Jason Lee Brown is a Sports Editor for News Progress in Sullivan, IL. He has published or is forthcoming in Taint Magazine, Stirring, smallspiralnotebook, Snow Monkey, Sugar Mule, Streenotes, Megaera, The Foliate Oak, Conspire, Southern Ocean Review, and with Kitty Litter Press, as well as many newspapers in Illinois.


Razorblade, Crystal I.

I devoted my meth-

odic soul to a

razorblade, I pet-

named Crystal.

She is the metal.

I am the mirror.


OnE sTraIgHt LiNE aT A tIMe

She tickles the strings

Her fist in my ass.

I mime. My mouth jars

Open, nostrils flared.

She is the rock.

I am the glass.


OnE sTrAIgHt lINe At a tImE

She is the clever angle

Slicing my tongue.

I am the beggar, licking

residue off her acute lips.

Spitting blood. Careless.

I am the bag of excuses.

She is the answer to use.


Their age

trapped them in

a maze

the scholars call

Generation X.

where 70ís free sex

and LSD

has evolved into

90ís methamphetamines

and XTC.

Wet lips touch.

Tongues twist, tie

up in a kiss.


Ashes on the tray.

A joint feeling

blankets their libidos,

which crashes in

waves of quivers

and leg shakes.

Above silk sheets,

on the bedís headboard,

a fragrance candleís

flame flickers two

dove breath beats.

Her ear resting

on his chest.

Fingers brush.

She begins to speak,

only to be

hushed by two

fingertips softly

pressing her lips.

She tangles and

twists the hair

around his naval.

Twirling it erect like

a shampoo devil horn.

Out of the corner

of tired eyes with

dime size pupils,

enveloping shadows dance

with the yellow flame.

She slips into sleep.

As a pillow, he

nestles her head

in his chest,

caressing the silky flesh

around her armpit.

A pleasant scent quickly

itches the tip of his nose.

It was her coming

from his pillow.


With slow sunset eyelids,

he tries to smile

but slides into sleep.


Looking to My Future while Masturbating on Speed

Sleep depravation drains

an angry morning sun. And

again my Libido points North,

At attention. A granite muscle

making work of masturbation.

But the tombstone has

already engraved my name.

That same dirty slate.

She wears heavy as a nametag,

or rather, an empty addiction.

My funeral will rain mud.

And the judgers will whisper,

fill me with dirt and

plant flowers in my nose

and shake their heads down

on me like a morgueó


Where gurney six awaits,

promptly with reservations,

for my body to rest, finally,

still as deathís red watch

under white sheets and

a coronerís tape recorder.