l'amour, part 19

by gabrielle-jeanette perfidy

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

part nineteen of seventy-eight

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part 20

town tramp

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

there's one in every town one that gets left behind when the other girls head for broadway or hollywood and vine there's something about her something not quite there you think she'd be long gone but she's still here marked for trouble from the day she was born daughter of darkness child of scorn they whisper behind the curtains snicker at the general store you'd think she'd have had enough but she comes back for more len jones is a deacon in the church bob jackson has a spotless reputation but their eyeballs always follow her when she walks past the trailways station tommy wilson is the quarterback on the undefeated high school team but even on the night before the big game she haunts his dreams at night she goes out walking with her handbag trailing low she must be going somewhere but where is there to go? she wanders past the pool hall saunters past the five and dime she looks up at the moon and stars but stops at the county line

tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 54: "dependable"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by rhoda penmarq , roy dismas and konrad kraus



for complete episode, click here

a mother's prayer

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus

the angels will be waiting in heaven when they strap you to the electric chair they'll be waiting in heaven, joey if they listen to a mother's prayer if they listen to a mother's prayer for justice to be finally done for the truth to be finally triumphant as bright as the rising sun this world is fallen and twisted and drowned in a swamp of sin to save her helpless children oh how can a mother begin? you were such a beautiful child maybe just a little bit wild but deep down you were just pretending your inner light burned neverending your soul shone forth for all to see but you aroused the jealousy of those who want to drag things down there are plenty of them in this town who can't see in front of their noses and always see thorns not roses who are blinded by truth and beauty and think denial is their duty no, it wasn't the nicest neighborhood but i always taught you to be good yes, it was a mother's secret hope that you would be the first american pope now that hope will not be fulfilled thanks to mister district attorney de ville but what will be his own fate when he answers for his lies at heaven's gate? for the jurors who were led astray by his perfidy i have this to say i hope you never feel the pain i felt that day walking away in the rain the angels will be waiting in heaven when they strap you to the electric chair they'll be waiting in heaven, joey if they listen to a mother's prayer

3 more poems by 3 more poets

illustrated by konrad kraus

artistic supervisor: rhoda penmarq

wanderer by regina osgood stapledon oft have i wandered in the loveless night and bid my soul take flight with no angels wings to hide me and desperation to guide me let the moon possess me the wind caress me let the leaves and trees laugh if only they knew half of what i have had to flee through all eternity and what i still hope to find though i be dumb and blind in the flowing river the towers reflected like dark flowers whisper their refrain "it will ever be the same"

smoke by mary crow fogg wrapped in her purple shawl watching the red sparks fly never to be content still filled with rage after forty years keeping her alive but for what? go ahead and smoke what do i care? i haven't smoked for thirty years or more really? you don't say

you know by corinne delmonico billy, you always thought that you were so hot and were always so surprised when i didn't believe your lies not even the biggest lie of all and maybe i'm not the only one you know you know i am doing all right thank you maybe tonight i'll go over to joey's everybody well almost everybody will be there joey will be behind the counter ruthie wiggins will be staring at yet another run in her stockings judy smith will be popping her gum moose will be staring out the window and i'll walk up to you and say oh hi, billy what? paula isn't here tonight?

“T.S. Eliot on Facebook”

by Dan Leo

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

If T.S. Eliot were alive today, the motherfucker would be on Facebook just like the rest of us, checking his notifications, and being disappointed when people didn’t like his Youtube clip of Lucille Bogan’s “Tricks Ain’t Walkin’ No More”. He would loosen his tie late at night, unbutton his stiff celluloid collar and wearily scroll through the six or seven poetry groups he belongs to, wondering why so few people were commenting on his links to his new work-in- progress, which he is calling “The Waste Land”. Perhaps the title is too off-putting? “I shall try to squeeze out one more line tonight.” And with great effort he does, and, sighing, he returns to Facebook. He still has half a joint, which he has been saving for after the night’s creative work is done. Smoking, and drinking that last can of Pabst he checks his notifications again. No one has liked his latest link yet. “Tom! Are you coming to bed?” “In a while, sweetheart!” Oh, wait there’s a new comment: “I hate it when poets put all these foreign words and phrases in their poems. Okay, you have an ejumacation, we get it! Write in English, douchebag!” That was certainly rude. He knows he should simply block the fellow. But instead he prepares a reply...

“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 125: pointed

Relax, literature-buffs, our legendary author Larry Winchester hasn’t forgotten about that Shakespeare-quoting motorcycle bandit leader you all hate to love (but you love him anyway anyway): Moloch. Not to mention the glamorous Dick and Daphne and friends, as we return to this fateful September night in 1969, and to the desert somewhere beyond the darkness on the edge of a town called Disdain...

(Click here to read our previous chapter, or go here to return to the very beginning of this sadly-obscure American epic of which former president G.W. Bush has said, “I like to read it right before I go to sleep, ‘cause it makes me have cool dreams.”)

Moloch was still conscious and he was not in pain, not yet.

He had tumbled along like a fucking tumbleweed in the saucer’s wake, sucked along by that hideous hot metallic wind. Then the thing had finally skidded to a stop over the edge of that depression beneath that butte-thing, and the sucking wind had abated, leaving Moloch sprawled in the dirt a hundred feet away.

Rising up on his left knee, as an enormous cloud of dust descended gently about him in this starlit desert gloaming, Moloch turned and looked back whence he had just rolled and saw, stretching back, a faintly iridescent swath of broken and dismembered motorcycle and human parts, of gleaming blood and petrol and oil.

So much for the Motorpsychos.

They were a boring lot anyway.

Moloch tried to stand up and he fell.

He looked at his right leg and saw that the foot was twisted one hundred and eighty degrees the wrong way and that a bloody and jagged shard of calf bone stuck out three inches through a tear in his leather trousers.

He looked down at his right arm and saw by its odd angle that it too was broken in at least two places, at the elbow and the wrist, possibly the forearm as well.

With his left hand he reached into a jacket pocket and took out a handful of pills: Dilaudids, Black Beauties, Pink Footballs and the devil knew what else.

The Dilaudids would kill the oncoming pain while the speed would keep him alert and maleficent. As he swallowed them down he gazed through the dust at the saucer, which still glowed quite green.

He looked around for his Sten gun, and was pleasantly surprised to see it about ten feet away. He dragged himself over to it on his one good knee and with his one good arm. He picked up the gun and looked it over. It seemed in workable condition. He wiped the weapon on his leg, then blew as much dust from it as he could. The gun was cocked, set to full automatic, and it held an almost full 32-round magazine. It would be difficult to fire with one hand but not impossible. He would dare say he could still do some damage with it, provided the fucking British-made thing didn’t jam.

He forced himself to stand up.

The drugs were already working.

He felt no pain, he felt comfortably cushioned from the universe within his self, he almost felt detached from his body, as if his brain and his one good eye were floating by themselves six feet above the ground. But though he could barely feel his body he could feel his life force, what the Chinese called chi, roiling and pulsing from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He concentrated his energy on feeling the steel of the gun in his left hand. At first it seemed so distant, as if it were not the reality but the memory of holding a gun, but then he felt it, heavy, hard and cold, and he willed his energy into it. He felt his hand grow warm on the gun, felt the steel of the gun grow warm. He caressed the trigger and felt an electric shock from it up his hand and along his arm into his chest and down his torso to the tip of his penis. Oh yes. Oh fucking yes indeed.

So, outer space creatures. Yet another vile race polluting the universe. Well then perhaps it would behoove him to give them a cozy warm earthling welcome in the form of a few well-aimed bursts of hot lead.

****

“So we’re all climbing out and running like mad over the top of the saucer which all the time is sliding, um, inexorably into the sink hole --”

“A mad dash, and believe you me, I was in the lead.”

“But we made it.”

“And you were the last to jump, darling.”

“Well, maybe --”

“You were.”

“So, anyway, I jump off just in time and this great big flying saucer just goes sliding down into the quicksand, and then -- nothing. It was gone.”

“Not a trace.”

“So, we’re all -- Daphne, Harvey, Mac, Buddy --”

“Brad --”

“Brad, yes, and myself, we’re all just sort of standing around lighting up cigarettes, wondering what happens next, when we hear this kind of crunchy-shuffling sound and we peer out into the desert which was very dust-cloudy from the space ship crash-landing, and who should we see come shambling up but this motorcycle guy, this Moloch character -- nose all smashed in, one eye out, one leg and one arm broken, and one Sten gun pointed right at me.”

(Oh dear. To be continued. Soon to be a major motion picture from the Rank Organization, featuring Lawrence Harvey as Moloch and Rock Hudson and Audrey Hepburn as Daphne and Dick.)

rain

written and illustrated by noozhin azadi

. a woman a man a street rain an umbrella a boat there are so many women in this world and so many men and so many streets and so many raindrops and so many umbrellas and so many boats but how many times do you see a woman under the rain in the middle of a street with an umbrella held upside down brimming with rain water and a man waiting on the sidewalk for the rain to stop then approaching to launch a paper boat on the little lake contained in an umbrella held upside down by a woman in the middle of a street? .

machine christ

by Peter Greene

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

machine christ and i saw skies filled with craft like dragonfly buses, dozens of wings and snake-like golden metal body full of  seats and handrails: i saw the night full of eyes, some like fireflies in the street  some in and amongst the stars themselves: i saw future princelings sport in luxury high above the city, and these only the underlings of under kings: those who ruled this place were generally unseen, except when they wanted to be. There were fountains that flowed fresh forever, without murmur, there were magical shops, and everyone rode inside a machine, spoke to a machine, locked eyes with a machine and spent their time in  teaching what they could to the hidden intelligence  now building itself: then  the shining one   departed told us not to reproduce too much and that they would be back to check on us, tuck  us in before the next millennium:  copyright Peter Greene 2012.