the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.
February 18, 2010

my dreams are so wonderfully selfless

by Roger Mugs

education built my confidence
in things like failing and dashed
dreams
rejection letters from major
and then minor publications
hung on my wall in defiant pride

one editor called me and effer
in not such nice terms.

i learned just then a masters
does basically nothing for me
unless it leads to a degree of
cow patties
Piled higher and Deeper (PhD)
at which point it matters
not whether i’ve been published
i’m officially qualified to brainwash
you in the same manner i was
treated

welcome to undergraduate hazing
as soon as i’m tenured i’ll be a master
hazer removing your brains and
giving you heavy hopes
so when you dash them on the cliffs
of desire (you’re writing sucks by the way)
they’ll at least leave a legacy of
scarred bluffs, cliffs, and perhaps
sticker laden walls of shameful rejection
letters

6 comments
February 18, 2010

drastic, offputting, offensive, hurtful

by David X. Hugo

i like the life of a ghost
because often times
i’d wanted to die

skin is overrated,
anyway

and i can’t imagine
with you all here
why i’d want to be,
too. i suppose it’s
lonely,
with no one to
joke around with
about the pictures
that you take,
but the scales are
my gods
and in weighing the
options i find
that the life of a ghost
is far superior.

3 comments
February 18, 2010

The Lyger

by Julio Chapluzki

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

In what distant land or place
Did thy perilous form take shape?
On what inspiration were thee based?
What the paper could have thee encased?

And for the purposes of meeting a girl,
What maestro of pen could thee unfurl?
And when thy form began to take shape,
What the dressing of thee in a cape?

And to be sure thee did not suck,
What the pencil? What the fuck
Were the thoughts on his mind,
While he starred off, as if blind?

When he danced with all his might
Were thee only or a friggin blight?
Did he smile his drawing to see?
Did he who drew Pedro draw thee?

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

9 comments
February 18, 2010

Gambling

by saxsquatch

How am I to speak your name
when I can’t even spell it
and this always ends up just the same
as every other silly game
and barring fortune, luck or fame
I’m sure I’ll lose everything on it.

But it’s Ashley,
right?

6 comments
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