Iambic Ixplosion

“Tweet From the Third Pew”

by Timothy Pilgrim

 

Kneeling now

head bowed

 

seem to pray

hand making cross

 

other, low, tapping phone.

Priest’s eyes on me

 

hungry, intense, blue

his thumbs down too.

 

 

“A Victory for Electronics”

by C.H. Nissan 

 

Disparity I have beholden

You were once my lover

Gate-keeper to my innermost desires

Savior of the misanthrope I was destined to be

Passionate love-making was our good morning

It was our sleepless good night

In which the sheets were saturated

With the liquid byproducts of our joint thrust

Oh how tragedy has befallen me!

Since you have sought pleasure elsewhere

For it was I who used to be your giver

Yet you now take from a vibrating sausage

 

 

“TV Dinner His Ass”

by AJ Huffman

 

When he promises to cook, sweep, do

the laundry for you, then flakes

out, claims he’s running

late or just forgot and ran

out of time.  Just wait till he falls

asleep in his recliner, then wrap

him in a few dozen rolls of aluminum

foil, a snazzy snug-fitting blanket.

Pull it up to his chin, then stick a fork in

his mouth.  Turn on

gas stove.  Blow out

pilot light.  Walk twenty-

three steps from your front door, look

back, light torch, toss with smile

spread proudly across your face.

Half a blink later, trust me, he will be

well, and truly, done.

 

 

“Ode to A Guilty Pleasure”

by Rebecca Kurtz

 

Forever a friend

Always present

At the end of my most dismal days

You fill the chasm of my boredom

You connect me to the world

You satisfy my rapturous gaze

Such a sense of enthrall

As I gaze wall-to-wall

My love for you is never ending

This, I swear to you;

I’ll always be true

Our friend requests never pending

I’ll stick to our untattered creed

As I’ll check my newsfeed

and at my messages, I’ll take a look

For, despite your treacherous distraction

From actual human interaction

You are my guilty pleasure, oh, facebook.

 

 

 

“Dweeb scarfs down yellow thing on a stick”

by Timothy Pilgrim

 

Not corn dog skewered nor mustard shrimp,

impaled nonetheless — saffron treat

 

bought hot, black van, mid-block,

downtown, busy street. Not one clue

 

who dweeb is, his Facebook page,

where he lives. No redemption takes place,

 

no hate erased. Yet yellow glob gone,

dweeb too, with iPhone, poof,

 

head down, thumbs busy, thorny crown,

up dark alley in gold Subaru.

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