Black Words On White Paper - Black Cover 1 published by DEPTH3D, INC. collection copyright 2010 by DEPTH3D, INC.
Editor: Shawn Adams Biographies Editor: Jennifer Giles
Visit http://www.bwowp.com for the latest issue and submission guidelines.
Letter from the Editor: Prior to this first issue, I made a particularly bold statement on the BWOWP website, claiming that each edition would be 50 pages. That quota wasnâ€™t difficult to fill for the White Cover issue, but it proved to be a challenge for the Black Cover version. The finished volume has just 25 pages; considerably less than its previously published counterpart. I hope that once word gets out that someone is publishing completely uncensored material that the pseudonyms will come pouring in, but until that time, Iâ€™ll have to stop making promises. The next issue of BWOWP Black Cover will be published only when I have enough exceptional poetry and fiction to cover that 50-page span. So write! Express anything, be it salacious or sublime, vulgar or proper, knowing that BWOWP has a place for both.
- Shawn Adams
Contents Jon V.H.
John J. Trause
Sergio A. Ortiz
Jon V.H. Jon V.H. lives in a remote fishing village outside Las Vegas, Nevada with his first wife Jenna and his second wifeâ€™s two children, B. and O.
3 Tonight, while I was 2 fingers in, When you were expecting a third, I was imagining 5 All inside and squeezing The last few breaths From those first few ounces Before it could six That 20x30 A few pretty blocks Below the far west 9th Where we'd entertain dozens With cuvĂŠe 'til 2. And still I came in you.
Same Old Shit treacherous crumpled blanks of hope You gasped at the audacity and said that this is â€œhigh art,â€? for it slanders the imagination of the critic; It revels in its up-chuckedness. On which he splattered: bourgeoisie, not ghetto baby, no experience in those words stolen from books by raped black women edited by white men in red cars. Dragon singing lightning blue And gritty blooms behind brown eyes. This is how that rusted wall Conflicts its violent hues of you. And with each touchy metaphor and every three syllable non-word I suck the cocks of the blind voyeurs.
Eric Cumings Eric Cumings's works are influenced by his ever-changing geographic footing. Born and raised in "West, by God, Virginia," he has since spent time in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and Prague, in the Czech Republic.
Tuesday is No One We Know My Ex's new next is finger fucking Her and jerking himself off as we speak; the hottest piece of ass he's ever had is forgetting My clouds in her kitten. My sky is a nepotism, a Wednesday out of Her cat, my cumulousness. 2 more shots off the rail and I'm happier than a sleepy year. On cue; on quells off cuff, on keel in her cunt or creature and out of my creations and secretions. he's happy too, maybe my new cock? Getting off. I can taste the vermillion vernacular of this better Thursday on Fridays lips. And We laugh laughs, Scoffing scoffs, Shot 3 is cumming. Me, only out of My Ex, her cunt for a week, and him trying to eat away all my cocks left for her promise of a better month. But, shot 3's smoking, and Saturday We'll all get off before Sunday's death of elation, premature to next week, despite vanity. Quickly killing, kindly this one, before I'm dead again and his cock more victorious than the cloud dead cunt print in a sunk and sacked like a cause of kittens.
Meg Tuite Meg Tuite has been published or will soon be published in Calliope, The Boston Literary Magazine, SLAB Magazine, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fast Forward Press, Galleys Online Magazine, Crash, Jersey Devil Press, Midnight Screaming Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Ink Monkey Magazine, Blue Print Review and Fractured West out of the UK. She won a cash prize in the fiction contest at Santa Fe College for a story that was published in their Fall 2009 contest issue.
Obstacle It’s a summer afternoon in Montreal and some asshole is making his way toward me. He is just another obstacle to move, skirt and trouble around. He whistles some revolting tune louder and louder when he zeros in on me––a girl who actually deigns to avoid him. He smacks the concrete as if it weren’t coarse enough for him. He is here to be seen, slapping the newness of shoes on the sidewalk, while his clothes shriek, “nothing but style, baby.” I detest him. I will do all in my power to avoid his languid eyes––the smirk that saturates his lower jaw. He demands my eyes to rummage his wares and drink in exactly what came groveling back at him from out of the pleasing mirrors and shop windows he passed. There is to be no dismissal. I am here to reflect back the only reflection he will ever see. I look right through him like I would a shrub. I am going to win. I will bear down on him, stare him straight in the eye, and denounce any fantasy he lives by. He slides his long, brown hair behind an ear and smiles at me. He is humming now. His pace slows down and his hips slide forward and he is the calmness of all calm. I start to tremble. Everything inside of me is bombarding with hate for this poser. I look under his clustered eyelashes into the corridor of his past with doting parents and all the girlfriends lined up with demented smiles on their faces as he daterapes them and then steps over them to move on to the next. His sex is a table for one––perpetual masturbator with audience. Girls are here to suck him, admire him and run hands over his flanks. They do him. He does not do them. My tall, lanky bones shrink into themselves. I become downtrodden. Straighten up, I command. Face this bastard head-on. The sun’s raking eye spotlights him. Crazed dandelions litter the grass on either side of him with their citrus snickering, those crooked declaimers of light! We move closer to one another. If I were a dog I would pee on him. He becomes a tall, willowy tree. I become a bumblebee. My hands and body do things I demand them not to. They rustle with my hair and buzz around my clothes tucking things in and pushing things out. Sweat shudders over my skin. I could cross the street right now and cower among the greenage. I could bear the rancid lie of my distractedness. My feet are ridiculous and keep moving forward. I narrow my eyes and stare at his forehead–just a piece of skin with hair on it. His melody is placid, repetitious and plays over and over in my head. My feet move faster. A malicious pebble contradicts me and I am going down. Arms reach out to capture me and a voice whispers, “Are you okay?”
Josh Wardrip Josh Wardripâ€™s fiction has appeared in Exquisite Corpse, The Barcelona Review, The Ampersand Review, and other publications. Born in Owensboro, Kentucky, he studied at the University of Kentucky and Texas State University. He currently lives in Austin, Texas, where he works as an audio engineer.
The Design of Things After graduating from high school, Rana was accepted to Ocytos College, a small liberal arts school in La Tansit, which was far, far away from Kraft-Meere, where she had resided since birth. Rana’s father resisted, stressing that she should attend an affordable local college and pursue a more pragmatic course of study. In protest, Rana decided not to go to college at all. She did not speak to her father for the next four years. I wasn’t very interested in all of this, but I listened anyway, secretly applauding her father’s decision. Had Rana gone to Ocytos, we probably wouldn’t have met and wouldn’t be here together right now. Hoping to get back to the point, I offered Rana more drugs and kissed her again. Her story then branched into a litany of familial discord, compelling me to examine the graffiti on the bathroom wall just above her head. There, I found narratives of a different sort. One pertained to conspiracies surrounding certain contemporary events. The multiple authors appended affirmations or refutations of the original scribbler’s claims, often digressing into musings on the sexual practices of other commentators. Rana broke from her story mid-sentence, concerned that she’d lost her stash. A quick search confirmed as much. I had plenty of my own, however, and too much, I knew, would mean certain disaster. So I consoled her – it would be all right – and we did a little more. Then it happened, sooner than anticipated, and Rana was undoing me. Fearing the worst, I resisted for a moment, but then relented, recalling the things that make life bearable. The worst happened. Undeterred, she worked harder, and I came to respect her – or respect her more. I already admired her obstinance in the face of her father’s stifling prudence, as well as the disregard for propriety that landed her here with me in the first place. The noisy world outside the door is foreign, its languages ever-shifting. There, I’m someone else. Confinement suits me best. Rana moves with ease and grace between the two spheres, fluent in their tongues and wise to their customs. She is desired by many. A few years prior, I abruptly shifted gears, abandoning the predictable for the uncertain. I was older than Rana, older than she realized, and she’d not yet entered the world I had already circumnavigated. For this reason, it could never work. Things that were fresh for her had become banal for me. What mattered was whether it would work right now. A miracle, and I began to swell. She gagged and stopped, and I struggled not to deflate. Overcoming the reflex, she resumed. As I reached full protrusion, she worked faster. I burst, and she moaned approval, taking time to ensure I was fully emptied. Rana thanked me and exited. I lingered. There is no joy in this; there never is. There are drives and there is fear of loneliness and dying. Egregious flaws in the design.
Mathilde MacGillicuddy Mathilde McGillicuddy is currently undergoing treatment for her curious erotic fixation on the works of Dr. Seuss. Her therapist recommended that she "write out" her feelings.
Developmentally Appropriate Does it make me repressed If I like to do it dressed? As a restaurant guest (You might have guessed) No it don’t – if it do Then I’m wrong – but with you I want to do what’s wrong, All along. All in long. Know what I want to do? Never wanted before you? I think you do. Yes I do. I. do. You*. May I change the subject briefly? It must-be-said: Will you pin me to the bed Will you make me turn all red Will you fuck me in the head? Oh my. (Can I spread it on my bread ?) Oh my. Oh my! What a stand up guy You can look me in the eye. Won’t you please, please try. See, it’s just a part of you. I accept it. I do. All of you. It’s true. If it’s just a little bitter, it ain’t broke. It’s sweet. So I like it. It’s a treat. On my back. On my feet. In a grassy field of wheat. Salty, sweet and alive - just like you. Your goo. *Yes you.
Kyle Hemmings Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. In his spare time he hangs out at the wrong pubs and talks to pissed off cab drivers. His work has been featured in various print and online journals.
A Check Out Girl One Friday Night in Des Moines She keeps her fried clam of a soul at the bottom of the cash register, entertains a sexual fantasy about every fifth customer who doesn't look like her husband, pouchy, bald, and verbal only one day of the week, makes love like a Trappist Monk constantly in retreat. Tonight, she plans to elope with the truck driver who always orders five seconds on coffee and apple crumb, his steely gray eyes a highway to America's interiors, a skywalk for fools who once believed everything was salvageable or bridgeable. She sneaks petty cash into her Calla Lily scented bra, miscounts with proper intention the tips and in the bathroom, her lips take on an incorrigible maroon gloss. The only one who knows of her plan is a diehard divorcee with varicose veins and tobacco stained teeth. Says "Hope you know what you doing. If things don't work out..." And she slips a phone number into her pocket. The doors lock, the elopers climb into the cab, and he reassures her that his assets will meet her demand. And somewhere over the Des Moines Rapids, just when his eyes close and behind them, he meets his second wife for a rendezvous, promises her that he'll stay welded to her bed, and next to him, Friday's girl giving him the best head this side of Polk County, the truck veers, flies into the air and takes on a life all its own.
John J. Trause John J. Trause is a Pushcart Prize nominee and library director. He is the author of the poetry chapbooks Seriously Serial and Latter-Day Litany (which was staged Off-Off Broadway). His translations, poetry, and art appear in: Sensations, Cover, Global City Review, Xavier Review, Radix, NowCulture, The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow, Off the Coast, The Journal of NJ Poets, Lips, Xcp, Offerta Speciale, Plainsongs, and elsewhere. John participated in The Visible Word Project (DeBaun Auditorium), an event series which paired poets and artists. He co-founded the WCW Poetry Cooperative in Rutherford, New Jersey.
15 Blowout and Virginity Reconstructed IN CASE OF BLOWOUT THINK MILK THICK MILK DRINK MILK Cruising the California coast in a convertible, going down, up Route One / Pacific Coast Highway Nan turns service station twentysix times for the Rat Pack: Frankie, Sammy, Joey, Peter, Dean and gang, a guttural gang bang, gliding back and forth from lap to lap and sliding front to back long before JUST SAY NO was the way to go, going her way. Just open up and say ah until the starlet-cum-harlot turning scarlet, Scarlet, you’re turning scarlet, Scarlet, turns white : immaculate transformation into the Bride of Ron, passing through the Ivory Gate, Virginity Reconstructed.
NOTE: For Nancy David and Ronald Reagan
Mommy, help Mommy, help me push Mommy, help me Mommy, help me push the Button, Mommy Help me, Mommy, Push the Button, Help Backing forward into the wall astride a horse and six-feet-tall the finest leader of them all orders decaf GOT MILK? and tickles the scones of the Iron Bitch aboard a ship, shoots from the hip, while red Nancy takes a flying fall, and right of right is right for all. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall! “Ich bin ein Berliner” I am a scone. I am the State. I am in charge. I get a charge. You gotta charge. Get a charge card, and Grenada grenaded gratuitously. Just say yes. Did you say no? I don’t recall I don’t recall And over all the falling pall of oblivion and reconstruction, a miasma of trouble turned national malaise, now La-La Land, descends on all. I don’t recall The convertible wanders hall to hall and exits through the Horny Gate. Raise the Iron Curtain. Attend a ball. Plot a coup, and after all Mommy, help me push
Chikatilo Lactans Portrait of a Serial Killer This will not be a confession full of repentance, no pentimento from behind these bars of my cage, no idiot ramblings of an idiot with only words to play with, for I am as sane as my breasts are full of milk and my belly big with child. No craquelure will crack a confession out of me, no hidden meanings, no evidence to convict me in the red hour of the mad beast, and Iâ€™ll rim you too. My how you have grown in the Winter Palace or riding in a sleigh, Maria, Tatiana, Olga, no resurrection included, no resolution, no mindless exercises in power, industry, pageantry, pomp, no bogus god born flat, no Roman offed in a cellar, but I too love blood. My, my, how pretty you are, and should I ask where you are going? Remain with me awhile in these woods. My belly will be full soon, if only I can stifle the muffled rustling, the muffled sobbing in the mauve boudoir, Mother mothering my motherhood and Mother Russia instead of raising a son, so let him rest in peace -- pieces of New Rome. NOTE: For Andrei Chikatilo (1936-1994), Soviet-era cannibal serial killer
17 Cloten on the Creek The buzzing flies The splashing fish They moves around this livin’ man from “Livin’ Man” a folk song That bitch! To end up in a ditch, a sluggish slush of water, as a head, a disembodied river-sprite. A head dead, moving, bobbing bubble bubble in the sluggish flush of a creek bubble bubble that passes past Milford-Haven. The queen's son's head in the flush, the sluggish slush, the pulsing gush, moving bubble bubble, a head that longed to wear a crown or raise a song, paraclausithyron, or plot a rape, down the creek bubble bubble at Milford-Haven. Ah, the place where rape or murder plotted once ends now in bubble bubble. And as it bobs bubble bubble rolling bubble on the creek in its rush to the sea bubble the head cries out in anguish see! it sings out Imogen! bubble bubble Oh Imogen! and again it cries Imogen to the sea see! bubble bubble its propempticon it moves and with the flush the bounding rush to the sea the sea and its vast hush NOTE: See William Shakespeare, Cymbeline Act IV, Scene 2
Sergio A. Ortiz Sergio A. Ortiz earned a Bachelor of Arts in English literature from Inter-American University, and a Master of Arts in philosophy from World University. His poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in: The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, and Poui: Cavea Hill Journal of Creative Writing. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009).
Having a Stroke I marched myself into the emergency room but first I checked the ceiling to make sure none of my dead were hanging around. An electrocardiogram revealed names and addresses of every man that climbed my bed from 93 to 99. One name showed up and it was kind of faded. Dr. Bangdiwala said Omar left the outer tissue of my life pumping muscle slightly hardened. Dr. Dosal gave no indication of a stroke. He seemed more impressed by my joviality. So much so, he handed me his business card and asked all sorts of questions about my mattress. but I knew death was hounding the inner circle of my mind on a kayak. She had on cutoffs, very short cutoffs. I mean, so short you could almost see her black vagina. Hell was wherever that cunt was and she was in my room inside a nurse’s uniform stealing the 90 bucks my aunt gave me for Christmas. She knew I wasn’t really dying because she couldn’t see that “Oh, Dear God, please, forgive me for taking it in the butt and sucking every last drop of whatever it was that came out of it. Forgive the group sex, bathhouses, truck stops, altar rails, preachers and priests, the Texas State football team in El Paso. I was young and ignorant of consequences. The only poet I read back then was Oscar Wilde. So you see, love and loyalty were not yet options.”
KJ Hays KJ lives in Orange County, California. He tries to spend as little time as possible thinking about the world or other people. Unfortunately, he lives here too. When he is not thinking about the world, he tries to figure out ways to be nice to other people without using money. His works have been published in: Strong Verse, decomp, Prick of the Spindle, Bewildering Stories, Sex and Murder, and Grey Sparrow.
21 unscheduled stop & chat the torch glance shading the air too long a dark joyous hair yank to the concrete bored road workers order the pastrami she is all alone wrapped around his body he is all alone inside the cave in her legs her hard arcs into the long street fade tired he slopes: the brush swipes ease all the pain they play act a contrary parody of the sordid insufferable buttfuck of a postmodern moment with their lips nicking the eyelids of the space separating them like deadbolts in sleeping cars with their tongues sharing a seat on the subway politely enough to ignore the odor of human punch with their walkway of genitals linking an underground portal of deodorant, sweat, and cigarette smoke close enough to beauty for the crazy to wave so long to life with a leap in front of the powerful locomotive of death coming so noisy fast through their vanishing ears they open their eyes at the same time the girl on her spine does as the man's insides splash warming her tunnel with sterile possibilities of nothing so meaningful that they have to be warehoused and serialized with each effort to keep track showing how inconsequential the greedily burgeoning numbers that hold our places in this line of talking bodies watching them coil fuck on the ground nearby, whispering the magazine's words: this article is titled what to do when wet dreams dry up love is a riddle going sour on her thighs' coffee shop cup curve half submerged in that puddle holding her grey & somehow greying skirts oh so lily pad still in the button push VCR progression speed of time deflowering nobody and everybody so that no one needs to open up and talk well, they're certainly holding their own after work lets out support group right then & there are not they? i'll call out her name tag; say my nametag, hi my name is the cover story here claims that by the next century or so human thought will have that extra wanted nuance to create perversions so complex that no one will fuck it will feel really awkward if the lovers decide to enter into our conversation before this late train finally stops
Mamacita Cries Apocalypse the rainbow broke apart into thick hideous hunks of color like a fat lolli cracking against the surface of pebbled glass as the dwindling raindrops cued the fire sale slaughter of my orifice swollen so horrifically at the hands of that sad man who had the pink tip on that cock of wrath of his hulking around in my sopping pussy a massive lance tilting cruel into my hot soft cunt backed by the weight of the saddle of this salacious fourth horseman a different red moon scowled down at me & my spine bit the ground like a collapsed cactus screams flowered out of my blue tense lips begging death from he who told me i would never walk funny again because the sun was now a gouged out blindness in the sky hiding all the vultures tingling the curves of my feet gone numb sounds of all the wind chimes gone deaf to the breeze on the concrete dogs choking on their coarse howls the shaft slurping out in long winds only to steady & swerve deeper till i cried his name and he went away...
PDA the swift pound in me has no rhythm a hammer slapping down in this night we've been dating in the parking lots i bounce my skull looney tunes upon his snail throat lurking from the ooze puddle of its fat body as i eat his cum a quick second before he's up my thighs so many great things happen when he's in me like, but for example, i lied there and the cute minuscule stars pricked holes in the sky; it was like the lite brite i had when i was a little girl who spent all night jumping on her bunk bed now he is using my body like a spring & itâ€™s good to be loved by a boy with a mortal hard on for you that boy's cock is a death binky i wrap myself in at night, & i'm not planning on settling down soon he always knows; he knows; so we took turns holding my pajamas & a pair of scissors & when we cut a snowflake out of it, he made me put it back on & then he begged me to fall onto the thick of his dick; i melted when i piled onto the drift of him, then we did the and then again & again till there was no more then left to &
Penelope Dee Penelope Dee is a photographer by day and a writer by night. Her husband says he forgives her for her indiscretions with the blank page, but she doesnâ€™t believe him; she suspects heâ€™s having a vengeful affair of his own.
Restraint On some days when it was over, I would notice that I was sitting indianstyle, and on those days I would spend the whole walk home thinking about how ridiculous I must have been to take such a chance. I'd rub at the indentations on my knees where the thick grass had become so unbearable that I would unknowingly shift my position, at the risk of being seen. I would chide myself for being such a “little princess.” That was what he called them, with a guttural disgust, usually when he was already in them, sometimes before, when he would first hit them. Later, he would also call them “sluts” and “whores,” but never “cunts,” which I often waited for, expecting him to suddenly transform into my father, the one time when I saw him hit my mother. This man's punches were different, though. There was something machine-like about his swinging. I had watched so many times that I could almost predict what kind of mark they'd make, and how many days before the bruise would fully blossom. One of the girls shoved me against a locker once, when she saw me staring at the welt above her cheek. I think I might have smiled a little, it being the first time I'd predicted right. I suppose that set her off. She was taller than most of the others, and her lanky arms waved a bit like the tall grass when he first threw her down. I remember that he laughed while he was holding her, but only for a few seconds. When I would get home I would lay on the bed and tuck my wrists under the headboard. I'd tighten my entire body for as long as my young muscles could hold me, but the tautness was never quite enough. I needed hands on me.
Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the first B...