Volume 5, Issue 5 May 2014 1
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 creativity. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.
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table of contents.
11 - Bull Terrier, Christopher Barnes
21 - I Am Not the Man You Are Looking For, JD DeHart
11 - Purple, Lauren Page
21 - Thus Spoke the Father, Sushant Supriye
12 - Event Promotion, Charles Richard
22 - Untitled, Anonymous
13 - Trips to the Refrigerator, Chase Spruiell
22 - Bowling with Your Exes, Kushal Poddar
13 - Megyn Kelly Talks Garbage, Chris Talbot-Heindl
23 - Hey, where’d the mailbox go?, Sissy Buckles 24 - Moldivite Wrap, David Scott 25 - Fundamentally One, Arif Ahmad
Charles Richard - pg. 12
26 - Rehab Stories: Christmas in Rehab, David Rutter
On the Cover
27 - Emma’s poem, Jens Jebsen
Princess Dana Talbot-Heindl Photograph
27 - The Sun, Mandal Bijoy Beg 28 - Donors and Index
On the Back Cover Angry Reef W. Jack Savage Painting
W. Jack Savage - pg. 14
In This Issue
14 - The Clearing Offered No Comfort, W. Jack Savage
4-7 - The Fifthy-Seven Other Ways, Michael Prihoda 8 - Sunrise Crisacola Wrap, David Scott 9 - Poetaster, Michael C. Keith 10 - Ray of Hope, The Escort
15 - Fingerprints, Kirsten Pohlplatz 16-19 - Embarcadero, Ben Leib 20 - A Spider & Fly Collaboration: Delivering Us to Heaven and Hell, Roo Bardookie and Louis Marvin
David Scott - pg. 24
The Fifty-Seven Other Ways By: Michael Prihoda
Me and Andy hated the atmosphere at the Blue Angel. But after it happened, that didn’t stop Andy from going every night and it didn’t stop me from joining him every night, at least for a bit. I never stayed as late as Andy. The bartender always kicked Andy out when closing time came. He felt sorry for him because the bartender knew what happened. Everybody knew what happened. If people didn’t know, they just had to look in Andy’s eyes and instant knowledge exploded through their cerebrum, almost uncannily.
michael prihoda (con’t). I don’t think it’s fair to say Andy was trying to drink himself to death with his nightly endeavors but then again, I’m not sure what is fair to say about the whole thing. Fair isn’t really an operative word in his circumstance. I suppose Andy’s presence at the bar was ironic and worth hating because irony is worth hating, I think. No matter where it crops up. Because irony is fate slapping humanity across the face, each instance a swift reminder we have little control over anything. Yet when it comes to death, fate handed us the keys to the car and said drive over cliffs if you desire. There’s enough fuel in the tank to secure our demise, every time, without fail. I knew Andy from high school and now we were thick into our college years. Nobody knew if Andy would go back next fall or not. Everybody recognized this was already, and from a historical perspective, going to be the worst summer of Andy’s life. Andy never had a mother. Somebody gave birth to him of course, but nowadays that hardly guarantees motherhood. Maybe that isn’t a big deal in the scope of things but it makes me shiver. His grandparents lived close and I remember the way their eyes met mine a couple weeks ago. I saw more sorrow for their grandson than I’d ever seen in two pairs of eyes. Andy’s eyes couldn’t meet anyone’s so I don’t know what they looked like. Mostly his eyes stared at whatever hands held his in commiseration. All their hands tried imparting empathy through fingertips. All hugs took on philosophical meanings, as if one arm were Kant and the other Derrida, nobody knowing what they were trying to say nonverbally. I wanted to smash all the decorations in that place.
Violence grows from two emotions: anger and anguish. Ever since that day, Andy and me squatted on a couple shabby wooden barstools at the Blue Angel and drank until I got tired and then Andy drank alone until he got kicked out. I’m sure he didn’t meet the bartender’s eyes. Too many layers of sympathy and compassion, it would have broken Andy’s tender shell. He tried establishing a demeanor of stoic acceptance but he was a twig trying to withstand a hurricane. He kept snapping. Eventually I started counting the other ways it could have happened. The ways that might not have caused Andy to end up at a bar, adding alcohol to his turbulent ocean of sorrow. Andy chose to drink at the Blue Angel for a very specific, very tragic reason. The first night we drank there together, Andy turned to me, halfway through beer number one, and said, “I’m trying to stay optimistic about this.” I almost asked “how” but refrained. That word would have been a wrecking ball. Drinking was how. Andy knew that, knew his method’s inferiority in this circumstance; I couldn’t blame his coping mechanism. I’m sure he wasn’t the first to retaliate against the world this way. Amber anarchy. At least he didn’t buy a handgun and make the news for shooting a few clips at school kids. One night Andy said “You remember Steve’s younger brother?” “Yeah, the quiet one.”
continues g 5
michael prihoda (con’t). “Steve brought him to a bonfire I had in high school and I remember putting my arm around him as I pissed into a cornfield. I probably said stupid things,” Andy went quiet again. This was the most words he had strung together in over a week. Usually I provided scattered, incoherent conversation, as vague attempts at distracting him but also myself. I began playing games with what I’d say, picking the random things that sprouted in my brain. Generally I’d receive half-invested nods of affirmation at auditory acceptance or else Andy would respond by taking a drink, which I came to realize meant he had heard and wasn’t going to say anything back. I partially remembered the night he mentioned. I was surprised he remembered that singular detail about Steve’s brother, who often hung around with us because Steve carried a lot of weight in our friend group. And Steve’s brother was actually pretty cool, albeit quiet, and he laughed when we told jokes and didn’t get obnoxious and did things like allowing Andy to prop himself against his shoulder when he was barely-standing-drunk at a bonfire Andy hosted years ago. We probably roasted corn and Steve’s brother probably didn’t eat any because he never ate or drank. He was just there in a good way. So I suppose it isn’t strange that Andy remembered him for this. Maybe Andy gathered some deep connection from this night and the night we were sharing in the Blue Angel, another among many. I knew in a couple months the summer would end and I would leave but Andy would never leave, maybe never leave that barstool until he crumpled over dead any random night. Once, as I was leaving, the bartender cornered me. “Do you know why he won’t finish his last drink?” “What do you mean?” I said.
“No matter how drunk he is he always leaves a few ounces and begs me not to pour it out but to leave it for him until the next night. Then he asks me to fill it up with those few ounces of old beer still at the bottom.” “I have no idea.” I really didn’t have any idea. A few nights later I asked Andy why he did this. He denied doing any such thing. The next night I stayed until closing and watched it happen. Me and the bartender exchanged a look the way sunlight slanting through blinds exchanges a look with fresh carpeting. I cornered Andy outside the bar before we got into my car so I could drive him home. “What’s with saving the beer until tomorrow,” I asked. Andy didn’t meet my eyes. He looked painfully sober. His hands shook. “It might be my last,” he mumbled. I barely heard his words, directed as they were at the pavement. Anyway, everything seemed muted to me when spoken in summer darkness, the heaviness of the atmosphere like nature’s blanket. “What do you mean?” “I can’t stand the idea of a final drink,” he said, glancing up before averting his eyes again. He tried and failed at looking me in the eyes. I wondered if this was the way he’d finally get over it, the way we’d know when he finally moved on past the initial quagmire phase. I thought of another way it could have happened. Number fifty-six. In my head I asked, “final drink?” Somehow he knew to continue without my vocalizing anything.
michael prihoda (con’t). “I can’t leave knowing I’ve finished my last drink. I always have to leave some for the next day, in case I die.” He almost choked on the last word. It held an awful weight of blood. I stayed silent and Andy said one more thing before we got in my car. “I bet he finished his last drink before he killed my dad.” Andy’s hands shook even harder and I could see violence born from anger beginning its eruption through his body. I thought he might punch the dashboard or find some other random enemy. Anything looks evil if we make it so. Then his rage vanished and Andy looked toward the street. “I need to piss.” I walked him around the back of the bar and he unzipped. He leaned against my shoulder, dizzy more from the constant crisis in his heart than consumed alcohol. I heard the dazzling sound of his urine stream hitting the asphalt behind the Blue Angel and it reminded me of yet another way it could have happened. Hearing Andy pissing against the ground behind the Blue Angel, I thought of the fifty-seventh other way Andy’s dad could have died besides being killed in a car accident by a drunk driver. I’m sure there are lots more. And I’m sure none of them result in Andy’s inability to finish his last drink.
Second Space Send proposals to Steph Jones at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Sunrise Crisacola Wrap David Scott Sunrise Crisacola and Copper
michael c. keith.
By: Michael C. Keith Look at the wreck that is my verse Awkward, flimsy, and poorly shaped No Auden or Elliot does my pen excel Just words and sentences I have aped
* Iâ€™ll not pretend my lyrics are sonorous Each rhyme reveals an inane attempt My couplets and quatrains dull as ever Never reaching the heights Iâ€™ve dreamt * He writes with a feeble hand, the critics all say Better off he dig a ditch Suit him more than his arid quill That renders such awful kitsch
the escort. Ray of Hope
By: The Escort
From an Unknown Overseer, From a Distant Planet They have always killed the peaceful ones. They have always enslaved with chains or ideas, the ones from a different culture. They can kill, torture, maim or enslave those less than them, as their â€œGodâ€? has ordained them to do this. We have watched them from the beginning of their time, when they realized they were not the same as other creatures. They had a divine spark, tempered with want. The new peaceful regime is coming, headed by women, headed by those that do not buy into buying, headed by those that can feel us, headed by those with an optimism.
christopher barnes, lauren page. Bull Terrier
By: Christopher Barnes Quotes: Scruffy Pups How can it be monikered ‘jocundity’? All the toilet water in Fenwick’s Won’t clean-slate it. “Sticky jaws, foxtails, fleas and ticks Are the bane of the country dog” An acrid overpowering, She toe-holds as a stench garland. “A regime of brushing and combing” No indecorum is given That has such throw-back seemliness Than to Promised Land squiggle on a cowpat And smudge it onto a fastidious man’s Levis. “A firm ‘NO’ should suffice” * Daz Biological Laundry Powder X Keep Out Of Reach Of Children. Risk Of Serious Damage To Eyes. In The Case Of Contact With Eyes, Rinse Immediately With Plenty Of Water And Seek Medical Advice. Wear Eye-Face Protection. If Swallowed, Seek Medical Advice Immediately And Show This Container Or Label.
By: Lauren Page You hide it as an act of altruism. The reds, the blues- the overlap. The last color under the rainbow. An under believed afterthought. Hypothetically, you’ll come out as half (‘cause to them, you will never be whole). “Dear, sweet brother, I am the epitome of half your phobia.” The color of high-pitched sound waves, that is your parents’ shrill, unsettling screaming: A purple path to a fiery flambo Hell. Prince’s hit song, your mother cries. Your father throws down his eggplant parmesan. One day, you will have no reason to repent.
Event Promotion Charles Richard Graphic Design
chase spruiell, chris talbot-heindl. Trips To The Refrigerator By: Chase Spruiell
4 trips to the refrigerator might make me a lesser man if you were looking my way The silence reeks of invisibility My mouth is too warm for sobriety 7 trips to the refrigerator might make me a lonely man if your eyelids were open My reflection is too sinister to keep this mirror standing 12 trips to the refrigerator might make me a dying man if you were somebody around I am now too far beneath the bed to be safely under the covers
Megyn Kelly Talks Garbage Chris Talbot-Heindl Ink on paper
w. jack savage.
The Clearing Offered No Comfort W. Jack Savage Painting
kirsten pohlplatz. Fingerprints
By: Kirsten Pohlplatz Based on Chuck Close’s Painting, Marta, in the Brauer Museum of Art at Valparaiso University The smudges are ants always moving remapping the curves of her still body. Every new spot, a brushstroke, highlights a cheekbone, darkens some part deep within. It is said everyone you meet leaves an trace and you’ve seen every person you dream about. Still she senses their shadows on her skin long after they’ve left on the subway in the dark or blended into a crowd or kissed her goodbye. And those platitudes don’t excuse the shame she feels each night in the shower, scrubbing raw, looking for some dark stream to wash, swirling, down the drain. Wanting nothing of the artwork she’s become, an imprint left behind, marking everyone’s path but her own. With every new day and new person, prints shift, making room for another blemish. The layers build, pulling her down—some intricacies of beauty don’t seem that way to those who bear their weight. There is no joy where the dents of love linger past their time a reminder that not all marks are made in love. She is no one’s masterpiece to take, hang on a wall, to proudly display her stains. For she never stays the same, shifts with the passing of the sun. And if some see strangers in dreams, she lives with echoes of hers every day.
Embarcadero By: Ben Leib http://benleib.com/
Rachael arrived at the Ferry Building drenched. She had not beaten the storm. “Shit,” she said as she walked up to my table, “I had to ride my bike here from Levi’s. Do I have the skunk line?” She turned her back to me. Sure enough there was a horizontal trail from her ass to the collar of her sweatshirt where her rear tire had kicked up wet muck from the street. “Sorry to break the news…” “I already knew it.” She slumped onto the bench beside me.
ben leib (con’t). “What were you doing at Levi’s?”
We passed by an oyster bar.
“I haven’t told you? I model their Curve line. It’s funny. I go in and there are all these girls who take that shit so seriously. They’re models forever. And there I am, all grubby, sweating from my ride and barely making my shoot on time – it’s just a weird experience.”
“Do you like oysters?” I asked.
“We don’t always ask for our blessings,” I said. “One of yours happens to be your ass.”
But Rachael did watch me eat them, her lips curled in disgust.
“Not at all.” “I’m going to get a couple.” “Fine, but I’m not going to watch you eat them.”
Rachael’s and my romance had been protracted and uneventful. We’d met four months earlier, at the Chris Kroener dinner at Boot and Shoe. She served my table. I was just passing through at the time, staying on Nineteenth Street in Oakland, on my buddy Joe’s couch. She laughed when I told jokes and we shared mutual friends, so I figured that the flirtation might be genuine, something more than waitress protocol.
We settled on Frog Hollow Farm for lunch. There was no indoor seating, but we found a table outside beneath an awning and the rain had relented enough that we wouldn’t get wet sitting there. Or, I’d stay dry and Rachael wouldn’t get any wetter.
I asked for her phone number when dinner ended. Two days later, we were bullshitting over afternoon drinks in Café Van Kleef. “They make the best greyhound in town,” she told me, and then guffawed when I ordered water. But Rachael was a busy girl and I was going back to sea, and that was the last we saw of each other for six weeks. --Rachael and I walked through the Ferry Building, looking for a good place to eat lunch. The problem we faced: since it had begun raining, every eatery seemed full to capacity. Normally folks would be dining outdoors, bayside, or strolling along the pier, but the downpour had driven them all to take shelter.
Frog Hollow Farm had a couple of specials on the menu. We ordered one of each and agreed to share them. I picked up the bill. “My condolences, by the way,” I said, “about your grandfather. I don’t think I’ve had a chance to tell you that I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thanks. It was a weird trip. I fucking hate Florida, and it was right after I got back from Vermont, so I was basically broke. But I had to go so I figured it out.” I nodded. “It turned out to be pretty good, considering the circumstances. My whole family got together, everyone was well behaved. We decided that we were going to do the best we could for each other, and, weirdly enough, a lot of shit got done.” ---
continues g 17
ben leib (con’t). Date number two: I was subletting Finberg’s place in San Francisco – up on Potrero Hill, just that side of Highway 101 from the Mission. Rachael had cancelled on me the night before because she’d been offered free tickets to a stadium concert, and when she pulled in front of Alex’s place at noon she had a bourbon hangover that made her sluggish and quiet. We went to Baker Beach that day after lunching at some Chinatown dive that served a mean pho. Rachael had suggested pho. The soup was mild and palatable enough that she could consume it despite her nausea. Rachael had a blanket in the trunk of her car, and we brought it down to the beach with us. We spread it out there and napped side by side for three hours. During intervals of consciousness, I stared at Rachael’s ass as she lay belly down and facing away from me. She drove me back to Potrero before dinner time. When she pulled in front of Alex’s place, she put the car into park. “Let me get out to say goodbye,” she said. I met her by the rear bumper. I tried to set the bottle of water I was carrying on her trunk, but it fell and rolled to the ground. I picked it up and set it on the trunk a second time. It fell and rolled all the way to the gutter. I left it there. I took Rachael by the waist, leaned in, and I kissed her. It was a sweet kiss, soft and very lovely. And then she jumped back into her car and was off to whatever plans she had made for the rest of the day. --“I don’t see how you smoke those things,” she said. “I mean, I’ll have a cigarette from time to time, but those are really awful.”
“Lucky Strikes are cool. I mean, smoking’s not cool at all. But Luckies are kind of cool. Besides, I don’t have many vices these days. I really have to take advantage of the ones I maintain.” “You’ve told me that before.” “I drink a lot of black coffee, too.” We were standing outside. The rain had slowed into something more like a mist, and it seemed a nice time to gaze at the bay, and the bridge, and the ships out there, and the seagulls. It felt like a moment. I thought I sensed a spark, and I began inching my way closer to Rachael. I looked at her and smiled, soft-eyed. I put my right hand on her waist. “Uh, watch your arm,” she said. “What?” “Watch where you’re about to put your arm.” I looked down at the railing, at my left arm. My elbow rested millimeters away from a mound of seagull shit. --We walked together back to the Embarcadero station. I offered to push Rachael’s bike, but she refused my chivalrous gesture. We ticketed our way through the automated turnstiles, and headed down the stairs to catch an East Bay line. The train car was crowded when we boarded, and having a bicycle didn’t endear us to anybody. But the other passengers accommodated us and we found standing room by the door. The train got underway. “So,” Rachael said, “there’s something I have to tell you.” “What’s up?”
ben leib (con’t). “Well, I don’t want to make any presumptions or anything, but I feel like you should know… I’ve started seeing my old boyfriend again.”
good. And with this goddamn job… I figured someone would get to you. Time wasn’t on my side.”
“Okay.” I was hoping there’d be a sub-clause to this relationship amendment, one in which I might still be in the picture.
Rachael was staring into the motionless dark of the subterranean outside the window as our train sped along.
“When my grandpa died I was a wreck. I didn’t have anyone to call. So when I picked up the phone I found myself dialing his number. He was around. It’s probably not the best decision I’ve ever made – we broke up for a reason – but there was clearly still something there...” I’d been at sea when Rachael’s grandfather had passed – unreachable by phone and totally unfuckable. --“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.” “I’m a little disappointed, too. I realized today that I miss talking to you. And it’s not like I’ve had the conversation with him yet, you know? We’re not committed. But the fact is, my heart’s not big enough right now. It’s not big enough for two. I’m sorry.” “I understand.” “Are we still friends?” I didn’t know what we were. “I won’t stop talking to you. I’ll always be glad to see you. But I was hoping something would come of this…” Rachael nodded. “…But a lot of time passed. Our timing wasn’t
--“I sensed that there was something drawing you away. And maybe I was recoiling a little bit, too. We were always already gone.” “You sensed something?” Rachael stared at me like I might be able to supply some wisdom into the nature of her own character. “I thought I did, yeah. Just a reticence, I guess. And now I’m sure of it. So I met you today hoping for one thing, but really expecting another…” The train began to slow. Now approaching MacArthur Station, the mechanized PA announced. It was my stop, and Rachael would continue eastward to Berkeley without me. We paused there as the doors slid open. Rachael leaned into me looking into my eyes, but I’d already made that mistake once, and almost got my arm covered in bird shit for my trouble. I grabbed her around the shoulders, pulled her close to me. And then I stepped from the train. I was low, but when I looked back through the window of the train car, I could have sworn I saw tears on her face. Why is she the one who gets to cry? I asked myself as the train accelerated.
roo bardookie and louis marvin. A Spider & Fly Collaboration: Delivering us to Heaven and Hell By: Roo Bardookie and Louis Marvin
Deliver These Children: To Heaven
They thought: Who is this man, now with our children, our babies? For there is no pedigree, no angel halo hanging above his head shining like a known angel So now he/I give you assurance that safely will I deliver these children across the river wide, of education But, above all else their safety is insured, no harm done no goodness undone today, and every day I teach them â€” Given the reigns just for a day, by the usual coach driver Deliver These Children: To Hell
Hunter of the innocent how wicked of you to find a job, among children What thoughts of the worst kind, have you put into the heavens and universe you tapper of the essence of the innocence in your dungeon mind To torture and debauch these mothers little angels They thought: Who have we delivered our children to? For his mindâ€™s eye is devil hell fire to satiate his unnatural wants and needs The pretend teacher of children, delivering across a lake of putrid fire Children with souls now lost, if only in your mind
jd dehart, sushant supriye. I Am Not the Man You Are Looking For
By: JD DeHart
No, far from it, I am not he I am a brown bag, a stick figure nondescript, sometimes wearing bright shades, but mostly settling for darker I blow in the breeze with little purpose, but walk in straight lines to save time; person of autumn, the sense of passage. Appreciator of a late evening, but not the man you are seeking, no the clipping does not bear my image the goatee is different, the glasses smaller, the look more intense, fierce. Probably even speaks in a different accent, probably from some metro, while I find my beginnings under trees, under A Tree, where no one else stood. My favorite sport? Walking, and I do not touch my toes because God gave me knees, so no â€“ but maybe someday, I can bring to justice the last strings of doubt.
Thus Spoke the Father By: Sushant Supriye
When I will no longer be there I will still be thereâ€” thus spoke the father I will be alive in the writings of my eldest son I will peep out of the paintings of my youngest daughter I will breathe in the self-respect of my second son I will survive in the steely resolve of my third son Just as my father lives in me and my children will live in their children so will I be saved in all of you o my childrenâ€” said our father to us.
anonymous, kushal poddar.
Untitled Anonymous Graphic Design
Bowling With Your Exes By: Kushal Poddar
One perfect roll and Those pins of memory Tumble all at once. Did not I mention On Fridays you do best? A gulp of bitterness. A hoot of shared pursuit. Baby youâ€™re the best. All silhouette, bokeh, The taste of past on your Tongue, years lost regained By this feeling of churning Fire inside. Did not I say, Brace yourself?
Hey, where’d the mailbox go? By: Sissy Buckles
I had an avante-garde idea to buy some stamps today send a note to a treasured friend tired of dispassionate computer mail and snooped upon metadata might start a trend anyway words on paper written in ink by my very own hand and maybe a funny doodle picture or two, signed then sealed from me luck love and laughter with besos XXX scarlet smear stains the back where I licked it shut and what ever happened to good old-fashioned letter writing remember those big metal red white and blue boxes used to grace every corner, they removed the one down our street last year looked all over and couldn’t find a single mail drop perpetual rising postage rates dubious corporate under the table deals selling off our common public holdings and the Postmaster General’s plans to close over 3,000 local post offices while slashing couple 100,000 jobs and no more Saturday delivery the American endgame is on when they pull the flag down we’re all in hot water.
Moldivite Wrap David Scott Moldivite and Copper
arif ahmad. Fundamentally One By: Arif Ahmad
For all of our blood spilling differences, How so different are we really? The anatomy taught in medical schools, Is it different for Muslims, Christians and Jews? Don’t we all have the same workings, the same physiology? The same disease processes, the same pathology? Or does the appendix lay different for a Shia from a Sunni? Or the neurons in the brain transmit differently? Does cancer affect an Indian and spare a Pakistani? Or Russians have two and Americans just one kidney? Does aspirin work differently for a Palestinian and an Israeli? That blood on the ground still some wet, Is theirs red and them’s mulberry? For sure the heart is where the difference has to be. Well not really, For I doctor the heart, and that is something I have yet to see. So if all shades of skin are the same within, Why such hate and to this extreme? To me it does seem akin, To darn our own self and damn our own being. For we can hurt, we can kill, to our want, to our will, And keep playing havoc, On this tiny planet, this pale blue dot. When all is, said and done, We remain “Fundamentally One”
david rutter. Rehab Stories: Christmas in Rehab By: David Rutter
My family sits Across the long table With shell shocked trepidation They push over Their presents for me I don’t deserve this, you know? Any of this Not the presents Not my family here Taking time from their day To spend it with me How well I remember Christmas last year Shooting dope In my mother’s bathroom I pulled out the needle Before I’d loosened the tie Showering the room With the spray of my blood Oh, the lies that I told To explain that away But I could tell From the stony looks On their weary faces That they knew I was a liar Through and through That even at Christmas Their belief Was not a gift They could afford To give away
My mother and father Hand over a card Inside they’ve inscribed “You are still our son.” Mom and Dad I love you so fucking much How, in God’s name Had it turned out this way Two Christmases past I was pleased with myself And the expensive gifts I had to bring the whole clan But three nights before I was mugged in the street And the small wad of cash I had saved To buy dope Was used to soften The sickness of another So, really What choice did I have? But to pawn the whole lot And show up at the door With nothing But my miserable self They’re not allowed To hug me Or touch me at all And I’ve never needed The feel of their warmth Like I need it now But as they walk out the door And turn for goodbye Against their better judgement I can see in their eyes The faint glimmer of hope That things will be different Things will be better Next Christmas
jens jebsen, mandal bijoy beg.
By: Mandal Bijoy Beg
Emmaâ€™s poem By: Jens Jebsen
I followed the truth down a gurgling creek Through the mountains of strength to the hills of the meek At the tops of the trees they hid among the sky And they screamed god why, why, do the good have to die? He answered their rage, his voice solemn through the woods we are all pretty shells, which disguise damaged goods
the sky was full of clouds, and for which the sun could not shine for some days but now the sky is clear and i can well see the sun
donors, index. artists Ahmad, Arif
Keith, Michael C.
Beg, Mandal Bijoy
27 9 16-19
Savage, W. Jack
14, 30 8, 24
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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...
Published on Apr 27, 2014
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...