercing laughter filled her ears as icy thin fingers took her shoulder in a fierce grip.

In between destiny and frivolity,
between moving heavy objects and leaning against light ones,
between great concentration and mental dispersal,
between sleeping, breathing and open weeping,
I find that I can spare the time
to sit on concrete furniture
in the shade of a McDonald's playground
and watch little hungry birds
and little hungry children.
It's not so hot out here
but nonetheless, I am quite thirsty...
Unfortunately, I am also broke
and cannot even spare the change to buy a fountain drink.
So, I strategize on how to wrangle a complimentary cup of water.

Here,
on this sad destroyed earth,
on this heap pile of wreakage called civilization,
outside this fine fast food establishment with its basic American values,
holding a waxy paper cup full of icy chlorinated tap water,
I finger the brail on the plastic lid
and revel in the simple fact
that I am blessed with sight.
Oh, to see all this wonder --
and never have to lay eyes on your ugly mug again.

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timestamp November 2020