Goddamn, it was a fun ride.......

Due to internal disagreements between the editor of this blog (Pat King) and the leaders of the Underground Literary Alliance, this blog will be closing. The editor cannot continue to support the ULA. As you can see, the name of the organization is in the blog url. For readers who wish to continue reading an assortment of great underground writing in a blog style similar to this one, the editor recommends Bruce Hodder's The Beatnik@ www.whollycommunion.blogspot.com. It's been fun.

Poetry By Frank Walsh

THE GAS MAN

I’m the gas man
when the poor catch
me in the hood midst
winter dial at full
force and the baby
food gone cold in
it’s baby bowl they
have a cow
or else they forget
about the security fence
come to their senses
and kiss my ass.

I’m the gas man I
control the vertical, I
control the horizontal
there’s nothing wrong
with this picture
if you foot the bill
do not adjust
the noose around
your neck or even
think about the leg
irons you’re fine by
my book, it’s every
body else who’s fucked.

Nothing to do with you
I know after all
I am the gasman
there are no leaks
in my house and I keep
the home fires burning
a nice steady blue flame
balloons for the souls
of the poor in myname
if there were a god
the goose bumped crows
of the fumes and all that jazz

you might have some
say there would
be some other way
but I’m the gas man
at the bottom of
the stairs a mask
on my face to keep
my identity hid
and the hidden costs
coughing up cold cash
and stink of the first
sign of trouble
pushed off on you
by order of the gas

works, the board
on the golf course
in Barbados or Cancun
shake from stem to stern
with a laughter
that doesn’t last unless
at somebody else’s expense
it’s the house that’s rent
in halves and halve not
and red valves under
the floor parquet
slap on a sticker
The water’s either hot
or worked over the choice is all
yours or yours alone
take off your clothes, disrobe
under eye lashes of the meter
and the gag order of the needles
we’re not gonna give
you a bath
no body gets off the hook
that easy, there’s a red line,
red lined rag tag gas giant
in the cards and your it, buddy.
Why don’t you have

a nice shower
in our
company sponsored
double chin and get
more chillin’ to pray
down the line for
a better, a balmy day.

AT THE UNDERGROUND, Philadelphia, PA 40TH AND SPRUCE (BENEATH COPABANANA RESTAURANT) SUNDAY,FEBRUARY25, 3PM.

the world’s most controversial writers group

THE UNDERGROUND LITERARY ALLIANCE (WWW.LITERARYREVOLUTION.COM)

MC: King Wenclas

MAIN EVENT: a 3- round poetry read off between ULA’s

Frank Walsh and “the Super Poet” (alleged creation of a local university genetic engineering lab)

SPECIAL GUEST:CLEVELEAND NOVELIST, RED FRIGHT

READING “THE PORNOGRAPHIC FLABERGASTED EMU”

AND

CARNEVOLUTION’S “PROF. MALERKUS”, ERIC BROOMFIELD

PLUS

FEATURED POETS AND WRITERS FROM ACROSS THE COUNTRY

-TOUSSANT ST. NEGRITUDE, CALIFORNIA!

-JESSICA DISOBEDIENCE, CHICAGO!

-THE IDIOM POETS, NORTH CENTRAL NEW JERSEY!

- YARROW REGAN, QUEENS, NY !

-PAT KING, BALTIMORE (will be in the house!)

Just Added: Mark Sonnenfeld, experimental poet from New Jersey!

!!!!!FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC!!!!!

BE THERE OR BE SQUARE

Poetry by

Doug Draime

Mausoleum Dream

I watched through the mausoleum

window, as a long table

was placed in the middle of the tomb

by 5 well-known poets.

They took stacks of chapbooks from boxes

and stacked them up on it The tomb was strewn

with whiskey bottles and beer cans.

The death chamber was filthy. Something

nasty and sticky stuck to

the concrete floor, with hundreds of small press

magazines messed-up in the goo.

On each cover was a picture of their

idol guzzling a can of beer.

They huddled over the reading matter

on the table like whooping cranes, their necks

nearly parallel with the table.

I heard the name of their idol several times,

as a box of chapbooks was picked-up,

then tossed out on one of the stacks like

fish in a fish market. A lot of angry mumbling,

debating. One of the 5 would pickup a chapbook

and mention the poet’s name who wrote it. The first one

held up and discussed was a 30 year woman

from England, who wrote only graphic poetry

about her sex life and drinking and drug habits.

Someone said that if there was a crown

passed down by their idol, she should be the one it was

passed on to. A Royal Poet! The second poet held up for debate

was a Montana man, who’d moved to L.A.

to walk the streets his idol had walked. And he

started drinking heavily and dating a East Hollywood

whore and druggie named Sugar Pie. Then he had pictures of himself

embracing and humping his idol’s gravestone at Forrest Lawn

and proudly posted them over the internet.

They began chanting the nick name of their idol, “Spanky,

Spanky, Spanky”. Black hoods and candles were being lit,

and fresh cans of beer for the poet/judges. And all their

faces started to take on a zombie stare, spittle dripping from their mouths.

One held up the chapbook of a poet, who had just recently

stuck a 45 in his mouth and canceled

his own ticket, because of his drinking and

miserable life. Did it in his mother’s house with her gun

The chanting grew intense and 2 of the zombie-poets acted out a

fight-in-the-alley-outside-a-bar scene,

from one of their idol’s stories.

Another one of them, watching the fight spotted me at the window and

they all turned to give me the zombie stare, long fangs appearing.

I turned and run into the midnight gloom of

the graveyard, the zombie-poets chasing me still chanting his name,

“Spanky, Spanky, Spanky.” The dream ended, me running

out of there, looking over my shoulder

into their zombie stares. After I woke up this morning,

i checked the internet and at the public library

for any information on the meaning of mausoleum dreams

and found nothing. I’ll go back and look under zombie-poets ... with long fangs.

Suicide Of An Ambitious Poet

When name dropping

didn’t work,

he tried

ass kissing,

but as skilled

as he was.

at that one,

it too, didn’t bring

him the fame

he sought,

the praise and

worship

he craved

So, he took

that old

Mark Twain quote

to heart.

When the newspapers

had

mistakenly

reported

Twain’s demise,

Twain quipped,

“The reports of my death have been

greatly exaggerated.”

That gave the poet the idea.

He, together with

his wife and

a couple

drinking buddies,

sent out e-mails

that he had

shot himself dead

in the head

and was

being buried

in Mexico.

But still

unfortunately,

nothing changed:

trite and mediocre

he

remains,. as

inconsequential

as Twain’s

cigar

ashes.

Entertainment

( 1920 to present )

The guy who sat

2 seats

behind you

in the 10th

grade

who

could

fart louder

than anyone

in school,

the same guy who

came up

to you at

a high school

dance

and

brushed

his

fingers under

your nose

and

said:

“smell”

after

being

in the back

seat

with your ex-

girl friend.

This

guy

has

become

a

STAR:

writing

his

autobiography,

which is

being made

into a

movie

with him

starring.

He’s

giving

interviews

about the

profundity

of his

popularity,

and

on

a special

tv show

he came

flying

down from

the ceiling

on pulleys

and when

he landed

he farted

and huge

puffs

of smoke

and flames

shot

all

over

the stage.

There was

a French

guy

who

toured

all the

finest

theaters of

Europe

in the

1920’s,

who

could

blow out

candles

and

make

his

ass

talk

and sing

Parisian

lullabies

and

I bet

he

got

rich

and

got

a lot

of

pussy

too.

Keeping Up With The Lifshins

I have to make haste to

Keep up with the Lifshins

This poem is my humble

Attempt in that regard

I’m in kind of a rush

Lifshins are so many places at once

There must be

Thousands

How do they do it

What is the secret of their

Amazing quantities

I know you don’t

Know

That was, uh, a rhetorical

Question

Sorry I gotta go

Get this to Post Office

Before it closes

Fuck! all the Lifshins probably have

That new

Post Office software in their computers!

So, shit, just forget you

Read this poem

Doug Draime's latest book is "Spiders And Madmen" (Scintillating Publications, 2006). He began
publishing in the 'underground' and small press in the late 1960's, while living in Los Angeles, becoming
part of the notorious L.A. poetry scene of the latter 20th Century. His work (poetry, short stories and plays)
continues to appear in magazines, newspapers, and online journals worldwide. Currently living in the
southern foothills of the Siskiyou mountain range in Oregon.

Poetry by
Misti Rainwater-Lites


A Cherry Tart & His Tongue in My Mouth

in the waking world i do not
know or desire him
but in the dream
i was giddy with possibilities

i told him i slept better
in his house
surrounded not by angels exactly
but a really good energy
i told him i could not sleep
in my house
because of all the ghosts
he laughed and said i had no reason to fear
spiritual wafers

i took a cherry tart from the fridge
and put it in my mouth
it was vivid red and it crumbled
on my tongue

then he pulled me into his arms
told me he had loved and wanted me
for so long
i quoted ginsberg
he said he loved ginsberg
grabbed my hair
and tasted the tart
i was still eating


smaller than the stones they cast

west memphis, arkansas is like any other small town
in small mind america
dreams aren’t worth much
what did poe know about making
a blue collar dollar
paying a mortgage
driving a truck
coaching a team
keeping the wife and kids in wal-mart clothing
keeping up appearances at church
on sundays and wednesdays
poe didn’t know shit
poe don’t hold water
in black and white
jesus vs. satan
deer hunting happy
havens of the illiterate and mediocre

west memphis, arkansas
is southern and proud
work hard
make babies
drink beer
fry fish
praise jesus
hate faggots
hate witches
hate outcasts
who don’t even try
to conform

believe or burn
our way or the highway
you can take your weird ass to new york or california

west memphis is all about the casting of stones
and the disposing of puzzles pieces that just
don’t fit
human lives ain’t worth much in west memphis, arkansas
three little boys buried in cheap graves
three big boys locked behind bars
until the day two of ‘em die of natural causes
and one of ‘em is killed with taxpayers’ dollars
ain’t nothin’ to worry about none too much
god is in control




When God is Gone

God and the little girl who created him
from unrequited Daddy love
are dead and buried beneath
Capezio tap shoes
poems that rhyme
shredded report cards
and plastic jewelry

goddamn they would both
come in handy tonight

my face burning from zit cream
my heart breaking again again
like the cheap shit you find
in dollar stores

today at the library my husband
checked out a book on pregnancy
after the age of 35
i am almost 34
and not pregnant
tonight the blood is a pale pink taunt

my brother is miles away in texas
i cannot hug him
or buy him a burrito
i cannot tell him
that he has schizophrenia
and i am interested
in his survival

i am a hunk of cowardly meat
shaking with sobs
raising my stupid fist
turning it into an open palm

please. whatever gods are willing
to receive prayers from a woman
who is not willing to make any
sacrifices or promises.
whatever gods that don’t have a problem
with not being believed in.
a reprieve. a reprieve.
some measure of peace.
enough ground to stand on
before the waters
swirl.




I NEED A NEW RUG!!!

I need a new rug. One that won't make me nervous about muddy boot tracks. One that won't make me wish it could fly me away to Nepal. One that won't make me feel like a cockroach masquerading as a human being. Can you tell me where to find such a rug? Can you sell it to me for a dirt cheap price?

I clink the ice in my glass and toast Henry Chinaski. I burp as I watch the skinny girls with big smiles dance their asses off in hopes of becoming Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. I watch rich siblings working out their dysfunction in style. Their complexions are no better than mine.

My Little Pony gallops to the Land of Ice Cream where everything melts but there is nothing sad about it unless you're diabetic. I'm not.




Gluttonous Billy Goat of Life

This little gluttonous billy goat of mine
this rapacious fucker of life
this ravenous male herbivore
does not eat tin cans as rumored
but he will eat my manuscripts

Come on, Mister Thoroughchew
eat mommy's useless verbiage
eat mommy's Dangerous Hair
eat mommy's Arsenal of Spitwads
eat mommy's eBuLLieNT voMiT
eat mommy's Nova's Gone Potty
eat mommy's Thick Lazy Tongue
eat mommy's Mordiscado
eat mommy's Monkey Bite
eat mommy's rejected poems & journal fragments
then you will be the smartest & most useless
little fucker on the chopping block


Please take a little time and read Misti's blog. It's here. She's coming out with a poetry anthology and needs submissions, like, now.