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CRAP ORGASM

A Journal Of The Literary Arts

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Hello friends! Submissions are now closed. We will be back…
Twitter: @Crap_Orgasm

Short Fiction 1500 words & under
Flash Fiction 500 words & under
Poems up to 3 per submission
Word Doc Files Please
craporgasm@gmail.com

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Larry David Lynch by Terry Trowbridge

Larry David Lynch

Terry Trowbridge

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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 by Kay Gabriel

My Fwap with Bob

Kay Gabriel

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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:

  1. heartburn
  2. a fatal flaw
  3. libertinage
  4. the taxi meters d’antan
  5. Leviathan
  6. contaminants on ice?

Reply with your sincerest intuition or least heartfelt desire. What’s the worst that could happen?

AIRWOLF and Enya by Terry Trowbridge

AIRWOLF and Enya

Terry Trowbridge

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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 by David W. Pritchard

Second Variation from Two Different Planes

David W. Pritchard

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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 by Yuan Changming

My Woman, Who’s Such A Wonder

Yuan Changming

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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 by Terry Trowbridge

Wiggum Love Letter

Terry Trowbridge

Der Komet

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 by Cam Scott

Remember This

Cam Scott

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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 by Matthew Walsh

Lobsters

Matthew Walsh

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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 by RL Raymond

The boy
RL Raymond

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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

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