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Aberration Labyrinth ISSN 2169-8805 September 2012

Issue #002

A Note From The Editors: We hope that you enjoyed Issue #001, and we feel that Issue #002 really helps to solidify the image that we want our publication to have. Keep up the excellent writing and keep submitting! We love you and your creativity! All artwork for this issue was provided by Eleanor Bennett. Maxine Emily Rasmer

full of shit as ever Dustin Manley

DOES THE VICTIM Cynthia Tidd

she makes doggy bones; decorating them with icing like they were paper and the white sugar were her pen

when my time comes bury me deep 'cause you know i'm just stubborn enough to claw my way back and don't forget to pack that dirt down hard hard hard as cement c'mon, man, make it a challenge at least and when my corpse comes knock knock knockin' in the awful dread of night share a beer with me (a courtesy) before you put me down

Does the victim ever say: “I trust you to take my life”? She can’t use a gun or knife On herself.

she inks free furry heads; strains of black trailing her each and every step drawing profiles filled with eyes she tells me to dream of creeks; water and silver, flashing fish and write them poetic lullabies, pausing motion for a moment she fights the urge to suck smoke, pulling in nicotine, swirling down her throat by taping on plastic squares of chemicals

and if you should ever miss me (god forbid) remember we're all energy and every time the lightning strikes that's me, winking, from beyond

she dresses in orange the figure of beauty. brains spilling out paint.

full of shit as ever

It’s My Turn to Toss Steven Tomlins

Emaciate Richard King Perkins II

Medusa’s riding a two-headed cow That’s becoming tomorrow’s dinner Pink chicken in between burnt toast The wart on her lip is peeling off

You once claimed to be a man and a woman your own equal partner in all things but you have been nothing more than a manna rag, disproportionate counterbalance and walking dead weight.

The serpents warm her forehead With the hatred she breeds Melting ice cream into a bucket Of decaying meat Death will come to those who wait Trading fur for sand This slasher flick won’t last forever Asbestos mixed in with the weather Pretend to listen She wants your attention The rusty ladder summons

Does the victim ever say: “Go ahead. Be vicious; Think of Lachesis*; End my life’s thread.

You keep pouring words into three dachshunds, the Frito-Lay tier and bottomless void of a convenience store, where I sit as neuropathic prey watching twenty fingers bleed onto a six pack which has never been the desire of your inhibition.

©2012 This work is the property of the individual authors within.

(Photo by Eleanor Bennett)


Aberration Labyrinth November 2012

Issue #003

I Choose Coconut Sarah E. Alderman

Romeo Reads Himself Chris Crittenden

Tribune Gar Gore

At the ice cream counter I am overwhelmed By all the varied and wonderful flavors It’s like picking a favorite color From frozen circles of a rainbow I have the urge to sample them all To put every cool confection in my mouth Letting the icy cream melt on my tongue In chilly streams coating my throat On its way to my stomach

blurs of crushed ants, black bodies arranged in rows, he’s dizzy from the jumble of their mandibles, wants to leave this puny cemetery,

Visages nimble quickly quicken inside me

but his eyes settle on the corpses as they resolve into slivers of what he shouldn’t grasp but does—

I'll bare-knuckle and barrel these paper railways are razor-white

You become impatient with my indecision As I hop from foot to foot Nibbling off tiny spoons Asking about today’s specials Or how I debate cone versus cup You audibly sigh behind me Unable to contain the aggravation The utter disappointment That has been building since I insisted We pass three other shops to go to this one It is locally owned and each batch is hand-made It doesn’t even matter You were already doubting you would get laid You were already doubting this date When I talked about feminist writers over dinner And how Lilith was thrown out Of the garden of Eden for enjoying being on top And possibly even reverse cowgirl I wasn’t doubting, I knew, cursing the friends Who thought we would make such a cute couple All I know is I want something besides vanilla As you eat your cone in silence I fight the urge to simply walk out Smashing the ice cream in your face When I see a flavor worth staying for I choose coconut Sweet, exotic, clean, saving coconut I choose coconut because I know you’re allergic Sharing is for people who will kiss later

fancy sentences that inject ache then melt away, like syringes of ice— page after page until the poison between the periods no longer torments, becomes cold water he has swam— the more he reads the closer he gets to tragedy, but it makes him young to share the plight of a hero or the hero’s lover— it seems she loves him too, that he is what’s written for her to praise. maybe the words are what he is, and she, too, a product of genius that wrote this play then left, leaving the characters to love and die forever.

©2012 This work is the property of the individual authors within.

I hear you died, Father I feel your DNA it's tightening

To Australia we run like steeds to our futures


Aberration Labyrinth November 2012

Issue #003

Banana Slug Emily Rasmer

I Am Transfixed Yania Padilla

Source Chris Crittenden

putrid yellow; vomit, left over remains of yesterday's dinner painted, the brush tainted with oil, slimy residue, leaving reflections only we can see

Come. Know me. I am the cognoscente of the carnal. The intrepid explorer of your downy depths and cavernous openings. I could be more Than a passing glance, a whispered suggestion. My fevered head rests against the cold windowpane of your chest. I am transfixed. Open, Imbibe, Devour My flesh. I will nestle in the roots of your desire and blossom in the canopy of your satiation. I’ll offer you exotic pleasures like sweetmeats at a banquet; you will suckle at the breasts of my audacity. Come live with me and be my love, Some poet said. Come, Lie with me And be my lover.

his art came from the sky, misshapen and extreme, wearing some unkempt face known to swordfights of wind.

two stalks, two eyes, inability to see anything but their own path Center of Gravity Dan Sicoli oh those hips when those hips those rugged dungaree hipster hips those resurrected ransacked hips of jesus hips of bone display those in-debt vagabond love hips hips of the home run slugger those unseen hidden hips that swayed and shook king media’s planet when the hippy hippy shakes hit the scum bastards siphoned up the boxer’s blood like a reckless hound drunk on scent and auctions sprouted in anyhow towns diluting rebel soul south gone north corrupted song

when asked, he said the portraits wretched during thirsty sleep, or leapt from massacres in the sea weed of his mind. but it was just high-borne clumps of creamy mist mutating odd folds of slothful polyps. his muse was nothing and his portraits no one. specters adorned by chaos carved in idiot shrouds I Has A Flavour Phillip Ellis And it is poet flavour. Let me tell you about it. And about the kick I get from making something, not something fools call real: a poem is real; something verbal, mysterious, that conjures a world. Let me tell you about the time when I was sixteen: that was when I wrote my first adult poem for the pleasure of it, the sheer redundancy, about the ruins of civilization, the junkyard of life. That poem has long gone now, as are my efforts before I worked to profit from hard work: that's the way of things, but I won't talk about that... yet; let me talk instead about this: all things need discipline, and to be great, you need that dedication that makes poetry possible.

and of course company pistols fired at his boots working those teaser’s hips to the slap of rhythm dollar oh those maximum hips of schlock hips of parody hips in irons soon he’s spilling drink from a paper sack dousing his prefab luxury fallen what is the worth to those who have inherited opulence ©2012 This work is the property of the individual authors within.


Aberration Labyrinth November 2012

Issue #003

Invisible Monkeys #1 Kyle Hemmings Lately, you’ve been cutting corners at intersections. In conversations with pencil & point flogged artists, you always get the look as if you are Spock on street-brand Testosterone. You meet a girl who claims she was once a victim of too many flying cars. Her scars are nocturnal, disguised cancers. In bed, you can sense her invisible monkeys hanging by a spleen. She giggles or makes jokes that she keeps her real eyes in an metal i-pod case. You remind her that you are both at the heart of sex in a hot tub. After the fizz-out, during the slow rain dropping like anagrams, you regress to coconut husk and whisper. You confess a sudden love for corn dogs & soft prey. She sits up and says, “Go buy yourself a drooling fish.” By the time, she reaches Mott, she is just so over it. Invisible Monkeys #2 Kyle Hemmings She’s all red-round and happy, but you’re guessing her perimeters are a tight schedule of derailments. She concedes her beginnings are her best & she could be on Dancing with the Stars if only she could stick to feeding tube diets. You picture her invisible monkeys ticking, having swallowed clocks. Bet this. She beds any father figure who can make her puke on wishbones. In a hotel where the walls ring with laughing drag Queens & thick sumo boys on bail. After you come in a squirt of white void, you can’t see her face. What did you erase? You think of lonely people & subways w/ black & yellow signs. You imagine the scent of sweaty armpits post rush hour. There you are. Where? Now she’s feeding you large bites of gluten-free pizza in bed. The sizes get bigger. You shake your head to mean no more. She keeps saying One more, please. For me. Then you realize what she’s trying to do: She wants you to choke on her. Invisible Monkeys #3 Kyle Hemmings Her invisible monkeys keep gnawing at her bones, but she conceals the pain w/ whitewashed toothy smiles. In timed quickies between falling rabbits from mine blasts, she shows you her past wounds: spider scars, bruises over liver, soft spot of lymph node swelling, old impression of shark’s teeth—-she can bleed in three colors of ink. After she dumps you for another man hung upside down in closets, you roll endlessly from one-way affairs to threesomes a la carte, sink your teeth deep into the flesh of unknowable women, devise a thousand ways to make your little-boy heart stop. Throwing Concrete Tigers Gar Gore Cut the umbilical cord Mr. and Mrs. Jesus Freak Bust him's jaw up the blindside and once in your fucking life preach your gospel with fists before Casper go press the fast-forward go, go, go Bee stings crash down around heads like bowling pins carriages on the asphalt

©2012 This work is the property of the individual authors within.


Aberration Labyrinth November 2012

Issue #003

Little Talks Emily Rasmer

Zen Legs Robert Ridley-Shackleton

listen. as soon as he starts singing the words fade from my ear

The farmer Works night and day. He farms my legs Without a tractor, Just a rake.

broken. headphones, heads, the thing that processes it's. it's not me. it's him. Street Lore Gary Beck When I was young insufficiently educated boys demonstrated scholarship learning dirty words in foreign languages. On today’s harsher streets linguistic ability has been replaced by grunts and curses, almost unintelligible to evolved citizens.

Through my teardrops Hitting the legs hard he works, Through the creeping night When the bones go hunting He works. My legs are perfect Zen legs Lines, symmetry, harmony When my eyes Look away from his garden He pulls back the slithers of leather That wash over the legs. From time to time He searches for Keys, guns or rope, An exit. He sits on my knees Looking out across my carpet ocean, Wondering what it is like to love. He needs a farmer’s wife With pig eyes, a horse tail, Thick milkshakes and strawberry hips, Someone to bonk, to love, To dribble lemons into his wounds, Caress the hammer that breaks the balls. He is a full time farmer, A full time dreamer. Then one crispy day A piece of tissue In a top hat and tail coat Gave him a key. He stuck it into my meatus, Unlocked my hole and dived in. I eventually crapped him out I didn’t even feel a sting. I knew there was something wrong When the three blind mice Raced in cars around my feet. I looked down and saw Weeds blood red, Stones that moan, Moles in holes. I tried to cry on my legs To drown the impurities, I tried to plough and rake the fields With my yellowing nails. The farmer saw me From his far away shoe, He saw me stumble, He saw me fall, And I never walked again.

©2012 This work is the property of the individual authors within.

A Certain Shade of Stabbed Steven Tomlins

A Certain Shade of Stabbed Another drug deal gone bad; they thought you a narc or buffoon or baboon. The knife slipping gently through your flesh; fucking your arm over debt or vendetta, purple-assed junkies make for red-nosed aimers; pulling out before your heart cries. Gushing your bicep you stumble around until you slam a slight shade of white-faced blush. Bandaged-over flexing a soft ache of pride; contemplating a short tale for a cop: Wrong place and wrong time, yawn, we’ll get on it, right and your crooked fingers – here’s an appointment; you’ll move them again in no time. My son was almost killed last night! My brother was almost killed last night! No time comes and goes, came and went; comes and goes; five missed appointments later still as numb as shock and as useless as awe the right reminds you what the left could be doing Flipping past the obituary section, tearing out the pin-up.


Aberration Labyrinth November 2012

Issue #003

Acteon Duty Non Active Persephone Abbott

Morning-After Pills For Gentleman Buck Chuckles

I drank your glass of whisky straight Because you wanted it with ice I would hunt you down Roll some dice, throw some cards But you tell me you’re tired And don’t want to run Anywhere while my restless limbs Consider following the bevy of ladies, Chaste wood nymphs interested in margaritas and nail polish Down to some cheap restaurant where I might meet someone And reveal myself for the kill.

The hallowed grounds of early morning fast-food, tiles slickened by the haze of over-worked/under-paid, are under my feet. The monster of my one-night-stand streak's latest victim looks the menu in the eye a liberty she never gave me. The grainy lights, sizzle & pop with burger grease fizzle like my char-broiled regret, illuminating her face's conquering look.

I, Amphetamine William Mosely She is my thing and little more. Her lust coats my heart in need And when entangled in our ecstasy From pelvic thrust, beyond release, Til smiles while cigarette smoke flees, It's her whom I abhor.

My rolling stomach, flopping as road-kill visions haunt bucking madly like these half-alive burgers, And then I die. upon realizing: she uses her qualities as traps snaring me with her playfulness leading me into the pitfall of her false understanding springing the metal jaws of her dark side

I am her fix, a mindless syringe Upon injection in her vein Brainwaves slow, urge is inflamed Life's intrigue becomes a game, The rings we wear and vows are stained, And on our separate high's, we binge. Theoretical Underwear A.J. Huffman 7:30 covers my eyes in hair and hangover. A.M. – not p.m. – swings crookedly. The window’s cor[o]ner cackles in spite: The sunlight hurts my eyes. My skin echoes the sentiment. Is nothing sacred!?! I lost my tie somewhere in the sheets and my sanity. The fan ‘s blizzarding breath beligers my own. Stasis is found in a half-filled recycled bottle. Simply stated: capless. [I am.] What I drink I think will forgive my deprivation. I run circles(?) on nowhere’s knowledge. A masque [of sleep] dreams sideways – posted without me. As always I dream in/of colors I cannot teach.

©2012 This work is the property of the individual authors within.

Kiniving Bitch: using gifts to her advantage to better her own situation like using a Christmas-wrapped printer to print out fake green-back profit I thought I was the dirty thought at the back of every good girls’ mind but she proved me wrong when I fell in love with the fact that she only ordered a milk-shake for breakfast.

Profile for Jessica Gleason

AL #003  

This is the third issue of our online magazine.

AL #003  

This is the third issue of our online magazine.