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GAYNG

Joshua Irwin Stephen Michael McDowell Sarah Edwards Charles Young Franny Lane Mark Thomas Stevenson Marcus Slease Austin Islam Wyatt Sparks Alexander Seedman

Murdoch LaMarche Captain Missouri Konstantine Salkeld John Rogers Shaun Gannon Stephanie Graff Chief McFrank Tom Stein Jenny Nelson Shane Jesse Christmass Scott Krave Diana Dragonetti

Prelude

Joshua Irwin

Action Writing

Notice: Persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. ````` Persons attempting to find plot will (be here)

========================================================================

I believe this I believe this I believe this

I believe in the but not layered or maybe but a --ll--l

power

of

space in life/words properly thought out

space is organic,

mandatory.

sit on a bed next to someone for whole day 3 years later __ I-

words and life dont go next to each other easily orderly horribly they write to give order.

Do I?

i dont wanna give life any more order than it already has or to pretend it does ;life does. but we can't see it on a page stage

laid so easily

thank god.

living life in comparison is not (yours) "this is just like....." so writing life in similes is not (yours), is it?

if you dont wanna write life are you escaping? is this escaping? real all real(ly) have. Iife is that we

thoughts are as recognizably organized as other actions just a interjectory! like people in a meeting do not we wish we could shut them up sometimes ( those kinds of similes are okay, so you can relate to them and stuff... but that extra vivid shit that makes you think more than what you saw... p-WE CAN SHUT THEM UP - ass bit more

) we can make thoughts create thoughts make thoughts (and this moves) (and this moves) (and this moves) everything around us

maybe comparisons make us feel feeling better is better than not. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Good morning angst. better

I dont like binaries. they are language of the idiot or the ignorant so its or

Isn't That (Be)(Bi)tter? . Jackson Pollock would never be self-referential but i

i sure as hell am not Jackson Pollock.

this is action writing.

(Before) Cheesy Tastes Really Good be spring for i feel no thing until I feel you by me.

be spring for i feel no thing until i feel you by me.

be spring for i feel no thing until i feel you by me.

be spring for i dont like what I feel, then i feel you by me.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Mom Worked At A Mcdonalds for 3 Months when I was 7 I thought it was really cool. (especially the Hamburgler shaped cookies) still do

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------"ME, YOU, SAME"--Do The Right Thing If I sought to reflect "the metallic culture of our time. . . no less significant than the realities of nature itself"1 as a post-post modern Suprematist.. .. that "I understand the supremacy of pure feeling in creative art " if I told you I have been formally educated and can talk about other brilliant idiots who are brilliant.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------If writing draws attention to the author, it is bad. says who? Any fool

can write about oneself Any fool

can expect their art to be of value


1

Malevich

Not any fool can be aware of both, and still do both --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------I didnt live life in a brownstone. I never lived life in a brown coat. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Too late But Before)

Cheesy Tasted Really Good Fuck I hurt. a lot. its that chest heavy heart skipping hurt

trying to skip hurt.

I dont effort much. at all. i work hard at making other people happy

product of fixing fighting parents. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------each other

hey, i hurt a lot we are missing (each other)(like in the way that when two people aren't on wavelength and you have a conversation at coffee and you talk at each other but not with each other) right now. I can't feel you out right now I have given you everything I have to give. (Why) am i the only one hurting?
____________________________________________________________________________ _________ I hope he has a small dick, cums quickly and invisibly, is passionless and only seems like the coolest dude on the planet that I've never met or seen what he looks like, and is the type of asshole that shows his true colors after like 3 days of sweetness

____________________________________________________________________________ _________ that was written by somebody bugging the fuck out. living life in comparison

Moment of Clarity

(s)he rts br ak time

heal

isnt what you see on a clock or a calendar

I still hurt sometimes though

Stephen Michael McDowell

the president

i think of myself as a little thing but im big now bigger than trees im on a train between meta-human things superstructures baltimore and washington DC you guys moving at eighty-seven miles an hour outside, space passes rapidly small flat indecipherable space i am enormous bigger than rows of buildings and cars im approaching some goal the train sways on its steel wood stone path approaching some sad imminent doom probably more figurative than literal you guys i remember again suddenly that i am a little thing almost nothing to a megaton of steel colliding what if, my brain says i want some distraction sex butt sex i feel an overwhelming urge

to be penetrated i want to be caressed and impaled and to feel deeply wanted a distraction from doom and the sadness of doom i look at a face a man across my aisle his expression seems inherent with sex a bad sexual maybe butt rape, says my brain i look away out the window avoid eye contact i see two helicopters fly over washington DC that means the president, my memory thinks there in the sky probably looking for a distraction from death distraction from high-up metal boxes that signify power that signify an approach toward imminent doom i look at a man across the aisle again the president you guys he looks over i adjust to see beyond him avoid eye contact i look out his window bright brick apartments tower there in the city

there are humans in them, living, alive the train slows no more need for distraction but i look a bit more generator coils on thirty-foot stilts they pass just behind the bad sex face there is a sound beneath the trains breaking squeal a droning hum mmmzzzzzzmmmzzzzzzzmmmzzzzmmzz you guys

Sarah Edwards

Charles Young

Hot Lava

PART I

1. in the entrance to my apartment, instead of a door, it just says other people exist.

but really, the door is my laptop.

its always open.

2. in one of my windows, is an air conditioner.

3. in another window, theres a spider plant that wants die, but probably doesnt know how. I stopped watering it over a month ago.

PART II

1. also, inside my apartment is my bedroom and inside my bedroom is my apartment. theyre the exact same size.

2. a bed and then a bookshelf. afterwards, a coffee table. or, furniture rearranged as narrative.

3. underneath my bed is the floor. the floor is what I walk onmostly. 4. but really, the floor is only a monster. 5. if I am walking on the monster, I imagine it is hot lava. 6. I really hate hot lava.

PART III

1. Im lying in bed. 2. although I do not know you that well, I think we could be really good friends. 3. Ive had sex here.

Franny Young

Why I Left the Catholic Church and Now Screw Girls As far as I know, it seems like Jesus Christ was the first and last real Christian because after him, things just seem to go downhill from there. Of course, there is Mother Theresa, the tiny angel cleaning the bodies of near-dead souls craving dialysis in crumbling hospitals in India. But still, that brings up the issue that even the beatific cannot do enough. Jesus handed out the fish and loaves like party favors but that didnt stop his dad from allowing his death perched on a wooden lowercase consonant, limbs limp as his mother cried. Now we have Joan of Arc and Jan Hus in graves and fat greying men carrying the micromanaging word of god. Telling me I cannot touch her or look at her this way. That it is a sin like leading the French army to victory. A sin like telling the masses they should know the content of a holy book they hold so dear. Our love is a miracle in a hookers clothing. And so now I condemn their condemnation.

Mark Thomas Stevenson

Turn

he holds you down before you he holds you down in the field before you even know you hold he holds you down in the field pops his tongue in your mouth before you even know and it's cold, but warm like when you hold he holds you down in the field and kisses you, pops his tongue in your mouth before you even know what it is and it is very wet and it's cold his tongue but warm like when you hold in the shower he holds you down on the grass in the field and kisses you, pops his tongue in your mouth before you even know what it is and it is very wet, on the field, and it's cold, on the field, his tongue but warm like when you hold in the shower he holds you down on the grass in the field and kisses you, just pops his tongue in your mouth before you even know what it is to kiss and it is very wet, rain, on the field, he's very drunk and it's cold, on the field, and his tongue in your mouth but warm like when you hold in the shower he holds you down on the grass in the field and kisses you, just pops his tongue in your mouth before you even know what it is to kiss anyone, else and it is very wet, rain, on the field, and he's very drunk and it's cold, on the field, and his tongue feels slick in your mouth but warm like when you hold your own skin in the shower and he holds you As the rain comes only in small, as you shiver, as your eyes spin in your skull And as that

wet patch gathers, bleeds at the base of your spine, at your shoulders' peaks, pinned against the grass like against the shower glass, pressed And as his body is on

yours and is yours, and as you are kissed, and neither cares to ask just what this is can't for the first time; held, down on that field, before you can even know what at all proceeds how the next step leads, or doesn't how this'll

all turn out how there's no real turn, at all, to be had, it is how it is Here, it is: all here.

Marcus Slease

THE JOYS OF LICKING The girl I was with has just discovered the joys of licking. Or rather being licked. She finds a penis funny. Too rubbery she says. When I pull mine out for her she laughs at it. When she touches it it makes her giggle. She points down for me to keep licking. So I laugh too. Keep licking. Licking is OK. Sometimes all give is OK. I bring this girl with me to Kzlay. For a night out. She isnt my girlfriend or anything. I came to Turkey to get rid of all that. I think she came for a break out too. She might like to try more. Gender sucks. But when she gets there she doesnt stay long. She heads up the hill to the nicer area. ESKI YENI Kzlay is where the beer is cheap. It is full of students. It is called down the hill. Up the hill is something else. Barbie types and men without necks. After eating the Kokore and oysters I make my way into Eski Yeni (English translation old new). I down the milky clouds of raki. I kiss the girls dressed like boys and boys dressed like girls. I spin around the tattered cloth lamps. There is a human in a frayed leather jacket. Another has bleached blond hair with shaved lines in the back. Soft skin. Sharp nose. Pink high heel shoes. A bit punkish. In the exciting way. I feel part of the extended family. Evet! Evet! Cehennem! They say. Over and over. THE SAFE HOUSE Before long I find myself at the safe house. A young soft faced Turkish boy brings me to his room. He says he has the lube. He tells me not too hard. He has a perfectly flat stomach. I run my hands over his stomach muscles. He lets me face him while I fuck him. I like to watch his penis bounce on his belly muscles while I fuck him. I grip his cock while I am fucking him. I do not laugh. I like the feel of his rubber cock and I bend down and lick it. I have only licked a cock once and I wasnt very good at. I want to feel his cum in my mouth but he has a condom and its better not to risk it. Maybe another time. After we get the check ups and shit. I like to watch his face. I think he likes to watch my face. But mostly I am watching his cock. I love watching his cock. He does not have the extra skin around it like I do. It turns me on to touch someone elses cock besides my own. I love to watch him cum on his belly. Then I pull out and mix my cum with his cum. Watching all the cum mix on his belly makes me want to do it again. CONFESSIONS: Confession 1: I have only fucked seven guys in my life. And maybe 30 women. So on that whole spectrum gender thing I might be labeled more hereto. I guess. But I am turned on by a human with both a penis and breasts. I am also turned on by humans with a penis without breasts. And humans with vaginas. And I am turned on by people being turned on. What does that make me?

Confession 2: I mostly drunk fucked or was fucked by guys while drunk in the past. I was a little stoned but sober this time. I called one of my gay friends and told him I was bi-sexual. It felt good to say it. But he said it was bullshit. I had to choose. I was just slumming it. I was using people. Confession 3: I have only kissed three boys. Full on make-outs. It didnt turn me on very much and this made me feel guilty. Confession 4: I grew up Protestant in Northern Ireland. Then my parents became Mormon. Thats how we got to America. Mormon connections. First Vegas then Utah. At age 14 I had a friend and we masturbated each other in the back of his parents van on the way to Mormon seminary. We did this for one whole year. When we had sleep overs we massaged each other. One of us always asked: do you want a massage. We did a regular massage but then we ended up rubbing our penis together. Then jacking each other off. We did this maybe thirty times over the course of the year. I got an email from this childhood friend a year ago. He said he has repented for his childhood sins. He is Mormon again. He asked for my forgiveness. I said there is nothing to forgive. At the time I felt a little guilty about it. Maybe after times 1-10. After 10 times it seemed natural. We didnt need to turn on the Mormon music after our massage sessions. Or say a prayer together. We could just clean up. And then lay down. In that post-orgasm glow. Confession 5: On my Mormon mission I had a companion who had wet dreams. He told the mission president. He was really worried about it. A 19 year old having nocturnal emissions. He felt guilty all the time. I told him hey man its ok. But he wouldnt listen. Eventually he got instructions. The mission president told him to tie his hands to the bed posts so he didnt accidentally touch himself during the night. I am not making this up. I had to tie him to the bed posts. Eventually they transferred me to another zone. Confession 6: We had a contest on my Mormon mission. Whoever poured grape juice down Elder Williams butt crack and caught it in a glass and drank it got a free pizza. I got the free pizza. Confession 7: In my 20s a lot of gay guys wanted to sleep with me. I was flattered. When I went to gay clubs in Salt Lake City there were orgies in the toilets. I liked to watch even though I never participated. My ex-wife liked to watch too. Confession 8: When I think about this young Turkish boy and his penis on his belly it turns me on. A lot. Confession 9: I have only told these things to my girlfriend. I am not sure if my current friends would understand. I fucked a guy in college at a girls house I fancied at the time. She told someone who told someone who told someone. All those liberal minded college students had me labeled before I could say kazam! HAIRY TURTLES

I only did the one time with the young Turkish boy. I was aware of the exoticism. Going both ways. But the power dynamic. Was it all fucked up? He was old enough but still young. And I was western. Not rich. Or even close. But still western. The next morning they gathered around me like I was rock star or something. I was exotic. Then one of the transgendered humans asked me if I knew anyones name. Could I ever be bothered. I saw my ego and didnt like it. I didnt want to be American. I didnt want to be slumming it. The transgendered human told me the only job most of them could get was as prostitutes in Kizilay. Or online exotic dancers. I thought about my body. How I was sexual. But other things too. The next day, when we heard the call for morning prayers, we went out for an all-u-caneat Turkish breakfast. This meant lots of fresh vegetables. And breads. And even cakes. It felt nice to be around them. I felt more free to be whatever I felt like being. And then came the turtle. A turtle crossed our path. A big hairy turtle. An old ancient turtle with a hairy head. Dark black hairs. It was a sign. I was sure of it. But I did not know what it meant. We are all hard on the face but soft in the mouthholes.

Austin Islam

noodly guitar is best guitar 1. your feelings are not the only feelings 2. your feelings are not the only feelings 3. your feelings are not the only feelings 4.your feelings are not the only feelings 5. listen to other peoples feelings 6. dont be dramatic 7. feel bad about bad things you have done 8. say you are sorry for the bad things 9. dont repeat bad things you have done

shit poem re: shit poems i don't want to write it down or goddamn type it out either every thought from the brain is steaming utter excrement i almost invariably enjoy the smell of even savor the secretion of on psychoactive occasions still, shit at its essence ( thank u )

Wyatt Sparks

Alexander Seedman

I want you to call me dude and bring up the possibility of a threesome with Count Chocula and we will trade Pokemon attack moves that represent the way we fuck. I want to lock eyes with you at the library before I even know your name and I want you to look away and leave so we never meet and I want to know you forever so we can bury each other and I want to meet you as we snort lines of cocaine off of Britney Spears inaugural album. I want to discover more of myself so I have more to share with you and after its over I will turn the fan on lightly at night, and leave it next to my neck to mimic your breath. I want to wake up next to your sour breath and we will kiss and I will taste the Capn Crunch you had for dinner last night and I will hold my mouth on yours for too long and you will say how you hate my bitten nails or you will say never pull away and I will smile against your smile and our teeth will clash and chip away at each kiss which will be brighter than a rare sun in Seattle and covered by the clouds of your tongue and my nose against yours. I want to learn your name and discover you dont have a Facebook so I can never talk to you again. I want to learn your name and ask my friend if she knows you, she does, and I discover youre easier than the first level of the first Crash Bandicoot game on the first Playstation. I want you to ask me why there is cum on the game controller and I will say Metal Gear Solid makes me solid and you will fall on me and we will kiss for the last time because you mistook me for somebody else, you thought I was him but Im only me. I want to call you a faggot once, like that episode of Will & Grace, all because I hate you and I want you to cry so I can lick your tears away because they taste like the twentyfourth flavor in a can of Dr. Pepper. I want you to mistake my thigh for my dick and I want to look at you and I want you to look at my forehead because eye contact is distracting, you say awkwardly, but redeem yourself by identifying my eye color as the brightest brown and my tears will fall across my face like a horizon and you will call me a hopeless romantic and I will call you a nihilistic fairy-bear and I will hold you until you stop shaking because your cousin died in a car accident, you couldnt remember her name, but the crying feels good so I dont blame you for the way you feel but I hate you one week later (a used condom in your pocket is a boring way for me to find out.)

I want to meet you in the Comics section and scoff at your choice of books, and I want to meet you at a quiet dinner party where I brush my hand against your cock and your knee jerks and the conversation about politics is interrupted and we rush upstairs to dry hump against the bathroom door. I want them to call us a princely couple because I dont know what that means but I want it to define us. I want everything and nothing all at once so we can be together forever and never, like a true infinity of us.

Murdoch LaMarche

Swimming in Alcohol and Ecstasy Dear [The person I am hoping is still my] friend, Okay. Let me just start off by saying that Im incredibly sorry about what happened America is mourning the loss of Twinkies and I am sorry about what happened I promise this is not a form letter I found by googling apology letter [and then forgot to fill out] But, here it goes Dear [Recipient] Please accept this letter as my formal apology for what happened on [location, event, issue, etc] on [MM/DD/YYYY]. It was not my intention to cause any damage or inconvenience. In retrospect, I believe the situation resulted from [cause]. While this is by no means an excuse for [my behavior, what happened, etc], knowing the cause will help me guard against future mistakes. Again, I am sorry for what happened. If you would like to continue this conversation, please feel free to call me at [phone]. I look forward to hearing from you and putting this matter behind us. Sincerely, [Sender] See, were laughing, were friends. I hope that now we can just put all of this behind us. If that feeling is mutual, feel free to disregard the following lines I can only assume that you are still reading this. So maybe youre looking for an itemized list of my mistakes and apologies for each. But please know that I am truly sorry. I know. I know. It was your first solo exhibition. It was at a nice gallery. Believe me, I sincerely apologize for any faux pas that may have [allegedly] occurred. Not to diminish what I did, but you did have free alcohol. So if I were a pettier person, I could hold you partially responsible. I could also hold whoever decided to continue serving me the pisco through the night. I could also fault whoever failed to warn me about the potency of the pisco. [Also, I may or may not have ingested a small quantity of MDMA prior to arriving at the reception, but that is neither here nor there.] But Im not writing you to point fingers about who is really at fault here. I will just jump into the meat of the apology.

The heart of the matter. The substance. The nuts and bolts. The facts. I will attempt to address each faux pas that I can remember Okay. Beginning. I am sorry about approaching [the person I believed to be] one of your patrons who was examining one of your prints asking them if they liked it telling them that I was your agent asking if they would like to buy it forcefully telling them that you would accept no less than $3950 for it scoffing at them after they pointed out the $45 dollar price tag telling them thats just so he doesnt seem pretentious. Look at this beautiful creation, how dare you even consider robbing him like that? anything less that 4 grand would be a disgrace. You need to leave immediately. No, Im not kidding. Get out, and quit wasting our time. and I feel especially sorry for this considering that I was speaking to the owner of the gallery. I am sorry for sneaking up behind your father and putting toothpicks in his hair throughout the night. I dont know if this was ever discovered. If it wasnt, then I was just making another one of those hilarious jokes of mine. If it was, then I am truly sorry. I am sorry for lying down in the middle of the gallery while you were giving your speech thanking everyone for coming out. I am sorry for saying Ansel Adams [Ive forgotten the context, but I know I said it at some point] I know. You hate Ansel Adams. You really hate Ansel Adams. But seriously. You did an exhibition of black and white landscape photographs. Someone had to say it. It might as well have been me. Because were friends. [Remember?] [Not to distract from my apology, but that pisco was delicious. I think if were going to assign blame for the incident[s] it should be to Peru. Just throwing that out there.] I think at some point I tilted your prints to be slightly unlevel. I think my reasoning [not that you care] was that the gallery felt too clinical, too uniform, too bland. I was giving it character. [So you cant really fault me for that one.] I gave some member of your family a hug that [in hindsight] probably lasted a bit too long. I also probably should not have told [this member of your family] to

stop ruining this when they tried to escape the hug Im not sure who it was. I hugged a lot of people at the show. [But, in all honesty, if any of them had a problem with it, thats on them. What kind of person doesnt like hugs?] Okay. Final apology. [Unless you remind me of some other mistake I made] Im sorry for screaming Le Corbusier! then running out of the gallery. Still not sure of the relevance of Le Corbusier to a photography show, but it made sense at the time. So there. Please accept my sincere apology for the above incidents. [And any other incidents that may have occurred.] Im [extremely] sorry. I love you. ~Murdoch LaMarche PS I know I probably told you this dozens of times during the show, [But I was probably speaking in some obscure dialect of a long lost language. I believe its called Slizzuuurrred.] The show was really good. High quality work. Good job. Im proud to know you. Please dont stay mad. Please? Maybe call me or something. Let me know how we stand. You have the number. <3 PPS Please dont stay mad. Maybe you could just tell everyone I was a performance artist you commisioned for the exhibition. That seems reasonable. PPPS Forgive me for the above, and Ill forgive you for this terrible pisco-induced hangover. [No, you cannot shirk the to responsibility for that by blaming the [alleged] MDMA] PPPPS Im still sorry. PPPPPS Friends? Circle Yes or No

Captain Missouri

NO SOCKS TWO SHOES it had never been the intention to turn my skin to paper but as i was stared in the eyes and between by a forelorn child with broken teeth commenced to suffering brought out my fine china sat in the hallway no socks, two shoes

and so when i woke up the child was pensive when he paused before leaving i cried out disarray tho it wasnt for anyones health i stayed pleading for the benefit solely of pride, there i went no socks, two shoes

and what do you know my skin turned to paper. i locked all the windows and stood by the door.

refrain shouting: me and the air, me and the oxygen. no socks, two shoes

Konstantine Salkeld

Excerpts from an iPhone

Losing yourself in inadequacy can be haunting. It seems as if only the hands of love can pull you out of the dark winding roads of self-hatred. I've witnessed when she loves whole heartedly. I feel the rush when she touches me, I'm sure it's similar to a needle in the vain, toxic. And I've also witnessed her detach, I'm the one who feels the repercussions time and time again. She rips me back to reality faster than a pleasurable slap to the face. That once felt flood of energy dissipates and I'm back to living in a gray world. It would be nice to experience that sense of urgency and passion you're supposed to feel from a partner; I want it constantly streaming in my direction. An endless supply at my fingertips and the security that comes packaged so neatly along with it. Maybe she's just jaded and finds my optimism in fairy tail love childish. Maybe she's a sleeping beauty that thinks only love from a prince can wake her. When her youth has been passed into the hands of time and her ass can no longer twirk, I hope the inside if her closet door isn't the last thing she sees.

John Rogers

Moby is in Mauritius

1. It's 2am and I'm finally drunk and stoned enough to try and sleep. 2. I take a deep drink of water, I'm feeling dehydrated. 3. I drink lying down, from a heavy glass tankard that says "Mauritius". 4. Some drops fall from my mouth and they run down my neck. The water is cold. 5. I feel some more cold water slowly finding it's way through my beard. 6. I lie still in the dark. 7. My eyes are so tired they hurt, and I can't tell if I am calm or panicking. 8. I write "I have never been to Mauritius" in my phone. 9. I have an idea, for a "magic 8 ball conversation poem". 10. My best ideas / worst ideas always happen at the exact moment I fall asleep (yes definitely) 11. That's why I often wake up with my phone in my hand (as I see it yes) 12. I feel like I am falling or dead or something (you may rely on it) 13. I feel like I am dead and falling or something (without a doubt) 14. This happens for a moment that seems infinite then I lie quite still for ~7 hours 15. I dream my ex and I are working on a film. 16. I'm producing, she's an extra. 17. She is trying to make me jealous by flirting with Moby. 18. My response is to slap my head at them then drive away rapidly in a yellow sports car. 19. Morgan Freeman puts his hands in his pockets, smiles, and shakes his head gently. Sent from my BRNLVberry

Shaun Gannon

What Time Is Gay for Philip Glass

It was pretty bright out for being seven oclock when I got to Mrs. Gordons house, but that was nothing compared to when I got abducted by the aliens as I was leaving. I was loading my tools into the back of my truck, and then all I could see and feel was a warm orange light. When I woke, I was being dragged out of a glass tube and pushed into a white room. Here, come with me, I heard from behind me. I was held by a large man with white eyes, scaly, flesh-colored skin and slick brown hair. He was probably three feet taller than me. I watched my truck float up into the glass tube behind us, and the orange light faded away as the hatch clipped shut. Is he here? a voice shouted from another room. The wall next to us disappeared, and another large, scaly man stood in the opening. The stars glimmered in the round glass wall behind him, and Mrs. Gordons farm sprawled out below us. Youre aliens? I said. Youre a plumber? said the man next to me as he released my shoulders. Yes, I am, I said. I peered through the windshield. Im surprised you could read my truck from up here. Yep, FRANKLINS PLUMBING, the first man confirmed. We have excellent vision. Well, what do you want from me? Our bathroom sink is leaking, the other man said. He was shorter than the first one, but only by a hair or two. And Im supposed to fix it, I said. They both nodded. Well, Ill see what I can do. I tiptoed across the hatch to my truck, grabbed my tools, and followed the taller man to the bathroom.

The sink trap had rusted through at the threads, so it was a simple replacement, and only took about ten minutes altogether to fix. The two scaly men sounded very pleased when I told them this, though they never showed it on their faces. I think they are unable to smile, or were too insecure to do it in front of me. Im sorry we dont have any money, said the shorter man. Well pay you in anal probing instead. The three of us shared a laugh. Then the tall man said, But really, were going to probe you now. My face betrayed a hint of excitement, burning red as I turned away. Oh my, was all I could manage to say. Why are you changing color? asked the short man. Its just that Ive never been paid with sex before, I said, unable to face them. The men looked at each other with wide stares, then turned back to me. You consider this sex? It was then that I taught the aliens about bottoming. We have abducted a few individuals in your rural areas that seemed to enjoy this, the men said, but it is rare. If you abducted people from the city rather than from its outskirts, you may have better luck, I said. Oh, we dont go to the city. Wed be shot down and caught for sure. Youll never find the right person for you if youre not willing to take risks, I said. The men stared at the floor in silence. Why not abduct one of those Area 51 fanatics? Theyre crazy about you guys. Youd think wed be a perfect match, but its just awful, the short one said. The tall man nodded. Once we took one of those weirdoes just a few towns over, in fact. He was a real sport when it came to the probing, but he was never interested in any physical fitness tests, or the mental acuity test, or the L.R.P. And everyone loves the L.R.P., the short man chimed in.

Oh but not this joker, the tall man said. No, whenever he saw us coming, hed just start shouting. Oh, God! Theyre going to probe me again! The men laughed at the tall ones impression. Are you sure he enjoyed it? The small man leaned forward and looked at me sideways. Trust me, when youve been anally probing people as long as we have, you can tell when someone enjoys it. We all shared a good laugh, and I could feel it strengthen my connection to the universe, and I knew what it meant to have a place. I was then subjected to their typical battery of tests. The probing was a little tame for my taste, but I can see why everyone loves the L.R.P.

Stephanie Graff

maria I. you were my first kiss at the lakefront watching the princess bride on a giant projector screen i dont count that boy in sunday school i kissed when i was 3 years old because i didnt love him like i loved you our lips writhed together like four pink snakes trying to tie themselves into knots and we knew there were other people there trying to watch the movie disgusted that these teen girls felt so strongly for each other i didnt care neither did you II. we started hanging out every weekend i told my parents we were just friends they didnt buy it III. the boys on the bus found out that i was in love with you they asked whats your girlfriends name? is she pretty? gorgeous, i said and they laughed at me IV. cinema paradiso was showing at the lakefront we were nestled beneath a pile of blankets you tried to fuck me with your fingers it was dark and you were clumsy and we knew nothing about fucking the movie looked good but i was too busy to read the subtitles V. i told you i wanted to marry you but you seemed unsure about it

VI. remember when we were hanging out with our friends from camp you two are the cutest couple, they told us we giggled and held hands the whole time then a straight boy asked us so when are you going to make out? it made me angry because i was not in love with you for his pleasure i was in love with you for you we made out anyways VII. you were my first heartbreak nothing lasts forever i guess i cried for days until i didnt feel safe from myself and they sent me to the hospital everyone was nice and it helped me forget about you kind of VIII. i met another girl we lasted a long time but i thought about you and your mouth a lot she ended up cheating on me with you i hated you so much maybe i still hate you IX. you moved to tennessee and told everyone that youre straight you moved to tennessee and acted like i never happened to you

Chief McFrank

Exploration Do you like to play sports? Lets jerk each other off. Do you like yoga? Lets 69. How about arts and crafts? Lets scissor. What are your political views? Lets hug each other longer than people usually hug each other. Do you like to try new things? Lets love each other.

Tom Stein

Jenny Nelson

The Beatles took the name of the poem I wanted

I was thinking the other day about how I don't know where to put my hands. I recounted all the heterosexual experiences I've had in the last year where something happened but I chose not to move my hands, kept them by my side. Except for when I was confused and I vocally forced you to hold my hand. I said PLEASE HOLD MY HAND and you said okay and this doesn't work for any other body part or it would be weird I wondered though if when our faces touch or your arm touches my back or our shoulders nudge ever so slightly if that's when I'm supposed to throw my upper extremities all over you and is that how other girls get boyfriends but that's like the opposite of what I want to do I used to practice piano on the daily and my fingers got long and now they're so long that I have to keep my hands in mittens Sometimes I exchange my hands for other things like turn them into Fake Scissors that I use to cut into my pixie hair but then I stop before I ruin everyone's chance of correctly identifying my chosen gender Sometimes I turn them into Pretend Ice Cream Scoops and take all the guts out of my belly if I'm nervous Every once in a while my hands change into all thumbs that type my Only ExBoyfriend's name because it's really close in spelling to that of my best friend even though digits dialing incorrect digits is the opposite of Math Sometimes though I just use my hands to hold your hand tightly which is maybe a cop-out because it means that only our palms are touching and not our genitals which I don't know if that would be better but I'm nervous, okay?

Shane Jesse Christmass

The Hyphy of Orpheum. I busted into boxer shorts and ran a long way to get to the train. Damn train tracks. Choo choo indeed. Clipping hoofs in sports socks making me ashamed of myself. The shadow of the buildings opposite. The Parque Leyema, a park in San Telmo I usually slept in. I got an apartment now. I come to this apartment with an electric fan. I screw it into the plastered-peeling wall and pronounce carefully, yet add as an afterthought. To get a drink of water. Sleeping in, in the morning, while everyone peddles off to work is a gift of whatever god exists, some happiness cuddle in profound obscurity. Buenos Aires indeed. Two men in a disco, dancefloor dilapidated. Neither of them beautiful. Drunk in the barranca, losing their high heels. I needed to get to the airport to board the aeroplane before the ticket booth closed. Getting out of South America to get back home. To get a drink indeed. Iceblocks in a tumbler. Cinzano Rosso. In spite of my cynical nature, here today and gone tomorrow, I seem to be getting along with these two men. Drag queens during these afternoons. Gradual and horrific appearances of inexpensive make-up. Joking remarks about the customs regulations. British American Tobacco, contemptible cigarettes already rolled. Perspiring in the night, heavy shipping on the big seas, sexual denouement, the finale of ejaculation by the drag queens, my ballsack in their manicured hands, our underpants around our ankles, enacted near a repaired fence across the street from the tavern, horror out with a mouthful of grass. We all make out, bumping fleshy bits against fleshy bottoms, make out with the crosswalk, nothing special anyway. I was forgotten. The waiter took no as an alien response.

Scott Krave

grow younger and try your hand at the coals. forget the harsh lessons of dreams vs reality and the unbridgeable gaps where on the edges of which we sit encamped, eroding with time like desert sandstone, remarkable in its temporary glamour distances we were unwilling to travel take no pity on us talk of sacrifice roles off the tongue leaving a bitter taste, fermented with facts about getting what we want, what we deserve and what we earn

second guessing the glib coronation of block party king is sure to brand your ass with blasphemer. its precisely when the crisp hiss and, if youre unlucky, crackle of near hairless flesh shimmies into the essential drum that certainty in assured your dissent is to be canonized in alleyways with heaped piles of trash splayed across impossible angles, in back rows of elementary school math classes justifying tax brackets cobbled boot heels built for labor will leave your name pressed in soil so clearly that a printer is thought to have left it as code. from ahead of your wake you smell rat that screams termites while dozens of virgins dont know why they ceaselessly recite your coughs

Dianna Dragonetti

Cellar Door *** Her voice was thin and futile as a flys, buzzing while encased within a glass jar, throwing itself against the sides, one million eyes, diaphanous wings, magnified; though she could never see herself in this darkness as she called to him: find me and love me, Ill die in your sleep. No pounding on that cellar door could ever rouse him from his depressing affairs, and its timid reverberations in the dark only further drowned her failing will and terrible cry: come find me, come love me, Ill die as you sleep.

Patience *** I am an artificial rose. I am a human heart. I am your virtue, I am your lover. *** Patience

Ive got dead eyes. I am standing in the bathroom, wearing the same shirt I have been wearing for days since Obama won the election this past Tuesday, and I put it on, figured I ought to be patriotic. It is wrinkled, navy, outdated, its condition somewhat lessening its impact-a newly wavering voice that only ever shouts: CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN from my shallow breast And my shallow breath sadly harmonizes with the dripping faucet and the faint hum of fluorescent lighting. CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN I think to myself as I stare at my washed-out reflection in the bathroom mirror. I am standing in the bathroom, wearing the same shirt I have been wearing for years since Obama won the election in 2008, and I wanted to believe in something, I wanted to change. I am ashen, vacant, outdated, my condition somewhat lessening my impact-a trembling, bleary wreck that never leaves the house; CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN scored into my pale flesh Ive got dead eyes.

Postlude

About the GAYNG

Gayng Leaders

Alexander Seedman studies new media and creative writing at the Gallatin School of
New York University. You can follow him everywhere @a_seedman and read more of his work at www.seedman.tumblr.com/original

Nathan Masserang just moved to Chicago and hes putting together Ikea
furniture and he wants to kill himself.

Gayng Contributors

Scott Krave

lives in sweet New England. He takes deep breaths when he steps outside in

the morning in winter. He wrote a chapbook called bone smoke and has recently compiled another called beaches of the big north.

Joshua Irwin goes by the pseudonym Hawk Sampson. He likes to write about people,
myself included. He hates pedestals and I am afraid of them. He prides himself on "being really out here" and often tries to fight off his insecure tendencies in writing that looks for academic validation. He hopes you can hang out with him in his writing, hes really doing

his best to be as honest with the voices that he uses in his works as he can. He hates the word "client. Contact: wearereallyouthere@gmail.com or facebook Hawk Sampson.

Stephen Michael McDowell curates habitat.

Sarah Edwards lives in Montreal, Canada and loves to turn everything to poetry. She
experiments with images,video,words and any/all combination of these to make poetry. She always carries a little red notebook for those moments when inspiration strikes and she needs to scribble. Her latest chapbook of visual musings has been published by Fowlpox Press. She also had a full length book of asemic writing recently published by cPress.

aww heck

Charles Young is from minneapolis and loves at least one of you rn

pushesmongo.tumblr <3.

Melissa Lynn (Franny Lane) is a fairly young and inexperienced little high schooler, but
she can still churn out papers on Dostoevsky like nobody's business. She likes Gummo, Joy Division, Gilbert Gottfried's voice and can be found reblogging copious amounts of Skins GIFs at ordinaryghost.tumblr.com.

Mark Thomas Stevenson (1988-2066) is what, a writer (?) from NW England, where
he lives and works. His stories have featured in Red Lightbulbs, Keep This Bag Away From Children, UP Literature and Banango Street. He blogs at famousauthorquotes.com, and wants to shake hands with your dad.

Marcus Slease was born in Portadown, N. Ireland. He has lived all over the world as a
teacher of English as a foreign language. A novella, The House of Zabka, is on the way in the form of a bizarre fairy tale from Poland (Deathless Press 2013). His latest book of poetry Mu (so) Dream (window) is available for pre-order from Poor Claudia: http://www.poorclaudia.org/details_slease.php Recent writing has appeared in: Thought Catalog, NAP, Poor Claudia, Radioactive Moat, Gesture, Metazen, and Housefire Books (among others). He lives in London and blogs (and reblogs) at The House of Zabka: http://marcusslease.tumblr.com/

Austin Islam is 21 years old on the internet. he is mezzo forte. don't fuck with him,
don't fuck with him. austincharcoal.tumblr.com @austincharcoal

Wyatt Sparks is a 22 y/o Chicago poet b/c he made too much money as a 45 y/o
doctor.

Murdoch LaMarche is a supervillain

Captain Missouri is publishing/performance moniker of a united states youth


musician/writer/visual artist/archivist/+more. plays in rock+noise bands as well as a solo musician. can be found in cincinnati, ohio, midwest. not interested in the cultural practice of

declaring a sexual orientation and the despair it fosters. 21 years have passed since his birth. more info: http://captainmissouri.blogspot.com

Konstantine Salkeld is a 23 year old Lezzy. She spends her down time watching HDTV
and wishing she had a twin so she could be like The Property Brothers.

John Rogers is an artist/writer/music-multi-tasker from London, England. He writes


"autobiographical stuff"/dream poetry and makes image macros (as seen in places like Pop Serial, Have U Seen My Whale, Alternative Literature, Lief Plus, Bad Robot and Internet Poetry). He has a new macro-poem called "Everythingness" coming soon for Houston art/lit mag Shelf Life. Find out more at Tumblr, Twiiter, Cargo Collective and Facebook. Thank u & bye.

Shaun Gannon is a trash monster that still uses Blogger. He is the author of Brown
Fuzzy Words (Love Symbol Press, 2012).

Stefanie Graff writes better when she is sad. she lives in a baltimore
suburb where part of a john waters movie was shot. her twitter is @misandristcutie if you want to follow her.

Mick Stringer (Chief McFrank) makes things from his bedroom in Towson, MD. Though
a dabbler in all arts, he prefers music and words. Find him online: chiefmcfrank.tumblr.com; soundcloud.com/mickstringer; @chiefmcfrank on Twitter

Well

Tom Steins interests include trap music, clothes, and leaving high school forever.

Follow him on twitter @buttz__ (two underscores) and tumblr sadcutie.tumblr.com.

Jenny Nelson (Jrnny) is a Chicago transplant in the New York. She reads and writes and
<a href="http://www.screensonscreen.tumblr.com"> also television</a>.

Shane Jesse Christmass is a Perth-born, Melbourne-based writer. Hes a member of


the band Mattress Grave, and firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy. Most of his writing is archived at Lupara Publishing. He's on the Editorial Board at Paroxysm Press, as well as editing the lit. journal Queen Vic Knives, and he welcomes your submissions, especially to Queen Vic Knives."

Dianna Dragonetti is a new-age dead grl who writes disjointed existential horror. She
has published a book called 'Tangier,' available on Amazon, and has a second called 'Don't Follow Me' dropping in February. She loves you. We all love you.'