Caveman Classic
By Nathan Pearce, Nov 12, 2006
As I sat backstage waiting for the final pose-down at the Caveman Classic (my third amateur bodybuilding contest), I kept a close eye on Adam.  It was hard not to these past few weeks, after finding out he was a legitimate fudge-packing citizen of the United States of America.  It wasn’t just the fact that he was gay that surprised me; it was the fact that I had known him for almost half a year before I found out... (more)

Something to Keep Me from Freezing
By Christian Rose, Jan 7, 2007
I’m sitting in a plastic seat on the G Train as it rushes south beneath Brooklyn. It’s early in the morning. It’s winter. I rub my hands together to try and get the feeling back. When the train stops at Flushing there’s no one there. The doors open and there’s a rat on the platform. He’s looking at me. There’s something wrong with the rat. Its legs are broken, or frozen, or both. He’s trying to walk toward me, but he can’t do it. A back leg is pointing the wrong direction... (more)

All Lips
By Jeff Crouch, Dec 2, 2006

A Review of Elliott's Happy Baby (2004)
By Jason Jordan, Jan 28, 2007
Nowadays it’s common for a storyteller to alter the timeline so it doesn’t unfold in chronological order – a la Quentin Tarantino. Again, drawing comparison to film, Stephen Elliott’s Happy Baby (Picador, 2004) plays out much like Christopher Nolan’s Memento. That is, the stories in both the aforementioned film and the novel at hand are told in reverse order, or, more simply, backwards. If you’d like an even more confusing explanation: the stories begin at the end and end at the beginning. In any case, though it’s a technique used infrequently and one that should probably remain that way, it often adds tension and suspense to an already interesting premise. Such is the case with HB.  Specifically, the novel centers on Theo, who went through the rigors of a Chicago-based foster care program and exited a drug-abusing sadomasochist – a result of being repeatedly and violently raped by a juvenile detention guard at a young age... (more)

By Christopher Major, Nov 1, 2006
Cleaning up can
clutter and butt ends,
detritus of a life
so far removed from
employment and health,
they're now reached via
a leap of imagination.
The bare bedroom,
piss stained mattress
where you wasted to
a smell and statistic;
a Rorschach mark
of stale urine
interpreted as a nuisance,
a drunk,
a friend.

The whole place bare,
everything sold for drink,
nothing of value left
except somehow this,
which I stare at,
am reluctant to flush away...

Christopher Major lives in Staffordshire, England, where he is training to be a psychiatric nurse. His poems have appeared in many UK print magazines, including Pennine Platform, Outposts, Poetry Monthly, and Poetry Nottingham. His poetry chapbook can be accessed at here.

Forever Alone
By Ron Cervero, Nov 16, 2006
I drugged my demons
Ritualistic suicide
Speaking the word
Of indifference –
I woke one day embodied in manhood –
Self searching –
Self seeking – 
I began the anatomy of a prince in ruins –

The legend remains,
A child – 

Ron Cervero was born in New Haven, CT. He started writing poetry in the late 80's when he worked in the TV and film industry.

Flowers of Another Consciousness
By Danielle Fessenbecker, Nov 29, 2006
I used to dance between rows of pink and red flowers.
Without a thought I would pull the one with the brightest petals
from its root, fit it into my stringy hair, and with my basket of berries
twirl along the path until I fell into Dhalia and Aster.
But this was long before I learned the rules of life.
I will go up to the field of pink and red, but it is not the same now.
I look for the could-be watchers before I dance and fall
to let the flowers crown my shoulders.

Danielle Fessenbecker is 18 years old and lives in New Holland, PA.

and it's not even midday yet
By R.K. Wallace, Dec 11, 2006
high blood pressure
prescription gym pass
and an appointment for
for anxiety and relaxation
and a letter from
the dole office
saying they want to see
me to make sure that i am not
faking it

R.K. Wallace, 26, is from Glasgow, Scotland. He plays the guitar in the streets for a living. His work has been published in or is forthcoming in underground voices, poetic diversity, 400words, instant pussy, the beat, blowback, saint vitus, laura hird, and in bewteen hangovers. Access his website here.

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