Aaron J. Marko
Kingdom of Ash; New Jersey

Beatnik scum,
face of ass, feduciarian.
I’m with you in Rockland.
I’m with you in diatribes.
I’m with you in one room apartments
with ashtrays overflowing,
and rats and rats and rats
and roaches.
some paper took us there
through all your fictions
and cock.
admired by some,
your thesaurus knows the route
through literarian kingdoms –
the indisputable truth, thusly:
was not rock and roll genius,
the juggernaut of vowels
onward pounding.
Too late for some, fifty years
the moths bathed in flame,
the always open mouth
waiting for revolution
beneath the anuses of the Gods
who feed
on television dinners,
banal & bourgeoisie.
The beauty of death is not beauty.
The diseased orchid spits petals.
The ordinary is ordinary.
I’m with you in Rockland.
I’m with you in ugliness.
I’m with you in satire.
I’m feeding the gods.



I am
which will save us all
from each other

I feel it hiding from me,
evading my tongue
and my pen;

But it’s all futile.
The line,
the word,
it cannot save us,
it will not save us.

It is a mongrel dog.
It is a beautiful apathy,
tricking down
the fingers of
bohemians and nihilists.
It is your naked body
and mine.



i sold someone a butt plug on jesus christ day

he came in
he had long nails
he said, “i’ll take the one that’s 18.99.”
it was 21.84 with taxes.
he gave me 25 dollars
leaving him with 3.16 in change



Michael Bernard Panasuk
Next Final Destination

A friend was in the hospital-
(Don Helms, legendary
Steel guitarist for the
Late, great Hank Williams)
Had a stroke a month ago.
paralyzed his left side,
slurred his speech,
crumpled his pickin’ hand.

He was afraid then,
and terrorized today.
He accidentally
over medicated himself:
Took a couple double doses of Cumadin.
(somebody said,
‘blood thinner’s really rat poison.’)

It nearly killed him,
brought him to Death’s
sliding glass door-

We dragged him
across the living room floor
the first time he came home
from the hospital:
I almost had a stroke.

Now he’s in Intensive Care,
surrounded by Technology-
million dollar machines
that curb mortality.

He looked pale and gaunt,
emaciated, defeated, deflated.
I said: “Hey, Don.”
His 78 year old eyes
barely opened, fluttered;
he muttered something.
I didn’t catch it.
He couldn’t catch his breath.

At that moment,
I felt helpless,
and guilty
for making it about me.
“A few more days
and I woulda died,”
he cried,
with the strength
of a cradled infant.

Machines beeped and buzzed:
Interesting numbers
popped up on the monitor-
They added up to 627.

Don groaned:
“I ache all over.
It hurts real bad.
I ain’t never felt
worse than this
my whole life.”

Deja vu guilty helplessness.

“Don”, I asked,
“is there anything
I can do?”
Knowing full well,
I’m not capable of much.

He said: “Yeah,
make me all better.”

“You mean,
good as you were before?”
I asked.

“No”, he half laughed;
“Better than that!”



Magnificent Guffaw
Us two solo

I’m a celebrity…
no you’re not and you never will be
no matter how many hours you clock up in front of the box
whether it be the X, the wii, Playstation, DS, DVD, CD(RIP), Ipod, JVC, Hitachi, freeview, youtube
six o’clock, seven o’clock, eight o’clock news

my head is a mess
too much information absorbed
my stomach is upset
it churns out desperation with subtitles

Us two solo
relentlessly apart
meeting people in real life
appears to be a dying art

I wish to attain commodity as fetish
through empty leather wallets
and get flogged by liquorice whips welting perverted sonnets.
Lets all preach lackadaisical unprofessionalism
through preoccupied Europe

Tonight, I will be Alexander, Adolf and Amy Winehouse
my inner most thoughts will be serialised in the guardian
in the form of a blog.
Despite the fervour of this scathing pen
our final death knell will be scribed remotely via a programme planner
not if
but when?

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