Your Work
Created | Updated May 3, 2005
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This is where we publish your work no matter what it is, anything from a picture to a story. If its a picture you want to add, put in the guide ML. Send any work to [email protected]
Your Work
This is where we publish your work no matter what it is, anything from a picture to a story. If its a picture you want to add, put in the guide ML. Send any work to [email protected]
- Herione by BazMcStay
- Vogon Peotry by Hussassan of Honshu
- Ecstasy by BazMcStay
Herione by BazMcStay
She is the true meaning of
‘Flushed with success’.
Her eyes have been repolished,
Her blood is ruby red again,
Her skin is softer, smoother,
Except on her arms.
But she is beautiful.
On her walk home – home to a real home –
She crosses the bridge where she first,
Then under the arch where she last,
Past the spot where she nearly,
And she cries because she is fixed for good.
Hussassan of Honshu Vogon peotry
See, see the intruding sky
Marvel at its big neon pink depths.
Tell me, Michelle do you
Wonder why the bunny rabbit ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel tired.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your zsiudhg facial growth
That looks like
A food.
What's more, it knows
Your bastard potting shed
Smells of a small green thing.
Everything under the big intruding sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm dog ****
Ecstasy by BazMcStay
“Jaysus Ma! What’s wrong?”
Ma’s waxy face looks up,
Her eyes bloodshot, hollow craters,
Bleeding tears onto the tablecloth –
The red and white one
With two cigarette burns near one corner.
‘The Baby’ is nearly ten now,
But tears still flood her face –
Frightened, uncomprehending –
As she hugs the doorframe
And whispers again: “What’s wrong?”
Ma wordlessly, weeping, reaches out,
A twisted scrap of tissue in one hand.
Her Baby flies across the kitchen
And buries her face in her Ma’s bloused shoulder.
The bangarda stares awkwardly at her fingers,
Shuffling, shifting onto her other foot.
Between the weight of their joint-sobs
Other mourners weep with them:
The tap drips drops of its own;
The radio whines, barely audible;
And shuddering pipes thump, drum-like.
Ma grips her Baby tight and likewise
The child wraps herself in Ma’s bony arms.
They’ll spend days like this:
Hand in hand in the front row at the church;
Ma’s palms on her Baby’s shoulders behind the hearse;
The child clasping Ma’s black wool coat
While they watch the coffin sinking.
A bullet in each leg, then another –
“The fatal wound” – in his forehead.
Frozen in a box under six feet of soil
For the sake of rediscovered truth
And a thing called Ecstasy.
