Hi! If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to our RSS feed, follow us on Instagram, Twitter, and Telegram, and subscribe to our YouTube channel. Thanks for visiting!
A true story:
The Baltimore Orioles had just beat the Red Sox
in ten nail-biting baseball innings. But there were no
joyful cheers that day. Instead of high-fives, fans
exchanged worried glances. Instead of filing toward the exits,
they remained frozen in their seats.
In the hood, the people are restless.
They don’t want to be there. It’s too ghetto,
they say, the whole set up. Gospel music
has stopped. Rap won’t let up. They’re wretched.
It’s depressing. Even $100 nails don’t cut it.
Sounds like the country is readying for the O.K. Corral
at High Noon. It’s either the alt-right OR the alt-left
to the rescue. Some profess to like the black philosopher,
Cornel West. Others, Louis Farrakhan. Then there’s
Richard Spencer and Milo who for some always sound right.
The stadium loudspeakers sounded again: “Ladies and gentleman,
due to an ongoing public safety issue, the mayor of Baltimore
and the BCPD have asked all fans to remain inside the ballpark
until further notice.”
Then silence…except for a distant white noise…
…the sound of an enraged mob tearing through stores, police, and bystanders…
just outside the stadium walls.
Something had gone terribly wrong in the city that night…
Some words from our brother, Mr. James Brown himself:
Please.
Please.
Please.
PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE.
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
Pleeeeasah.
Pleeeeasah.
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
Pleeeease.
Our church has no bells.
They call it virtue signaling, this thirst for recognition.
What is this hunger? Starved for attention, craving
spiritual nookie, folks out there need more than Sunday
school cookies. Who are we?
Thomas Wilkinson, Esq., London, wrote last week, eager
to offer his services, should I request them. He must
be related to poor Mr. Negri, as I recall his name, who emailed
several months ago, on urgent business in the matter of some
twelve million bucks.
He just needs a small favor and the money is mine;
he is offering a contract. “Send along your bank
account number,” he instructs, and your wallet. He’ll need
my birthdate, my passport, and my telephone number. Once
he has all the information, he’ll see the transfer through.
Baby odors, perspiration-saturated bras…
Women clamber to breast feed in public; men
seek surgery so their tits will lactate.
One smells diapers, never a good sign;
there’s baby power on the jack boots. Fascists
tend to be sentimental; Hitler was maudlin.
Men hunger to wear girdles, have their hair done,
paint their nails. Their fingers smell of cum.
Drag queen nation, let it go; be done with it:
wax lips, Beatles wigs; the nostalgia is killing us.
Where’s John Wayne? My mum wants a man to kiss
her hand.
The men are lined up with the ladies waiting to powder
their noses. Will they talk about cocksucking between stalls?
When men use the little girls’ room, are they still ladies?
The self-pity is nauseating. Bring back the draft. Let the men
fuck on the battlefield. Nothing wrong with a little love.
If Mr. James Brown is not available, I’ll take Jagger:
Please.
Please.
Please.
PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE.
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
Pleeeeasah.
Pleeeeasah.
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
Pleeeease.
Where Muslims live, sexual assaults increase.
Only the virgins deny it. A pinch for these guys
is not enough and certainly not just a look.
They demand a poke and are willing to slap to get it.
Some say they wouldn’t do that. Some insist
they know right from wrong. Others suggest instruction
is needed. Teach the foreign lads to respect our little
girls. Leer but don’t rape. Go online.
Subscribe to Playboy. First ask. Beg, as we do.
What they hell: pay. For heaven’s sake, learn some
manners. Don’t you Muslims get it? Won’t you ever learn?
In the West, you can get all the pussy you want:
Just find yourself a girl who wants you.
Mick?
Please.
Please.
Please.
PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE.
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
Pleeeeasah.
Pleeeeasah.
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
Pleeeease.
This is another installment in our common tale of woe.
In my pain I accidentally hit send.
I’ve been home-bound since I fell and broke my knee bone.
Walking with crutches, so haven’t made it to the post office lately…
English, it can be said, is a language of pronouncements;
American remains one of confession.
The deplorables versus the insufferable: you choose.
My mother calls them ghastly. As she says, don’t forget to lower the lid.
There it is, civilization in one simple directive. Will it be followed?
That is the question. If you ask me, our only hope now lies in reaching
Captain Sinister at the Oreo Palace.
David Lohrey is from Memphis. His plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and Lithuania. His poetry can be found in Otoliths (AUS), Tuck Magazine (UK), Terror House Magazine (Hungary), and The Cardiff Review (Wales). David’s fiction can be read online at Dodging the Rain, Storgy Magazine, and Literally Stories. His newest collection of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishers (Houston, 2017). David is also the author of Bluff City, available from Terror House Press. He lives in Tokyo.