Page 10

anand salve, marc carver, paul hostovsky, zachary frisch. Blameworthy

How I Find the Time to Write

When the sun at the brink of dawn I remember you, Even at the brink of dusk I remember you, It’s all about thinking of you day and night. Is it I am blameworthy……

Today I steal it from my employer who writes me up or maybe fires me when he catches me writing this poem on his time. I don’t pay you for this, he says, holding it up to my face, slapping it once hard with the back of his hand for emphasis, like a perfect rhyme. I wince because I don’t like perfect rhymes in my poems, and I parry with this line about apocalyptic eschatology which throws him off completely. So now we’re arm wrestling on his desk, pushing and squeezing and perspiring when his secretary knocks on the doorjamb and we both look up. She has the loveliest breasts of all the secretaries. She announces matter-of-factly that henceforth she will be my secretary not his secretary and that’s when I slam his arm down on his desk which is my desk now with my poem on it and my sweat and his blood and her breasts in it and all the time in the world for it.

By: Anand Salve

One day I smiled, The next day I was filled with hatred, I buried you alive, Is it I am blameworthy…….. The day I met you I was ecstatic, With no reason I fell in love with you, As if you were the fragrance that filled my soul, Is it I am blameworthy…… I came to you to give my heart back, Instead you stab my heart, Leaving it bleeding down the street, Why I love you so much, there is no answer for that. I crossed all shores to reach you, Every moment of life has you and only you, Is this the reason I am blameworthy…… You have seal my soul and made it of no use, Be happy where you go and stay, It’s not like I am complaining, I really like this pain, But still somewhere I feel I am blameworthy………….

I Dream of Death. By: Marc Carver

There are Raphael paintings in the sky by day as clouds race by. The days are mostly the same too but i never see the same clouds. Day is now night and how bright that moon is. Not full, just like a eye. The all seeing eye. If it turned and looked it would see straight into my heart if i let it. Only good men die on nights like this. Warm death blanketed by dreams whispering the journey for you my friend is over. 10

By: Paul Hostovsky

There Is Always Time By: Zachary Frisch

I want you to be my Judas, my plague; my hollow wind. I want your subtle madness inked upon roads; dragged upon skin. I want such haunted beauty, it aspires; it transcends, the forms we lay in open ground, shallow graves; plots of men. I want such bloody love, such devastation; such devotion, to never regret the cogs we turned in life, that we designed; we set in motion. Finally, I want a tortured soul, to repair; to piece together, to tread upon a lake of fire that never quells; that flows and burns (forever)

Profile for Chris Talbot-Heindl

The Bitchin' Kitsch February 2013 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...

The Bitchin' Kitsch February 2013 Issue  

The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...

Advertisement