Horny Poetry Review: Issue Two // December 2017

thank you to everyone who read and tweeted about issue two, it really was magical

issue two was marked by a number of interesting choices of form and register, amongst the expected filth

it clearly benefited from going live on christmas day, too – we might do that again for issue three

here’s what we published in issue two

~~~

Effects of The Last Unicorn on the Psyche of the Post-pubescent Female – by Mary Coons

Calendar Girls – by Holly Pelesky
in polyamory-land, i think of relationships as pies & i texted this to a hot, beardy musician to entice him on a second date – by Raina K. Puels

Stimulus and Response – by M. Stone

TRI(U)MV(I)RATE – by Ingrid Calderon
Perfect Strikes – by Elisabeth Horan

s’more please – by Christian Stock

My Body & Band Camp and Still Six Thirty – by Nathanielle Dawn

The Invitation – by Jeffrey Zable

THE NAMES – by Kristin Garth

[decode open ends for deeper insights] – by Preeti Vangani

Freddy Something – by @IlanaMiraL https://twitter.com/ilanamiral

VISITS FROM AN OLD FLAME – by Colin James

once a month – by Marina Manoukian

Aubade for the Road – by Troy Kody Cunio

Saturnalia – by Tian Tran

 

Saturnalia

she loses her virginity on Christmas Eve
heaving and moaning to the star-crossed night
snow blowing into the manger.
there are those who say it was Saturn
his eyes moon sickles and glowing stars
so when bloody Christ emerges from the womb
he swallows and swaddles him in acid.
little messiah of order and peace
fermenting in the stomach of his God
with only candlelight as misguidance
he cradles them in his palms
swallowing lights into his stomach
and freeing the suns to the darkening void.
she will survive them both
balancing time to entropy to rusted gold
she hides her scale within her veil
grasping the air as she orgasms.
Saturn’s belly starts rumbling.
~~~
While she meditates, Tian Tran writes poetry and short fiction. While she clouds the sky, she takes glorified selfies. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition and various literary magazines. Her photography has appeared in TRACK//FOUR, Sugar Rascals, and Rambutan Literary, among others. She would prefer she/her pronouns, and takes her tea without milk.

Aubade for the Road

I am not into public sex

 

but when both you and the person you’re seeing

live with parents

it’s less a thrill and more a necessity

 

you get to know every bathroom in town

that has a sheltered entrance and a door that locks

 

a romantic evening in

is driving 30 miles at 2am to an abandoned boat ramp

so you can do it without having to look over your shoulder between strokes.

 

you invent positions that are less Kama Sutra

and more bowl of spaghetti

 

and you pray none of your friends or family will need a ride

because the whole car stinks of passion

 

even when you’re alone

 

you start taking the backstreets

so you can be on the lookout for abandoned parking lots

 

it’s a lot like when I lived in that car

that summer when I got comfortable with loneliness
I spent months bathing in whichever bathroom
had the biggest and most private stall

I’d cover the windows with bedsheets to keep the streetlights out

and the fear in, but if I wanted a good night’s sleep I would drive out of the city

until I could make out Orion again

 

my neck and back always hurt from sleeping in a Twister position

 

wouldn’t give rides because the whole car smelled like unwashed stress

 

and those secluded asphalt deserts were the best
spots to get trashed and pass out in the driver’s seat

 

Rumi compared love to being drunk

but for me it is more like sobering up

 

owning a car is a lot like being in love

in that there is so much you can do

inside of it

~~~

Troy Kody Cunio lives in Orlando. You can find all his poems and things at troykodycunio.com

once a month

after masturbating it’ll smell like pennies. make sure there’s no stain. mandatory trip to the bathroom. check the toilet seat for a rorschach pattern. wash and scrub hands and fingernails. maybe even a change of panties. such a shame because you’re so horny and it’s so messy.

~~~

Marina Manoukian is a reader and a writer. She thinks language and sex are pretty, pretty, pretty important. She currently lives in Berlin, masquerading as a productive student working towards a Masters in English Philology. Find more of her words at marinamanoukian.wordpress.com

VISITS FROM AN OLD FLAME

She showed up in a large, white van.
Her cauterizing tools were kept
within Velcro flaps that enthralled
the vehicle’s essential task.
No discernible hats.
Her talent is concealed,
wrapped astutely out of sight,
in a long coat of lipid gabardine.
She sniffs, my blood is here
love’s wound spilling still.
She searches for a source of power,
plugs into a polarizing orifice.
My anemic blood stalls.
She gathers up her things
and has departed
before I even swell.
~~~
Colin James has a book of poems forthcoming from Wundor Editions. He lives in Massachusetts.

Freddy Something

Give me something
Pink, blind and hairless
Something pure and bloody
Murky, fermented
Buried so deep
You barely feel it moving
Shifting as a shiver
That makes your face tingle and ripen.

Something that screams as you release it.

Keep your floss and paper
Cracked and worn offerings
Transparent, thin as skin
Give me the vulgar, vile appetite and venom
Woven tight to your insides
Making you twist and whimper

I’ll force my hand inside
Through the acid of your dark, red dreams,
And yank the beast out by its wriggling tail.
Let it cut and scratch me;
I’ll eat its screams.
This pure, untainted passion
is sweeter and fiercer
Than any other opiate.

 

~~~

@IlanaMiraL is an aspiring novelist and former American who currently lives in London. A piece of her flash fiction was published in the inaugural issue of Formercactus and one of her short stories was long listed for the CWA Margery Allingham Short Story Competition.

 

 

[decode open ends for deeper insights]

Should make myself a museum of all the come I have helped release. The width between my  spread-up thighs is the distance I travel to buy an idea of being loved. Some bodies offer. Some bodies receive. Debit what comes in, credit what goes. The second basic rule of accountancy. The negotiation between giving sex, receiving sex, and enjoying sex. The profile picture of the pursuit of love. A mouth rolled over the full length of a dick, lips blanketing teeth. Thoughts inside head sliding up and down as blood red petals fall to a chorus of he loves me-he loves me not. Your orgasm, mighty boyfriend, is the glue that will bring us together. I count moles on your chest while you’re trying to reach your end or wherever it is that eyes go after a small death. Seven years since mother. My pussy is dry, my mouth is dry. Dripping wet in my appetite for security in labels. Even watching a film is cumbersome with you. Slip on an intellectual condom over the sit back and enjoy part of my brain. I thought my cunt was big & fertile enough a hole to grow stability & commitment from. Stickier it gets, more you feel thirsty. I see your ass getting whipped by your boss in an open plan office You behind laptop forecasting peak seasons for glucose powder, slip into my chat window, ask, how I feel about making us sex only. How humid it the heart that goes across the equator

~~~

Preeti Vangani is an MFA candidate at University of San Francisco. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in BOAAT, Public Pool, Juked, Lines+Stars, Boston Accent Lit and Knicknackery. She’s a spoken word poet and has been performing at many local San Francisco events including Voz Sin Tinta and Kearny Street Workshop. Find her online.