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.
jl22brown22@hotmail.com
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.
XX
Their age
trapped them in
a maze
the scholars call
Generation X.
where 70’s free sex
and LSD
has evolved into
90’s 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 bed’s headboard,
a fragrance candle’s
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 morgue—
Where gurney six awaits,
promptly with reservations,
for my body to rest, finally,
still as death’s red watch
under white sheets and
a coroner’s tape recorder.