Decay

I’m laying on the floor fully exposed
And ten thousand flies are all tickling my skin as they find solace in the smell of my hair. I can’t understand why,
you’re in the same room with the head of a deer on your dinner plate
it far exceeds the smell of my sweat touching the floorboards,
And these flies can’t even see
Something they should see

So I crawl to the table
And curl into a plate
And whisper “I’m decay, I’m decay, I’m decay”
As you eat me with your eyes
As the flies eat me with their tiny thighs
And I am left with tiny scratches made by little feet and gazing forks








Lexi Roberts is the 18 year old fog in the rafters of the nearest abandoned house.

Rust

Thought about a London broil
At the Rusty Scupper Restaurant
Thought about staring blankly at a bay
Having rust prepare my food
Thought against it
Never trust oxidation to do a human’s job









Beach Sloth blogs hard.

Untitled

She sits across the table
Dreary eyes staring
At her New York Strip
My eyes stare as well
At my New York Strip
We decide the steaks are cold
And go fuck instead










Cory Forrest is the manager of a small radio station that no one has ever heard of. He often yells obscenities at children and throws rocks at buildings.

Sup

Gaze pivoted toward
Is the messenger of
In wind the cardinal
Points carried in the hum
Jihad is not a pillar
Like sunset of the night
There hair is no prey
Words & acts as form of
All must be done varies
Varies, of course, from one orator
To another their hair to violence
At the midday of dawn
Bait the middawn of day
Indicating this imaginary orientation
The placement of the sun
In mind the tribe son
Resistant to an idea of idols
Divine arrows contra human
Images wiped to the house
Images wiped to the bone
These voices are unwritten
Tribe or geographic unawares
Love from the tribe of Kindi
Or Averroes, he, from Andalus
Calligraphy is itself
Art an imaginary orientation
Heavy in the sky wisps of love
Or arrows chucked from heaven
Or bolts to pickpocket us
Voices act as leather locks
Strips to denude us from others
Bodies better plastered written
The voiced Masoretic
Hump texts stained w/ rears
Roused bumps a fear of parchment
First thirst the tongues of blue & read
Successfully the body is a
Room or record of a god
Pre like stripped perfumes linger
The body divined in mud
The purest dominate 6 faithful
Wives baked by the sun
Hair kilnfired in the trap of the sun
Indications, this orientation
In the sky, fat gericurls of love
Images wed to the horse house
Fill every room with meat
Fuck this stable with shaking
Fill every rider with tables
Fill every room with must









Jared Joseph lives in Spain but his junky soul is american sweetbreads. His chapbook Commuting: Have Gone To Ithaca. -Frank Quitely, available at Varmint Armature Press, is fried fat burnt lean. Visit his blog [here]

S T E A KTHOM JAMES IS A BRITISH POET WHO ALSO DABBLES IN FICTION. HE HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN / UP COMING IN: METAZEN, HOUSEFIRE, INTERNET POETRY, SPECTER MAGAZINE, AND ET CETERA. HE IS ALSO A WRITER / REVIEWER FOR BANANGO LIT. READ MORE OF HIS WRITING [HERE]

S T E A K




THOM JAMES
IS A BRITISH POET WHO ALSO DABBLES IN FICTION. HE HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN / UP COMING IN: METAZEN, HOUSEFIRE, INTERNET POETRY, SPECTER MAGAZINE, AND ET CETERA. HE IS ALSO A WRITER / REVIEWER FOR BANANGO LIT. READ MORE OF HIS WRITING [HERE]

Problems Bigger Than Termites

Termites will eat more than wood and sometimes even steak
if you put them inside a metal or glass box they can’t chew through.
People are made of a different kind of steak if you stop to think about it.
This isn’t some post-break-up plan I made for our break-up.
This isn’t an early Eminem track from a mix-tape or anything.
Eminem has bigger problems than termites when he thinks in rap.









Chad Redden wrote a small book about Thursday titled Thursday (Plain Wrap).

the nazi party wore leather jackets but peta never did anything about it why?

for plau corningham because i know he loves steak and frites

i put this
red fucking piece
of tenderloin on my
goddamn face
and make the goddamn kissy faces
to the dirty mirror

i know you will miss me -
i am just a man with raw
passion and
meat on his face
black pepper in his nose
grains of salt from
the wounds that you’ve etched
marinate this sirloin to goddamn perfection







Please feed Michael Koh on Twitter (@kohhhh) and tell him he’s doing a terrible job as the web editor of Press Board Press.

The Red Hamburger

so much depends
upon

a red ham
burger

glazed with A1
sauce

beside the crispy
fries







Justin Carter edits Banango Street. He blogs at http://theghostofbigmoe.blogspot.com.

Please send me writing that is either related to a) meat or b) conclusions. New work will be published periodically and I will always try to get back to you in less than eight months. Send your work to: p (dot) edward (dot) cunningham (at) gmail (dot) com Happy Soul-Searching!

Please send me writing that is either related to a) meat or b) conclusions. New work will be published periodically and I will always try to get back to you in less than eight months.

Send your work to: p (dot) edward (dot) cunningham (at) gmail (dot) com

Happy Soul-Searching!