| Max DePaul Novena Sometimes I talk to God (not aloud, mind you) I ask him (as we do tend to see God in our own image) why things happen the way they do And why I wake up feeling like shit every morning And I ask him why I feel like grabbing people who smile at me and say "hi" by the throat & squeezing real hard And I ask him why I never had a nocturnal emission & every other male in my class did. And I ask him (though I feel he knows the answer to this) if he knows I shot a man once and left him for dead on a pile of trash. Yes, occasionally I talk to God and I ask him if he knows of any empty boxcars passing through town that I might jump on unnoticed and lay back and close my eyes until morning. And last but not least I ask him if he can spare a cigarette for the last of the great dead romantics. _______________________________________________ |
| Untitled God help me, I'm destined to die lonely and lay-less, with a hard- on that could cut diamonds. This is how the sub-conscious works: I like girls with big asses; this I am notorious for. All my previous women have possessed this ample asset - well most at least. And as I have recently found myself single, I have been desperately searching for a woman of this type. And though I hate to assume the traditional role of "Man-on-the- rebound", I must say that the sudden vacuum in my life, combined with lack of attention would be enough to send even the hardest person scurrying for cover. Thus, my free time lately has been occupied by long involved sessions of masturbation, substance abuse, shoplifting, and arguments with myself. I can't tell you much about myself, except that I've evaded over- dose, murder, and prison for longer than I care to remember. So, if you know any big assed women who may be interested send them my way, Jack. __________________________________________________________ |
| Max DePaul has been a contributor to nada since its inception, Novena and Untitled originally appearing in nada #2 circa 1993. Max is now back in Philadelphia after a four-year stint in the U.S. Air Force. ___________________________________________________________ |
 |
| Scott Kramer A Little Chunk of Hell Walking Lombard between Thirteenth and Broad, On the street night has gone bitter, an Inquirer truck runs a red light, fried eggs sizzle at the lunch stand, workmen have their second cup of coffee while watching her street corner dance, her half shirt, her metallic green jacket, her hot pants, to entice, to keep warm, to rock the cradle. Hey big men, Ginger wants to play with your erector set. Mmm Mmm good, Bambi makes it. thick leg want a date, you my Mr. Goodbar, just want to suck your thumb, baby needs her pacifier. Come on Cassanova, let's party, Call me Nurse Feelgood, make you hurt, and heal you let's get it on, gonna get nasty, wanna do that grind thing. Baby gonna eat you up, want you for breakfast, lunch, and dessert taste you sweet like planteen, flombay you in my brown sugar. On Broad street at night, Whores, Bitches, Hussies, Pieces of meat, dance to that song in each man's head sticking those painted lips in open car windows, wanna know how they sell it. Honey, I want to suck your dick, make you feel like King. The goods sell themselves, the fix The sweet meat The long cum The warm place to lay your head. Kill virtue, ain't vice nice Mary must die. Sodom. Sodom. Sodom. Anything goes get sucked if you need it sucked But please get fucked. This Ain't No Eighteenth Street Confession, no place to hide your soul. No place for the fifteen year old preppy, who loved to give head. sucked two in the afternoon. at the Exeter barbecue She was taught to excel, told it was swell, and she would make, her husband happy one day. No place for the Dancer just sixteen when she started spreading, opened her arms for embrace, opened her legs to the world, looking for the love her father never showed her now at twenty-six she lounges round her apartment, pantiless, in the mirror studies her body to candle light, writes poetry, prays God only when the Penis is inside her. She is sexy, is for sex, is convinced there is nothing more, yet estranged from love the tears come quicker, dig deeper. Still on those rare occasions she looks for Angels between the sheets, found only when the lights are out and she is asleep. This ain't no Eighteenth street confession, no place to rest your soul. The place of the chicken boys of Sixteenth and Spruce, warm cock and balls for sale, they know the traffic patterns, know all the faces sit on the stoop eating hot dogs, and Slurpies, waiting for the pay phone to ring, their sweat pants have stained knees they hold part time jobs in the laundry mat, folding clean clothes dreaming on John the madam. John makes them feel loved, his hostel housed thirty drag queens, selling blow jobs two for a dollar, a real steal that was some time ago. 30,000 lovers later, 28 of them woman, he calls Rittenhouse Square Park home. He sits on the bench near the stone frog, telling stories of when Tennessee Williams loved him for his long legs, and his eyes brown as bourbon. On Eighteenth street I confess aloud, Lay me in the bed where Virtue died, I want God to lick my nipple, and will pay dearly for that simple pleasure. to travel close to winding creek, to worship ancient forest, and night owl, Pray She will lick the salt from my skin, so I may again run as fresh water, Pray she will baptise me, to dunk my head to kill my fear, to humiliate me under the stars. Pray Magdallen, Pray Venus I search a diamond in her hole, I find freedom. These American city streets, this peep show world, a search for survival, not sainthood, but to be human. ___________________________________________________________ Scott Kramer is an accomplished poet who began his career in the early 1990s in the Philadelphia area. A Little Chunk of Hell originally appeared in 1993 in nada #2. ___________________________________________________________ |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
|