September 22-28, 1997: Erik Jensen and Jonathan Penton

Week of September 22-28, 1997

Erik Jensen and Jonathan Penton

Erik Jensen


Erik Jensen edits Black Cross Magazine, a Journal of Heavy Poetry & Art along with that lecherous rebel Jim Guess We’ve just released our third issue entitled “Poetry Sweatshop”-available for only US $2.00! Post-paid! Eat it while it’s hot!

Erik spends most of his spare time churning out beautiful (but useless) websites, teaching young kids how to say naughty words, and hitting himself in the head with his phone He writes poetry, but mostly keeps it to himself He’s a bastard that way He once wrote a song called “I’ve got a kitty with no toes” but it’s much
too silly to mention here You might say Erik is a complete yahoo

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Erik Jensen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Lightspeed, baby!

Gritting teeth
I attempt to align firing synapses So many nights have passed
since these eyes have closed shut Those murky amber shadows,
like dithered yellow wraiths,
cast off by roadside
low pressure sodiums,
crawl with a horrifying madness
and I blink
and squint
through the dirty windshield
and things look normal
for now Just a blur now
as I step on it
kicking dirt and gravel
high into the San Diego night My perspective hops
twenty degrees at a time I can feel the palpitations
coming on strong now,
as I reach for
a half-smoked joint,
just to level me out For days now,
every which way but loose Eying the trees buzzing by,
I look for an easy way out Guess it’ll take seeing
my girlfriend, the dealer,
in shiny new cuffs For only a week I hover
on what seems like death’s door,
while she bounces
off rubber walls
until she comes out
more fucked up than ever.

The Psychic?

Her icy blue eyes studied my face,
“I really don’t understand you “

I must have looked astonished Wondering exactly what she couldn’t
understand Always the mind-reader,
I thought,
and smiled secretly
as she filled in the blanks
“I mean, I thought we were friends,
but sometimes you act like we
don’t even know each other “

I glanced blankly at her,
my attention now diverted,
from my not-so-full drink
She had taken our love,
grabbed it by the throat,
spun it around,
and kicked its legs out
from under it Gleefully smashing it into the ground,
until there was nothing left
I shot her a cold stare,
once again angered by the memories It occured to me,
that she was the kind of person
who thought she knew what
people were all about,
but somehow she was always
way off-base This time was no exception I grinned incredulously
“Some friends can’t be trusted “

and for once,
she knew just what I meant.


A tasty dish
laid out at the next table
her pen clenched tightly
between lips that ache to be
sucked or worse Arched ass pronounced,
“This outfit is far too inferior
to contain me “
Her bra struggles to withstand gravity
but fails gloriously Those unnatural angles
that she pulled off so gracefully
offering glimpses only god
or boyfriends
partake in She made me feel
eight feel tall
with zoomlens eyes
and minor palpitations Do you like to take orders
after the lunch rush,
bitch about your tips
(show me your pierced ones)
wish to wash the breakfast residue
clean from your body Sadly, you leave me
only hunger-pangs
and two eggs
sunnyside up,
a side of cantelope,
and a heaping portion of

Going Nowhere

Our lives circle
with such regularity,
sleeping, waking, eating, working
Round and round
the atoms within our bodies go
Round and round
the blood in our arteries travel
To and fro in little patterns
we live our lives
microscopic versions of
the planets and galaxies
that whirl their circular dance
far above our heads
Our lives circle
looping us back to
where we just started
back to the same job
to the same lover
to the same concrete and asphalt
gridlock we call home
I want to yell at the top of my lungs,
for someone to stop this madness
I want out of this slow death vortex
I want to square the circle
and point my life
on a zigzag course
that leads nowhere
in particular.

Jonathan Penton


It really doesn’t matter how I autobiograph myself I’m lying to you, anyway.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Jonathan Penton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.


I need a mantra
I need a pop rock sex song
The old romantic imagery ain’t doin’ much for me anymore
I need a simple phrase so I can blank it all out
I don’t have to believe it but I need to memorize it let me shout it

I need a new religion
I need a superficial understanding of humanity
I need hard-core pissed-off rock and roll to remind me I’m not real
I could tell you life sucks
But you’re sick of hearing that by now
I could tell you I love you
But you won’t believe me anyway so
Let’s get Fabulous

I could go deeper
But I’m tired and scared and don’t want wisdom anymore
I need a pop culture mantra
Some simple cliche over and over like head over heels and crimson and clover
Ducking the ghoulies ’cause I’m not afraid
So long as I can find this little mantra that proves to me that I’m still sane

I Only Want a Taste

Please don’t make me guess
I don’t want to have to consider
the implications
of your expression Please don’t spell it out for me
I don’t want to have to realize
I don’t want to recognize
this moment: Almost passionate
Bursting toward compassionate
We could be teetering past friendship,
But that is sure to make me fall I only want a taste
the scent of cotton candy
without the sticky mess
Whitewash your emotion
Paint your sex in pastel colors
It might be nice
to feel you come
but do not make me cross that bridge myself If I taste you now
will I tap you and wrap you for the rest of my life?
I cannot recover from an addiction of that magnitude And yet
You could finally sate my hunger
But what if you did?
When one ceases to be hungry, what can one do
but sleep?

I’m afraid of satisfaction
I know that it cannot be obtained
In the end
I’m avoiding completion
I don’t know what to do when the act is done.


Here are my wrists, please touch them gently
I’m a bit frightened
Here is my throat, please bite it carefully
I’ve never been to good at this
I never could control any of this

I am sensitive, my eyes can’t take the sun
I need you to hold me although my wounds are raw
I need you to love me slowly
But you say you want to watch him blow me
I do not find this uplifting

Here is the next chapter in our little book
And although I still do not understand the plot
I think I have analyzed the characters
You are the heroine in bespeckled green dress
I am the sphinx with the riddle that you found so simple

I am the second string bassist
I am the dolphin in the tuna net
I am the jester, I am the moron
This is my fault

This is not my game, I am not the lead in your life
This presents you no confusion but it seems to bother me
You are secure, I am the kidnap victim,
I am the hallmark of your disrespect
I’m starting to grow angry though you didn’t write the script
I think it must be your fault

I am fed up as your lesser half
I can do anything that you can do
I can be every section of this whole
I have lost patience

I want to tear out your tounge every time you mock me
I know that I could bash your brains in for every time you hurt me
Your spells and incantations have no power over my
I could rip your limbs apart if I needed you for anything
You cannot touch me

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