A private college run by a Prophet

you never trusted, but your daddy thought

would save you, man and school.  “Won’t let you quit.

You will make friends.”  So you rush Kappa, not

authorized on campus like Coke and sex.

No Greeks, they say, but eight surround you at

this mixer, one a blonde Adonis next

to photos, Apostles once in his frat.

He speaks the names and doesn’t blink. Sister

whispers, “He’s going on your card.” A pink

rectangle with the names of strangers, list

of “five you’ll please until they sign,” she winks.

Dad drove you days away, ignored your pleas;

you knew this place would bring you to your knees.



Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have appeared in Infernal Ink, Anti-Heroin Chic, Mystic Blue Review, Quail Bell, Occulum, Fourth & Sycamore, Digging Through the Fat and many more publications.  Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie .

The Invitation

Of course I was very pleased to be on the cover of Masturbator Magazine.

I was paid handsomely, not only for the cover that shows me completely

nude, but for the inside photos as well. Yet surprisingly I haven’t heard

from anyone who’s seen the photos of me. I felt confident it would lead

to meeting beautiful, lonely women who just use their hand or mechanical

devises for their pleasure. I can only think that a lot of women feel

embarrassed to acknowledge that they can’t find acceptable men with

whom to do it. They choose to keep men like me as a fantasy rather than

risk what they fear could lead to disappointment and rejection. All I can

say is, if any of the women who have seen me should read this, please don’t

hesitate to use the contact information at the end of my spread. Please

include a nude photo of yourself and times when you are available to meet.


I will definitely consider you and respond one way or the other. If chosen,

I’d be happy to come to your place or bring you to my own. But if you

didn’t feel comfortable with that, I’d be more than willing to pay for half

the motel, or even a hotel so long as the cost wasn’t over $100 per night

including use of a refrigerator. . .


Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas, and a writer of poetry, short fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies over the past 40 years. Recent, or upcoming writing in Midnight Lane, Third Wednesday, Tigershark, Futures Trading, Colloquial, The Fear of Monkeys, and many others.

My Body & Band Camp and Still Six Thirty

My Body & Band Camp

Doubt like a purple pacifier hinges

On the true & its concealment

Several nights later I’m convinced I’m bad

At sex & that the torso is invalid

Or at least the terms are

The terms bad and good belong

In a misplaced morality play

Performed in the desert

By your family & closest friends

With tickets that aren’t free but

With all proceeds going

To charity



Still Six Thirty

At one particular
moment you be-
come rain, a line
of songbirds en-
acting a fictional
unity that is just
as real as any-
thing you’ve ever
said or read or
heard about, the
cliffs that loom
only a few feet a-
head of the time
you can feel in
the base of your
torso while your
lover is present—



By Nathanielle Dawn

s’more please

Serve it to you

like I just took two graham crackers,

a swath of chocolate,

a marshmallow and melted that all together

using the heat from the coiled electric stove top

or the line

steaming between

your thighs.


When it starts to soften,

dripping I tongue-out catch that

sweetness in soft nips around the


before splitting that sugar heaven

with the tip of my tongue,

until I’m


scraping the insides clean.



Christian Stock doesn’t know why his mind works like this.


Perfect Strikes

It’s 4am and I can’t sleep
it’s the mere thought of you –
my fingers are forcing me to do this
I’ve never been this desperate before

I arch my back
you hold above
a few selected letters
you angle them over me
you touch them to my skin
like sparks electric in patterns such
as a, x and e, or plain as a, b and c

I’m 41 and my pores are open for your business

It isn’t sex this thing I need
it’s someone, not just anyone –
you someone
to curate my skin
like a burn
like moon drops
like tantrums

It’s the need for you to know
I would swim with sharks
if it meant I could hold
your hand – our opposable fingers
would understand how
to intertwine, my brain would be
too dizzy with puppy love
to remember the steps
for falling down stairs
just for the chance of this
dew-eye newness

These last few days
I’ve been living on dinners
of butterflies and lightning bugs
waltzing in the dusk
under a razor sharp sky –
sustain this fever – I cannot
these words are not enough
they won’t see me through ‘till morn –
It’s the hope that you might
stroke my face, die in my arms
sip me like wine, live on lips
on fingertips, that run through grey hair –
not even caring

It never lasts for long
but I would take it for one moment
than to wait alone
for your words not coming –

Employing rituals like
make the coffee,
select the clothes,
play Gardenscapes like a robot zord

Inserting any mundane miracle to
usurp my desire
for stanzas and line breaks
in your perfect strikes of typing.



Elisabeth Horan is a poet and mother living in Vermont and writing her heart out. She likes animals and gentle tolerant humans. @ehoranpoet


nimble fingers

s p r e a d

across breasts like webs,
-your nails like spiders
invite me to be eaten/

I hold my sinew
like the filthiest of sacraments/

wind-up clocks make it strike midnight
every hour
I endure,
you impregnate with your viscous/

sullen and sullied
clean up messes
between caresses,
and salivate when you are near/

an Angel’s choir hums my spine awake,
and jade green mist
exhumes from parted lips/

lace veiled pageantries
are churches torrid in the craw/
your palms are nailed to thicket,
bloodied trunks of sycamore
bearing barren fruit

a circus crucifixion
where ribs split,
exposing two wild hearts

in case your chiseled cheat
gorges tediously
on your unspoiled virgin meat




Ingrid Calderon is a gentleman and a brute. She loves sunsets and cigarettes. Find her on Twitter at @BrujaLamatepec

Stimulus and Response

I hear your voice on the line
and my mouth waters; a mere hello
transforms me into Pavlov’s dog.
I jot down the message and thank you,
speaking through saliva. When you say goodbye,
your voice drops an octave: honey settling
into the well of my stomach, a chiming bell
summoning the pool of want on my tongue.
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOWCalamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at