Featured Author: Jay Sizemore

real men, facebook poem #26

A butterfly with invisible wings
is a floating caterpillar’s cousin,
a memory woven into another’s life
like a tattoo on the scalp.

Infant wooly mammoths were found
drowned in mud
while cyclops sharks say bazinga
on the dark side of charcoal sketches.

Real men love Jesus fucking Christ—
a needle in an eye duct unstopping the drain,
underwater statues reincarnated as coral reefs,
the Titanic sank because of Obamacare.

Real men drop their iPhone in the urinal,
take advice from Evil Kenevil
on how to live with a head wound,
become fruit bats wishing for caves

instead of nets at the World Cup.
Caterpillars can’t wear fedoras like real men,
and global warming is ruining the wine—
no one knows how anesthesia works.


Jay Sizemore flunked out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes, he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal, and he is a Poetry Editor for Mojave River Press and Review. He’s never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is currently available on Amazon.

You can follow Jay and his work on his website or facebook, and you can order his book >>here<<.


make it up, facebook poem #36

fruit flies can’t escape a funnel
this chilly summer where
the breasts remain covered
on a windblown eyelid prop.
get a jawbone for God
and the mercy of bed sores.
the mice give zero fucks.
blah blah blah,
burnt hotdogs taste the best,
baby elephants aren’t for sale.

zebra striped carpet
for the pool bottom,
exercise to be a limber old codger,
doing laps in a driverless car.
The Smiths are for hipsters
as The Cure is for suicidal queens.
hummingbirds can’t shave
Jung archetypes from the Bar Exam.
self promote, self promote, self promote
your face into a bundle of sticks,
into a lack of Twitter followers,
into a feminist rape fantasy.

we put the cat in the ground
and hung new curtains
for filtered light,
umbrellas and water colors,
the best people are insane
and having mastectomies
while Hitler was a Catholic.
electronic cigarettes with THC,
make puppy dog hearts
an optical illusion
with toothless red-toed geckos
running for sheriff
like a Greek tragedy.


Random connections: facebook poem #35

glamour shot horror pug dog reparations grin dollhouse lollipop visitation rights white privilege enlightenment blanket bank attorney services hunger strike talent Cthulhu pride ghostwriter fencing infant footprint haiku abortion rogues siamese pumpkin bloom apathy java Hamas chainsaw blood book launch crooked teeth rarity Sriracha cashew red river irony needlepoint moon homeless bathing suit bred boot pussy beta accomplishment fucking baroque toddler intimacy Msnieres breast ruinous offering cancer selfie sunglass mantra coca cola nativity


callous indifference, facebook poem #38

Peaches look like asses,
in a gas station where millionaires
leave their fortunes to statues.

Trees don’t drink whisky,
but if they did they’d be drunk
and leaning.

There’s a creek in Iceland
just like the one I imagined
skipping rocks across
when I was lonesome.

Describe me with one word.

Poetry exists in friendship,
in an insurance company
where scientists say, “chill out.”
Poetry exists in a spoonful of caramel,
an alleyway with white words
scribbled along the walls.


Art has no mercy
for those who refuse to tiptoe the edge,
to catcall after the sunset
like an assassin blowing kisses.