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Twitter: @Crap_Orgasm
Short Fiction 1500 words & under
Flash Fiction 500 words & under
Poems up to 3 per submission
Word Doc Files Please
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Larry David Lynch
Terry Trowbridge
If Elaine Benes had a dance-off
with the little guy from the room in Twin Peaks
we would all be winners.
A philosopher once asked,
did he dream The Log Lady
or did the log dream him?
Did you stop short with my wife?
Whose license plate is it?
I keep having this dream where
Laura Palmer has man hands,
a giant keeps telling me that
everyone loves a Junior Mint.
It all adds up, Jerry.
I can solve this case when I find out
which of these men is not real:
the one they call Bob
or Art Vandelay.
My Fwap with Bob
Yes you go on nervously but who doesn’t say to nobody in particular, the morning air, this pretty fall day wait for this next stumbling block of faith, which is also dad. Banal in retrospect (frottage), there isn’t a hole worth looking at except for those with the patience and force of will to manifest one. In my dream I announce to a room of relatively tame pleasures that this fuck is milk and that one’s groceries. Bob Flanagan accompanies me to the supermarket, where we discover yoghurt has nothing on the sublimity of being talked about. Is this incident:
- heartburn
- a fatal flaw
- libertinage
- the taxi meters d’antan
- Leviathan
- contaminants on ice?
Reply with your sincerest intuition or least heartfelt desire. What’s the worst that could happen?
AIRWOLF and Enya
Terry Trowbridge
AIRWOLF is more than a helicopter
when you turn the volume off and turn on some Enya.
A Valkyrie lycanthrope
in whirring Raytheon descent.
Ernest Borgnine gets his Boondock Saints moment
that every sexy, silver screen, silver fox needs.
Dogfighting through canyons feels like yoga class
without sweat.
It seems plausible that the angel
from the Philadelphia Cream Cheese commercials
will jump out from behind a cloud and bazooka somebody.
Watch me as I bail out
over California scrublands.
Watch me as I bail out
I will thread the needle all the way down.
A thousand tracers’ white hot flower petals
swirling in the wind above me.
I can touch them,
from the deep sea of clouds
to the island of the moon,
I can leap from AIRWOLF
while it sails away.
Second Variation from Two Different Planes
1.
a bunch of wayward
structuralist diagrams
in my notebook
what bright idiot let there be
structuralist diagrams in the first place
2.
I was driving from Davis to SFO
I had occasion to cross at least two bridges
with every motorist in Northern California
all of whom drive like Godzilla
is actively raging in the sea below us
resulting in an insane Godzilla-experience
3.
if I may speculate on the production of idiots for a second
I’m pining for the speedways of New England
4.
I’ve got so many books to read on this plane
from which I’ve chosen Deleuze and Guattari
(it’s raining outside) and now I’ve also got this poem
speculating on wonders not deducible to the lyric
5.
and yet everyone reads Wordsworth
“without organs” and smokes cigarettes
and says so and isn’t it easy enough
from a certain angle to negate
the Godzilla I have already described
6.
we’re airborne and there is Godzilla
right over there!
7.
I tried to cross out this poem when I first started it
nobody has ever heralded me a great lover of poetry
as I spill coffee on my notebook
as I spend three zillion airport dollars in an airport
8.
fulfilling normal functions of reproduction
the woman next to me is eating a Dunkin Donuts sandwich
I didn’t even know there was a Dunkin Donuts here
I could have foregone the “breakfast stromboli”
as if one needs a reason to forego “breakfast stromboli”
beyond the fear of death (I do not fear death)
My Woman, Who’s Such A Wonder
Among evergreens of an unknown
Hill, can come tight on top of me
Like a patch of heaven, sagging herself
Down for Penetration, Pop Pop Pop!
Let me grow harder and taller
Wrapping me with her dripping mists
Stroking me with her inner tongues
Then I roll over her
Bloated shape, ready to rise
Again, and again
And drift with me in a cloud
After planting my selfhood into earth
As deeply as a tree
An everlasting erection
Wiggum Love Letter
Terry Trowbridge
Like the smell of a cat’s hungry breath,
like the taste of burning,
like Skinner dreams of his Super Nintendo,
I break my wookie
thinking of you.
Every night alone,
it’s you I choo, choo, choose.
Remember This
The aisle of childhood is a funnel, too:
The narrow end deposits you
In so much sucking mud―
A vast dump that doubles as food.
Soft talkers chew each other’s cud―
‘Inhuman gore imbued.’
Food drips in droplets from the nipple.
The people feed the other people
Who stare across the fluted grain
Like one could simply go again.
One can’t, and that’s why I could cry
And will eventually die
Or get a life and carry on―
Render myself in vibrant crayon
Pinched of so much manly mud.
(The scrawl across the body’s throat is blood.)
Lobsters
In Italy you can be fined for boiling lobsters
alive. Then my mother is a monster.
She knows at least three ways to kill
them. She sees a guy upshore
when she feels the urge and get him to load
the poor guys into the trunk
of her car. Once she was stopped
by the police. She said oh hello officer
I`m just trying to get my kids home before dark
in her best Mom voice. She continued driving
and carried them through the downstairs door.
She would get others involved. She would call her mother
and say the eagle has landed and my grandmother appeared
out of nowhere with her big black pot, hammer,
and screwdriver. Lobsters were food for criminals.
Always I wanted to rescue one of them.
I said it would be a good pet. We could keep one,
but the lobsters would bubble language
in the link or one would swim without the water.
I thought the lobsters were poor lobsters.
My mother would actually smile as she salted
the water and then said okay, I’m gonna throw’em
in, and the lobsters would be destroyed by hammer
and screwdriver while she sucked the meat from their legs,
Shells of their former selves. She became a total murder
machine. My mother would leave me to hide
the evidence, in the bushes is best she said. She’d been doing
this a long time. I have no idea what possessed her, sharing
around the potato salad, a dust of paprika, sliced egg—
my god did she ever enjoy it.
The boy
RL Raymond
scared by the ball
dives awkwardly
across the field
his fall softened
by the dandelions
he asks his mother
if she is upset
and in the same breath
why his knees are yellow
she looks away
to the other children
playing and laughing
she tells him simply
that he is a coward
CRAP ORGASM 