the raucous man,
with the compensation
for whatever you think you
might have to compensate for,
drank too much and smacked
his lips, gorged with schooner’s life.
where do you crawl from little man?
i wanted to punch him in the face nowwho’sgoliathandwho’sthemuppetfuckerfucker? stumbling over stools and soaken floor, he’s bloody, fooled and crying inside, and pity finds disgust’s place so instead

i mulled it over, and i thought, play along and smirk and find a like mind to jeer with



Five a.m.
First Urquell
Already instead of
Call in late/sick/excuse/
Hide someplace for the rest
of the day.

Eight a.m.
Fifth Urquell
Already buzzing but there’s no
I am anguished/fearful/weak/
Run someplace for the rest
of the week.

Eleven a.m.
Tenth Urquell
Already crying and ready for a
To shake/wake/tear/
Myself someplace for the rest
of the rest.


I once met a once-charming fellow named Barlow. The first time we met, he was interested in something I had to say, but for the life of me now, I can’t remember what it was. What stuck me most about Barlow when I first met him was that his eyes were slightly different shades of green, and the left one was ever so slightly more dilated than the right one. This caused him to squint, causing the laugh lines on his left side to be more pronounced. I actually got to know Barlow quite well, and we’d often meet at the Bay Royal for a few pints of Speckled Hen, where we’d talk about politics and literature. I recall fondly one afternoon when we sat in the beer garden and laughed with futility about the lack of real political choice. I never understood Barlow’s poetry, there was always a hint of esoteric-ness, but his passion for it fed mine and my writing became more considered as a result. One Tuesday morning with Barlow at the Bay Royal, I asked him for his advice about a piece I was writing on how much greener the grass was on the other side. Barlow didn’t look at me but stood and walked to the pool table behind him. He took a cue and without warning, swung it violently, striking me across the face.  Calmly, he walked out onto the street, never looking back. This is the story about how Barlow went from being charming to being once-charming, and of how I lost my right eye to that mother fucker. I never saw Barlow again after that day. There are some days I don’t think about him, but they are few and far between, and usually accompanied by cocaine and a street whore named Desiree.

Recipe: Noah’s Special Soup

It’s the best kind of soup.
But a word of warning.
You may never go back.
To normal soup again.

Take a steak.
A real big fat one.
Heat some oil.
In a big black skillet.
Put in the steak.
But only half cook it.
Then take out the steak.
And eat it with your hands.
Go to the fridge.
Get an icy cold beer.
To wash down the steak.
Drink it all.
Without breathing.
Then belch loudly.
Now sit on your ass.
And watch football.