LSD – Cajun Mutt Press

Shimmer

The ecstasy of space
Robots on acid
Fuck me space-boy,
FUCK ME!
Bloody virgin on a bed of cosmic dust, we can plan an interplanetary genocide or start a religion
But maybe it’s all the same
in outer-space
The ecstasy of space
Robots on acid
Eating peyote
The perennial singularity
Phallus slammed in a closet door, waterlogged in microwave painting with sound- can we break
the brain of god this unknown source of which we feed upon its corpse
My mind is glowing
Vulva shaped spaceship performing terrifying miracles of light as darkness eats stars, wanton
nebula jettisoned in birth reverse swirling fabric of being and time
The ecstasy of space
Robots on acid
Astronauts in love
A carnal quasar pumping frenzy
Nameless
Recordless
no real living beings here
there are no cages but boundaries
without pasts an ever uncertain present and veiled future
dire transformation
distracted bv skin and sin
the divine motive looking for that spark in primary colored space-jockeys
switching sex organs, eyes and limbs
lies, fate, false memories
The ecstasy of space
Ocean of the void
Robots on acid
The singularity will be fragmented and unrecognizable

Mike Zone is the Editor-in-Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, co-founder of Deadstar:Control, and manager of the band Tail From the Crypt along with being a producer for the record label Paranormal Vinyl Cassettes Hair Extensions. He is the author of Wonderful Turbulence, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, The Earth Was Shaking For Days, Shedding Dark Places. Also coauthor of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture Magazine.

the meat house

is where serial killers
eat lunch, sip soft drinks
scratch notes

when I hit her on the head, it was good
if you believe you’ve lived your life the right way
then you have nothing to fear

& moonlight as electricians
plumbers, clowns, suburban
dads in faded Cancun t-shirts

who make jokes
& answer phones
with a… “yelllllow”

which is also
the color of the meat house
& the dress the little girl is wearing

hand, foot & mouth
trapped in the arch of a tube maze.
The sign says ‘No Shoes.’

I eat, my gut
a garbage disposal
of playfully placed bones

1980s love poem

& the way
the acid kicks
in some
where unexpected

fates conspire, while we
in love & returning video tapes—
Total Video, on the other side
of the Dietz St. parking lot

now a spatial anomaly
of satanic panic & milk carton faces;
didn’t some college girl
get murdered here you say

another late
fee
on our
nasty

the 19th hole

we swing
through the 19th hole
to score some coke

off a guy
whose sunglasses
are stacked like a cash drawer
on his hat brim

underscoring
the fact we’re at a country club
& not Needle Park.

A few rails of the tasting menu
& he’s teeing off
talking approach shots

says a threesome
is a tradition
unlike any other

so I drive
a hand over my crown
skirt the rough

& he, anticipating
the tightly
mown grass
of a fairway

flees
as if a spider
crawled out of a hole.

We take the sunglasses
he left on the bar
& hock them at a pawn shop
for some better blow.

Damon Hubbs is interested in leisurely games of tennis & perfectly moist coffee cake. His poems have been published in numerous journals with recent works featured in Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Streetcake, Roi Fainéant Press, Don’t Submit!, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Book of Matches, Exist Otherwise & Horror Sleaze Trash. He lives in New England.

Tag: LSD

Cajun Mutt Press Featured writer 01/22/24

Shimmer

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 12/19/22