Revival, reunion when I think of you by Audrey Victoria

I drop down fifty flights of stairs and the moon beckons me nowhere except
where a sight-seeing tourist from the inside is exploiting my garnered limp.
His gullet is adorned with crumpled skin and mole colored jewels.

Inside my nose is stinging and I take it as a sign that the
scorpion has just crawled inside. And my tongue will speak words
of models drawing out my past vision of vernacular suicide.

I crawl to the coffee shop and order shots of espresso until my chest explodes.
I wait for you by the front window but you're nowhere to be seen.
I assume it's because I gained weight again and I feel fat again.
Since I quit mind surfing I don't ride as smooth anymore.
I must confess, back when abyssinian hands stroked my laden back
I used to mind fuck you in the alley and you didn't know it.

Limping and leaving, my heart stops and I am clutched to a street light.
The fat gullet trumpet vine has wrapped around my bronchial tubes again.
Manipulation is a tired tactic and I prefer pure fucking instead
I will wait for you half past five next weekend if I am not dead by then

I will merge into you but not frighten you.
I will sing to you gently but there will be no song even if you ask for one.
There will be no moment for images because you will be blindfolded
I will leave you one foot to find in the garbage. Most importantly
I don't know how to love. It's your crumbled clutch, displacement
with boring sentiment. Yeah, it's that role I play.

Inside I know that flash you want of that woman standing sprawled
dripping clean with wet and glitter all over your mommy's blanket.
What a coward you've become. God, all gracious, the women
The women just want to screw you all over. The vision of their
Robert Plant Fantasy. Go on, bro, grunt and give them your disease.

My skin is still smooth and I still flutter like a pixie
all over your jewels, stealing them. The yawn of the guitar still runs down my leg
and as the new moon raises the energy depletes from your
soul merging with mine accordingly.

Most likely you will have a nightmare about me tonight.
a hallway will rise up in magenta and run like a trumpet vine,
run from your toes to your abdomen to down your trachea
where then you will blossom orange, finally spreading
something half beautiful, even if you're still a weed.

Featured Writer: Scot Young Day 3

covered in dust waiting for rain

this old truck tucked
just into the woods
off a dirt road
cedar growing
through its skeleton
used to haul
people
wood
field dressed deer
during season or not
sometimes moonshine
up and down these
ozark roads paved
in mud and chert

old man penley
left it here one day
got pissed off
cause it wouldn't
pull the hill
loaded full of wood
backed off in trees
and just said
fuckit
came back a half
dozen times
stripped it clean
nothing left now
but a speedometer
one chrome bumper

just sits
permantly parked
sometimes a summer
home for roadrunners
but always rusting
a shell of the 50s

neighbors pass by
occasionally
nod toward the truck
and say
that penley
he was a crazy
sonofabitch

Featured Writer: Scot Young Day 2

hey jude

most everybody
had a shitty childhood
not that every minute
was a fucking nightmare
but the shit seems to stand out
stays fresh and
rubs off on your clothes
when you walk
too close to yesterday

i'd say you wear it well
like a yellow star
pinned to that dirty shirt
so others can
pick you out

tomorrow
bribe the guards
with what you got
to avoid the showers
because the smell
of shit is still better
than standing in line
______________________________

bar time

been watching her for an hour
other end of the bar
stripper tits
blouse tied underneath
i caught her looking
bedroom eye lashes
like pulling down
the shades
guy walks in
buys her a drink
sits down
i moved closer
she lit a cigarette
told the new guy
through a cloud of smoke
that the lousy
sonofabitch she had last
night couldn't keep up
she wanted a man
to go all night
knowwhatimsayin
who wasn't afraid to give
a woman what she wants
knowwhatimsayin
holding a full beer
he looked over at me
I shrugged
looked at the clock
knowing
it was still early
and i was closest
to the door…

__________________________

28 days of kama sutra

1972
teenage car sex
under a cheesy moon
eight track plays
croce low
love song
sets the mood
top down to give
us more room
you borrowed
yr sister's
kama sutra
had 20 minutes
before the porch light
came on
we were on day 1
I prayed for 27
more just like
this one

Featured Writer: Scot Young Day 1

The Early Years

In 1954
my father bought

mom a new pink &
white dodge

she loved that car
so much she painted

the house to match
the mills brothers sang

you're nobody til
somebody loves you

that night
I was conceived

after a couple
of cans of heidl brau

and for a brief
moment

all was right
with the world

_________________________________

Before Girls

we would push our bikes up
the steep hills
then zoom down zig- zagging
like daredevils
wind in our face
drying out the butchwax
made to wear by dad
until we couldn't roll any farther

like a thousand screaming locusts
the maris mantle and mays
rookie cards clothes-pinned
to our spokes turning
our schwinns into
wannabe triumphs
old man smith would yell
as we flew by
you little dumb asses
was all we could make out
for that summer we were
the wild ones spitting
gnats from our teeth

_______________________________

First Day of Girls

in seventh grade
first hour I saw
carmela occhipinti
big itailian smile
ta-tas to match
orange mini dress
off-white pokla-dot s
are there bombshells
at 13?
never saw this
in grammar school--
those chocolate eyes
cut right to the center
of a 7th grade
boy's heart
nothing else mattered
before or after

that polka dot image
was burned into this
kid's brain
testosterone &
awkwardness
raced to every corner
of my body
as I stumbled
into the chair beside her
--slouched in jeans
white t-shirt
checked her out
through the corner
of my eye
checking me out
through the corner
of hers

today I learned
on some reunion site
she had died--
breast cancer
of all damn things
it made me sad
I hoped her life
was good
as I saw her
in that mini dress
and remembered
how many times
I dropped my pencil

In another life Scot Young used to be a construction worker but for the last 19 years he has been paid to hang out with kids. He started writing poems again after a 30 year absence and has published one or two. He may be the only school principal in America to have all of Christopher Robin's books and occasionaly teaches a poetry class to the Breakfast Club. He once sang with Kenny Loggins and wrestler Dirty Dick Murdoch, but mainly he just puts bread on the table.

Stop by to see more from Scot on Saturday and Sunday.

Shoots and Vines Compost: Scot Young

Window by Zsuzsi

Two Pieces by Alan Kelly

Dawn


I watched the building opposite

the hotel

Fill with sun

making bright

eyes of its bare windows

The palms of my hand

On the eerie pane

He made small

Cuts

On the back of my legs

And the scream that my mouth shaped became full

with squares of light

_________________________


In Her Head



In her Skull

Are

Halls

And

Walls papered by flesh

And

Halls

In her skull

Of

Walls

And

Halls carpeted with veins

Lined with

Daguerreotypes of Dead Folk

Glaring out

At her

From jaded

Frames


Serious, ridiculous, overblown, pretentious & warped, Alan K has written for Film Ireland, Streetwise, The City Guidebook, Pretty-Scary, GCN, Penny Blood, 3:AM and ButcherQueers. His fiction has appeared in Beat the Dust, Lit Up Magazine, Gold Dust, Parasitic, Dogmatika, The Bloodied Quill and forthcoming in Sein and Werden.

Shoots and Vines First Print Zine

Shoots and Vines first print zine will be available in January. Eighteen pages of black and white art, prose, poetry, and flash fiction.

This is a grassroots attempt to distribute the work of our contributors and get their names out to the public. I have two places already that will let me distribute the copies. All copies are free. We are keeping the zine short in the hope that people will make copies and distribute to their friends.

Submissions are now open. Please add Print Zine Submission to the subject of your email. Remember that the zine is ten 8" by 11" pages folded in half. Long pieces of poetry or fiction might be rejected due to length. I want to put as many writers in the zine as I can. Artists can submit small images to decorate the pages. I'm also looking for two larger black and white drawings, plus a cover design.

I'll put a copyright on it for the contributors, but this zine may be printed many times and I can't control where it goes after distribution.

If you are interested in receiving a copy of the zine so you can make copies and distribute, let me know. Again, this is grassroots work. I don't get paid. You don't get paid. Contributors do not get paid. What we will get is the opportunity to help fellow writers and artists.

The back page of the zine will have a link for each contributor so readers can find more good pieces of work online. Contributors will receive one copy to do with as they please (hopefully make copies and distribute).

Thanks,
Crystal