Heeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrre's Pachinko!


Welcome to the gang Joe!

Joe Pachinko gives us raw poetic styleee, just the way we like it. Perhaps this is why he is the newest ULA member. Grab some chopsticks and dig into Pachinko's poems. You're invited to check out his website Superstition Street Press
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IF ANYBODY SAYS “POETRY”, RUN THE OTHER WAY...

Just because nobody understands you
it doesn’t mean you’re an artist.
Being able to write words down on paper
doesn’t make you a poet.
Knowing two and 1/2 chords on the guitar
doesn’t make you a musician. Open mike reading,
they’ll sit through 17 other poets to get up and read their own stuff,
having listened to none of the others, wanting only to hear their own
voice through the mike, not realizing how similiar their shit is
to everybody else’s. Always reading in this special voice,
as if explaining to a somewhat dull child something which the child couldn’t possibly know
anything about.
They have nothing to say,
& they say it badly.
In one of two moods,
serious, self-righteous,
& really serious.
I know people think
“If I can’t understand it, it must really mean
something.”
But it’s unintelligible crap,
that’s all.
It doesn’t move me.
It makes me want to leave,
or sleep.
or slap them until they find something worth saying.
Poetry is touching the sun with your brain,
or shooting sparks out of your ears,
or having Balinesian Dancing girls
twirling off the end of your tongue,
an orgasm of words...
but it sure as shit ain’t this.



INGA MUSCIO MON AMOUR

The day that began so bright & full of promise
but which ended
with a used tampon on the beach
near the corpse of a dead sea lion...
Now most people who read/hear that,
instead of thinking;
“What the hell is a used tampon doing on the beach?
Did it wash up there?
Did somebody throw it off a ship?
Why is it near a dead sea lion?
Does it have something to do with why the sea lion
died? Does it mean something?”
Instead of thinking that, or anything,
all they read/hear is
“Blah blah blah blah blah & blah blah blah, blah blah
blah blah used tampon,
blah blah blah blah blah.”
The same thing happens every time I use the word
“cunt.” I suppose if I used the French word for cunt
that would be O.K., more refined,
but I don’t know the French word for cunt.
So I use the word cunt,
and people take it out of context.
They don’t hear the hallelujah of cunt,
the blessings of cunt, the worship of cunt,
the beauty & the wonder of cunt.
the power & the glory &
the endless cloud kissing hosanna of cunt...
They hear “Blah blah blah cunt,
blah blah & blah blah blah cunt.”
& miss the god damn point.
I don’t think cunt is a bad word.
It’s all the way in which it’s used.
& while we’re at it
why is the word ‘fuck’ used as an insult?
Empress Aleshia gets drunk, asks me,
“Why do you hate women so much?”
“I don’t hate women,” I reply, “I love women.”
“I heard you using that “C” word. Why would you use
that word if you didn’t hate women?” she asks.
“Did you hear any of the other words connected with
it?” I ask.
“No, no, listen baby, I went through so much trouble
to get one I don’t want to hear anybody talkin’ trash
about it.” “I’ve gone through a lot of trouble to get one too.” I
say. “That’s not what I mean,” she says.

“So,” she drawls, “why do you hate women so much?”
“I don’t hate women,” I answer, “I hate everybody.”
“Well, that’s alright then baby.”
Inga Muscio thinks that cunt is a beautiful word,
& I agree.
Now she wouldn’t like my agreeing
with her because I’m a man.
Still, I think cunt is a poem unto itself.
& all I have to say to people
who don’t understand that is
“Blah blah blah blah blah blah used tampon blah blah
blah cunt blah blah blah blah blah ba blah blah blah
fuck you.”




THE FOUR FUCK-HOLES OF MY INFLATABLE SHEEP LOVE-DOLL ARE NOTHING LIKE A DEAD GOAT’S ANUS

Herve Villachaise's wife once said, "You haven’t lived
until you’ve taken a shower with a chocolate covered dwarf."
& I’ve fucked dead bunnies
in fields of burning butt plugs
mechanical deer cunt,
aardvark ass up against a cliff
kinkajou titty leg humpings,
I’ve suffered the attack of the inflatable fun dolls,
and attacked them back.
Fucked an inflatable wildebeeste dolli
n the style of a backwards octopus donkey fuck,
upsidedown...
because,
I couldn’t afford a gerbil
to do it for me.
The doll told me it loved it,
when I know damn well that a gerbil
would’ve done a better job.
That doll really wanted a gerbil.
You can’t ever know really with a doll.
& the doll couldn’t know anything
about the time I stuck myself up a gerbil’s ass.
Everybody wondered “How did he do THAT?”
I’m not really sure how I did it,
But naturally,
I couldn’t get out once I was in,
& the gerbil had to go to the emergency room to have
me removed.
& the gerbil had to spend a lot of time
denying it...But people talk you know,
and it was “Did you hear about that gerbil that showed
up in the emergency room with Joe Pachinko stuck up
its ass?”
Scandal
followed.
& the gerbils shunned me after that.
& the hamsters, & the guinea pigs too.
The anteaters who are still willing to give me head,
do it begrudgingly,
and are hardly a substitute.
I mean, I’ve got this inflatable Japanese Spider Crab
Doll,
that I give wolfbagging, tea-bagging, Cleveland
Steamer, hot carl, rodeo fucks to...
but nobody understands
the dirty sanchez on the face of the death fuck sea manatee.
I have to work pretty hard
to get the goddamn inflatable toad
sex doll filled up with air,
& it pretends that it hates me,
& I pretend that I don’t care,
Within this sweaty jock strap of a Universe,
little girls wear ruffled panties
while the grownups
are always dressed for a funeral.



ABOUT JOE PACHINKO



Joe Pachinko is a poet, and the author of The Urinals of Hell, and Swamp.

Pachinko's press, Superstition Street publishes books for the fearless, including scandalous and banned literary works.

A Cry From Down-Underground...

Hello!! It's with great pleasure that i take the reins of the Adventures Blog this week. Co-editing this blog with Marissa is going to be a kick. We've received many cool underground writing samples in our Olde Ye-Mail box, so keep those coming!

Before i introduce this week's work, i gotta vent.

The Man's been laying it on heavy lately. Income taxes, jury duty summons, getting pulled over and lectured for having an expired registration, which is only expired because the fine state i live in makes you pay $50 for a DMV "smog" check, and if you don't pass it you can't register your car until you pay oodles of cash to get the car "repaired." My car's old and beat so it probably pollutes, but it's a drop in the bucket compared to what's REALLY going on. Fuckers.

This week's writer hails from Australia---the perfect place for an Underground Literary Adventure! I present to you two from Cry Bloxsome. That's his NAME, fool! Really. First up is an appetizer from Cry, followed by the main course.

As for me, my name is Pat Simonelli, but this blog isn't about me or my pathetic needs. Well, actually it is, but sharing fun writing just happens to be one of my needs, too! What a lucky coincidence! Enjoy......!

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STIR-FRY BRASS HORSE

FROM “THE BITTER TASTE COOKBOOK”®™©∞ by Cry Bloxsome INGREDIENTS • Six pack of beer • 1 small brass horse statue • Your house-mate’s sister (call her Kristy) • 1 handful of hepatitis-B warning postcards • 1 saddle blanket (or tea-towel) • old coffee grounds from the percolator • detergent • 1 pack of chips (Ham & Mustard Flavour) • 1 egg • fresh basil METHOD Put the wok on the hot-plate to warm. Quickly drink the whole six-pack, being careful to avoid anyone who is telling you this is a bad idea. Put the brass horse in the wok. Or if it’s too big for the wok just lay it across the top. Take your housemate’s sister, call her Kristy, and stand her beside you in front of the wok. Get her to say things like ‘You’re fucking crazy’ or ‘Is the brass horse tender yet.’ Throw in the hepatitis warning postcards, and increase the heat until they’re smoking. Chuck in the packet of chips. Don’t open the packet, just chuck it in. When that begins melting, throw in the saddle blanket, the old coffee grounds and the detergent. Move back away from the wok and throw the egg. Don’t worry about aiming: if Allah wills it, the egg will find the wok. Add a pinch of fresh basil and let it simmer. When people walk past and say: ‘What the fuck is that!’ Reply: ‘Stir-fry brass horse.’ Allow to cool. Then walk away and leave it for your housemates to clean up in the morning. SERVES no purpose at all. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PARTY. By Cry Bloxsome ‘It made sense in my mind at first.’ ‘We used to live opposite the KFC bucket. And if you woke up and the bucket was turning you were fucking late for work man!’ ‘Someone I don’t know is break-dancing in my room.’ ‘Largerphone.’ ‘The International School of Wrong.’ ‘I saw you sitting at the bus stop with the cigarette butts.’ ‘I hear if you wear a head-band you’re somehow related to the hip-hop movement.’ ‘Bikies make the best lovers.’ She stood up and wriggled her skirt back down her legs. ‘I was wearing a stripped T-shirt and this girl said I looked like Where’s Wally. I didn’t take it too personally because she was clearly a dirty lesbian.’ ‘Not altogether together.’ ‘Don’t listen to the lights.’ ‘“She was not on Teen Idol. That’s Oprah Winfrey. Don’t argue with me please!”’ ‘What do you reckon, should I get one or not.’ ‘It weighs two litres of milk, or more.’ ‘2-minute noodles is food with enough nutritional value to keep you alive just long enough to regret ever getting a liberal arts degree.’ ‘With him being a skater, he saw me as a nice double-set with a hand-rail, and he just wanted to nail it.’ ‘No double pluggers after five-o’clock.’ ‘I remember getting pissed off with my parents and going into my room and making Voltron.’ Scott turned the stereo down. ‘Did you say gregarious?’ ‘Yes.’ Scott nodded and turned the stereo back up. ‘Go you fucking poof!’ ‘It brings back memories of funnels and warm VB.’ ‘I’m on sick leave.’ ‘What did you say you came down with?’ ‘Nauseated fever, specifically.’ ‘It smells! It smells Scotty.’ ‘Don’t worry it’ll be over in a minute.’ ‘God’s law. That’s gonna get bombed.’ ‘French tickler. I’ve got the Saddam tickler, know what I’m saying?’ ‘But in general, do you find that I’m more right than you?’ ‘Sexy, but not go-out-of-your-way sexy.’ ‘Rich get richer, poor get the picture.’ ‘My heart goes out to all the people riding trains in the dark.’ ‘Last yesterday.’ ‘Swan street, Richmond. There was a pub there called The Great Britton. I drank eight pints with a Nigerian princess.’ ‘You scratch my back – I’ll stab yours.’ ‘Thanks for coming, three times.’ ‘I want to download your breasts to my hardick drive.’ ‘I did the vocals on this track.’ ‘Wow, you could get your dick sucked for that.’ ‘I loves it when you play hide the top, and they have to stand there in their underwear.’ ‘I love watching women drink water.’ ‘Get out of here Cate, you dirty slut!’ ‘I resemble that comment.’ ‘I’ve got a burning desire to stick this in the fire.’ ‘I’ve gotta go get a beer cunt hay. I’ll be back in a tick.’ ‘I’m whacking down these Pernod’s.’ ‘Tell me not to take pills and get into bed with my ex-boyfriend.’ ‘Honey, don’t take pills and get into bed with your ex-boyfriend.’ ‘Sex in a backpackers is like playing Hungry Hippo.’ ‘We’ve drunk a lot of piss this week, I proclaim.’ ‘I lost my nose stud dancing. And this one doesn’t fit in cos my hole’s too small.’ ‘Is she hot.’ ‘Nuh.’ ‘Fuck her off then!’ ‘How’s your fax machine, still playing up?’ ‘What?’ ‘My work sent me on a business communications course.’ ‘So you ask me about my fax machine?’ ‘Do you have a fax machine?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then how could I of been?’ ‘We’re flat out here. Flat out trying to keep our eyes open.’ ‘Fuck this! I’m over it. I want to go to bed.’ ‘He throws mung-bean treats at buses.’ “Social Justice Week – Go on, give a shit.” ‘Do you have a brother? Is he sexable?’ ‘I don’t know. I mean, I can’t remember because of alcohol.’ ‘Take one look in my eyes and you’ll see running feet.’ ‘Why, what’s tomorrow?’ ‘Father’s day.’ almost everybody went, ‘Orr, fuck!’ ‘Ta very much man.’ ‘Do you know how much money there is around here?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Yep, you’re as stupid as I thought you were.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Yair, just get out of here.’ ‘What’s been happenin’ tiger?’ ‘Those boys are a pisser.’ ‘Which nostril do I use.’ bio... Cry Bloxsome can be found in the early hours displayed in gutters through-out the nations capitals. He calls Perth, Australia, home because he was born there and he knows where the bottle shops are and the weather is nice. He writes The Egotripper which appears every month on the back page of LUCKY magazine (Melbourne). He describes his writing as "a look at life through drunk, Godless and yet (sadly) burning eyes." He needs your help! http://www.crybloxsome.com/ crybloxsome@bigpond.com

A new post! A new week! A new introduction.

Welcome to Underground Literary Adventures. A really happenin' place that showcases poetry, fiction, and a variety of material from underground writers.

We'd like to thank Pat King and Wred Fright for maintaining the blog from 2004 until now -- publishing works of 37 different writers in less than a year!

Patrick Simonelli and I are excited to take on the editorial duties of this blog, and look forward to seeing submissions from great minds.

This week's post features the poems of Brady Russell and Cynthia Lewis.

- Marissa Ranello & Patrick Simonelli



This Is Not Your TV Show
by Brady Russell


If you had a TV show
Everyone would tune in to see you
Because everyone gapes at you
But this is not your TV show

If I were a ninja
I would say you yank me out of hiding
If I were Superman
I would say Gold Kryptonite is just like crack
If I were a painter
You would try to buy my work to use in ads for biscuits
This is not your TV show

If I were a boxer
I would go spar in every gym under different names
If I were an astronaut
I would hit ignition early to escape you
If I were the President
I would make the FBI watch you – I would
This is not your TV show

If I were one of the X-Men
I would beg Arcade to hide me in the Murderworld Amusement Park
If I played trumpet in my own night spot
You would be the train blowing and rumbling through the walls of the club
If I were a movie star
I would call you a lousy motivation
This is not your TV show

If I were Spider-Man
I would say that I won’t have beers with you, Mysterio
If I were a novelist
I would make my readers hallucinate you then kill you
If I were a cop on robbery-homicide
I would make sure the captain gave me a partner, a partner
This is not your TV show

If I were a Knight of the Table Round
I would tell you I have but one liege
If I were a revolutionary
I would call you a demagogue and a poseur
If I were a wizard
I would find the spells to forget tempt me nightly
This is not your TV show

If I were a frontier marshall
I would want you to be glad we kept out of the papers
If I were a samurai
I would say you dull my blade and my heart
If I were a riverboat pilot
I would steer clear of your channel
This is not your TV show

If we were in a motorcycle gang
I would ride off from some road house one day and you would have no way to
know where I might go
This is not your TV show
You don’t have a TV show

Brief Bio:

Brady Russell is a political organizer who will live in Madison a little while longer. He has a flash fiction blog (along with other efforts) which can be found at Brady's Flash Fiction


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Shallow
by Cynthia Lewis

You don't know me
so get your nose out of the air--
you'll only get rainwater in it

At least I'm not a clone;
I can think on my own.
I can distinguish between an emotion
and a noun

I can tell the difference between
silicone and sincerity

You do not move outside your limits
You do not color outside the lines
I will not conform to your preference
so you can tell me mine

I am real. I can think
I can move without a hand
to pull my strings
You're so busy trying to get
others to follow your path,
you can't see where it's leading you

I admit, I rarely look before I leap--
but at least I'll jump into the water,
uninhibitedly, before I'm quick to judge
how cold,
how deep.

*************************


Weeds
by Cynthia Lewis

No respect, no respect--
they breed on neglect.
Rotted, unwanted, they sprout.
Barren and brown, they grow.
No green thumbs or kid gloves
to love and protect:
no promising seedlings to sow.

They are the detested eyesores
on the side of the highway,
or in the cracks of an empty backlot--
redundant, untended,
they stand, quite unmended;
they're always discovered
but rarely are sought.

They ask no permission, or reason to be--
this is all that they are, and,
all that they need is the air,
and daylight, and a foothold beneath.

Deemed unsightly and useless,
nothing short of a nuisance;
abuse them, misuse them, if you must--
through the torture, they thrive,
despite hatred, survive,
in spite of your sneers of disgust.

So pull them and cut them,
remove them from sight:
they shall only grow again,
seeking the cracks in the empty back alleys
in their desperate search for the light.