Issue 3
2010
$11.95

Aubade

The fuck-
ing sun has struck
its light upon the blinds,
and my nostalgic dream unwinds,
and we’re no longer fucking, and I’m sad.
I wake alone. You’ve gone back to the Dunciad.
To say we used to fuck is not wholly true. At least I
tried to make love, to blend my soul with yours, and with you fly—
like doves. To me, at least, it wasn’t just a trick.
But you left. And now any Tom or Dick
seems good enough for you. I lie
this dawn, dreaming what I
most want to do:
fuck you.

---

Final Fanfare

             “Go, bid the soldiers shoot”
                              —Hamlet

Bid them
sing an anthem
to a flat dead march tune
to mark these ends that come too soon.
You come most carefully upon your hour,
Francisco jokes. But late or early, we know our
time is coming, so bid the soldiers shoot again. And bray
the trumpets, sound the kettle drum. Yes, let the fading day
be filled with wine and laughter and, by God, with guns
to shake the sky and make the dying sun’s
last rays tremble over the dead.
There’s nothing to be said,
so let’s expire
with fire.