Friday

POETRY BY A.J. Huffman

A.J. Huffman has published twelve solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  Her new poetry collections, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press), A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing), Butchery of the Innocent (Scars Publications) and Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink) are now available from their respective publishers and amazon.com.  She has an additional poetry collection forthcoming:  A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press).  She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2400 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com.

Enjoying the View

Cassie hated to hike alone, but when her boyfriend, Dennis had to delay his flight because of a last-minute deadline at work, she found herself sitting in a romantic hotel room in Hawaii, alone.  To escape the onset of depression and boredom, she had had filled her backpack with bottles of water and headed out onto the scenic trails the hotel brochures bragged about. 

A half an hour or so into her trip, Cassie happened upon a small waterfall.   The breeze coming through the trees was nice, but she was still sweating and decided  to cool off.  Unsure of the aquatic dangers that might be lurking in the pool at the base of the falls, she maneuvered herself up the rocks.  Once behind the waterfall, she could use it as a natural shower, and the distance of the falls from the trail would shield her from any passing eyes.

Cassie had stripped down to her just her bikini bottoms when she heard laughter coming from the trail, a female squeal followed by a husky male laugh.  Cassie grabbed her shirt from the rock she had laid it on, held it against her as she leaned closer to the water to see if they were coming her way.

Through the rushing falls, she could see the two figures approach.  The man was grabbing at the woman’s bikini strings, as she half-heartedly slapped his hands away.  The bottom string was practically untied, and the woman wasn’t doing much to keep her breasts from falling out from the cover of the fabric. 

The man grabbed the woman and buried his face in her neck.  The woman arched her back, straining to see if anyone was around.  Unable to see Cassie behind the falling water, the woman surrendered herself to the man’s advances, wrapped her hands into his hair as he moved from her neck to her now fully exposed breast.

Cassie forgot all about getting dressed as she watched the man suck each of the woman’s breasts, his tongue circling each nipple before his mouth covered it.  The woman moaned as her hands disappeared from site. 

A moment later the man’s cargo shorts slid to the grass.  He gave up his foray into the woman’s cleavage long enough to remove them and his boxer shorts completely.  The woman quickly undid the rest of her bikini top, and hurriedly removed her shorts.  Once they were both naked, the man dropped to his knees and buried his head between the woman’s legs.

Cassie could feel the familiar tug of arousal in her own groin, and she imagined she was the woman and it was her body the man’s tongue was conquering.  She dropped the shirt she had been clutching to her now swelling breasts, ran her hands over her own nipples as she continued to watch the encounter below.

The woman had backed up and was now leaning against a palm tree while the man sucked at her.  Her leg over his shoulder, her hands grasped his hair, pushing his tongue deeper as her climax rose, erupted like a volcano. 

The man pulled her down on top of him.  They kissed playfully for a moment, hands and mouths roaming wildly over each other, completely oblivious to the fact that they were not alone. 

By the time the man entered the woman, Cassie had leaned herself back against the rock wall, fingering herself to climax.  She could hear the moans coming from below as she stifled her own.  Her body kept pace with the two below, until all three came in a rush of erotic release.

Cassie continued to lean against the rock wall as the man and woman dressed themselves, headed back toward the trail.  Once they were out of sight, she quickly dressed and headed back to the trail.  She couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and call Dennis to tell him all about her secret erotic excursion behind the falls.



Of Moth and Flame

White wings flutter,
mocking innocence with each
thrust.  Red beast rises
harder than smoke, ignites
the night.  Screams
of ecstasy follow
explosive bursts. 
Sparks linger like kisses.
Temporary heat
worth dying for.



Musical Instrument

My body is a symphony
you play with fingers and lips,
blowing, touching.  I echo
your desire, a hollow form waiting
to feel your breath.  My pulse
inspires, your response composes
appropriate notes and nuances.  I swallow
my own hesitation, soar beneath you
as we fly across unfettered night
on conjoined wings without words.



Naked Sushi Girl

Raw flesh against raw flesh.
Strategically placed, this pale
palette barely breathes, waits
for hungry sticks to come
and pick her bare.  They devour
this horizontal display with eyes,
hands, mouths.  Her
edible striptease continues
until appetites subside.



His Body was a Tilt-A-Whirl

and I could feel the excitement and fear tightening
in my gut as I approached.  Sliding myself
into his seat, I searched for appropriate handholds.
I leaned back for support as we picked up speed,
turning into the motion as we surged forward.  Faster
and faster we moved as one until I became dizzy,
lightheaded.  Leaving the cool structure of his form,
I found my legs weak, unsteady on solid ground.
I immediately placed myself back in line, a child
eager for another go ‘round.

POETRY by John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and the anthology, No Achilles with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and Nebo.   




MASSAGE

Fingers up spines finally
mutate from fingers
into angel wings
brushing my bone

and the tingling of my blood
through with writing
that great poem
on walls of sighs
turns its attention
to the mists beyond
my right elbow where
the seraph must emerge

and your mouth
imitating your eye-lids
in a girlish fluttering way
that says both would kiss
if they had a mind to

and somewhere
down the back of my legs
I sense your thighs
billowing like sails
on the hard wooden ribbed boat
of our love

that rocks
my next thought
all sensuous



THE WAKEUP FLOWER

In her dream, a man approaches the bed
flaunting a rose the red of her nipples.
She's prone, vulnerable on blue sheets,
head on pillow, nightgown open to the waist.
He kneels beside her, brushes her throat
with that rose as she reaches up unconsciously,
fondles the petals as if that touch is
what she would want for her own skin,
gently breaks each from the bud
until they flutter down to her breasts,
tickle her awake, disconcerted,
until she sees the brown hair, the tanned
lender face above her. Slowly, her arms
reach out to his warm neck
as her lips graze on his mouth, a nibble at a lime,
and her back arches slightly
as the embrace thrums through her,
and she drops her head into his upper chest
so lhal his breath can prove
the validity of dreams
as it eases through his ribcage
in the fullness of a flower,
and all before a word is spoken,
as if silence itself is fully aware
that nothing need be said.

Our Latest Get Jazzy, Talk Dirty Poetry and Short Stories --Read them in our Upcoming Issue: Work by Robert Beveridge

Body Play

It's never “make love”
when we talk
always “fuck me”
or in more intimate moments
“fuck my cunt.”

When you lie pressed
against my side I feel
your heartbeat tick
and wait for detonation.

Our love is earthy,
sweet, the garlic
and peppermint 
of your breath, the sweat
between your breasts
or on your thighs

I want a purer love
some vague romantic notion
of armor and dragons
the hand of a long-haired princess
who's not concerned
with impotence, disease
death; she knew some
knight would rescue her.

What dragon can I slay
to win your hand?

Romantic love
what with fucking and all
may itself be the dragon now
you've got to sheath your sword
before you even think “combat”
and full body armor
is recommended.

Tell me:
does our sex
make me a fool?
I confront the dragon naked
trust the thickness
of skin (or skull)
sword unsheathed, agleam
if the greedy scabbard
loosens it

a bit of hand-to-hand combat
then in for the grapple.

Instead of fire
this dragon breathes
garlic and peppermint
whispers “fuck my
cunt, fuck me,
you silly knight,”

and I wonder
if the dragon 
will turn into a princess
if I can only say
“make love to me”

* * *

Circling

I've always wanted
to get you into an airplane,
disturb
the other passengers
in first class
as we join the mile-high
club, or whatever.
A balloon
would do, though,
or even a crop
duster, if that's
what it takes (so long
as we have a pilot).

There's just something
about the exchange of tongue
and tooth while surrounded
by air, something
dangerous, a temptation.

* * *

Earth Tones

It was the rain
that started it (isn't
it always?), the sound
of quarters on vinyl
the way forty-mile-an-hour winds
skittered the drops across
the pavement, made them triangular,
venomous snakes' heads
on the prowl for random tires.

The rest stop ramp is welcome,
and the pause. Other cars
surround us, their occupants
for the most part massed
beneath the building's overhang.
We had rolled the windows half-
shut at the onset,
but the splatter
of cold fallen water
across the front of your sweater
quickened, made ragged
your breath, and you
shifted in your seat,
squirmed beneath the wheel,
thighs shifted a little farther apart.

The look in your eyes,
in your moistened lips
and the cluster of sweat beads
on your forehead said “kiss me”
and I did, surprised and pleased
with the force of your lips, the way
our mouths melted together
as they do just before orgasm,

the way you took my hand
and pushed it
into your shorts,
how the warm moistness of you
reflected
the cool moistness of your breast

how you responded to my fingers
slow and firm upon you
the low rumble, muscles
clenched, cry
wrenched from your lips
as you came against my hand.

You are feral, primitive
in your pleasure. Your smile
whispers luscious promises,
delivers with lips and tongue
and a second wave of tension
and release

with that smile you pulled
my hand away, rolled down
the window, let in the rain.
Head leaned back, eyes closed, you let
the drops play over you
drench you, let that second wave
shudder through your system.
The tension of the drive, the sex,
the orgasms drained away
how you bent, engulfed me
in your lips' sweet softness,
firm and close and cool
with summer rain,

the way the water sank
into your clothing

how I pulled as much
of it away
as position allowed
watched the rain bead
on your skin, rubbed
it over you

the way it warmed
upon your back, your ass
my palm

glow of cheeks in rain
and headlights
water collected in the furrow
of your lips
eyelids tight shut. Your hands shook,
and your body,
and you smiled the smile again,
opened your mouth, caught
rain on your tongue.

You were something different then.
You became the feral woman
of your smile, a creature
of instinct, sensuality, lost
in your passion, your release.
In that moment, you were
the creator, the creation,
aflame with beauty, truth,

the power and the glory
forever and ever, amen.

* * *

Island

How I want you, here
how your body touched
with sun through leaves,
dappled with it, draws.

This is what we dreamed:

our island, its rocks
and forests and the little house
in the center. Clapboard,
dusky blue, and shutters, white. 
The driveway the only road,
the wooden covered bridge
our tie to cities, lands beyond
this world of ours. The flowers,
orange and purple speckled
round the house, jellybeans thrown
by a playful child.

In back, the gardens, herbs
we cut, potatoes. Through it
a trail to the forest, oak
and pine and birch. Beyond,
pink pebbled beach and sea
but not now. Not now.

Now the clearing, just off
the path. We picnic here
at times, lie back and watch
the sun stroll past the treetops
send its light to dance through leaves
and kiss you.

This is what we dreamed, and how we paid

in the coin of sweat,
of tears and touches, 
smiles.

How fresh you look, pale blue
eyes closed, face upturned
on our blanket, wine-red
and thick. How you could be
a part of this landscape
here, naked, in the sun, curves
caressed with oil.

Shift, turn over.
You hand me the bottle.

Fingertips, coated, trace
your spine, spread outwards.
Even, slow strokes to cover
you, attract the sun. Touch
of oil on thigh, calf, cleft
and buttock. Light strokes,
you shift again, legs spread
a little wider. You know
this game and play it well.

This is what we dreamed
and this is our goal.

How you ask me
with a shift of thigh
how I answer

You are slick, my body
glides atop you. Legs press
together, fingers twine
we come together, moist
where there's no need of oil.
You turn your head, take
my lips with yours.
The sun above us sees, approves.

This is what we dreamed
how we fulfill it.
This is how we paid,
in the coin of devotion.
This is our place.

* * *

Jamie's Room, Drunk, 3AM

Chris, the drunken bastard,
flung a bottle of cologne
against the wall six months ago,
and still, if we don't smoke,
the smell of Polo whispers
against our noses.

As usual, I'm sitting
on the unused bed
as you and Eileen, cuddled,
lie on yours.

All of us drunk since nine,
everyone else has stumbled home
to get some sleep
before next morning's classes.

You get up, of a sort,
wander towards the bathroom
after negotiating the doorway.

Eileen catches my eye—
after all these weeks
her gaze still echoes
through my temples.
She unbuttons the third button
on her shirt,
flashes me her breasts

I knock another back,
fix the next,
countless since around eleven

by the time you get back
her shirt is in position again
and I'm back against the wall.

I wake up the next morning
with my bedsheet covered
with Polo-scented blood
and the taste
of illicit nipples
on my teeth



Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Riverrun, and Third Wednesday, among others.

Saturday

Get Jazzy Talk Dirty Magazine Releases Updated Cover for Venus In Furs

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UPDATE: Here's our new cover for Get Jazzy Talk Dirty Special Edition: Venus In Furs... with poetry and fiction by Ty Spencer Vossler and Rony Nair.


Do you know S&M? Bondage? Spanking, whips, torture, etc for sexual pleasure? Masochism. Well, that word "Masochism" is derived from our author's name Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch. He's Austrian from the Victorian Age (1800s) who wrote about this guy named Severin who enjoyed inducing physical pain during sex.


It's amazing. This book was written in 1869, before my grandparents were born! Before my great, great grandparents even, but it's shockingly dirty. 

So, if you thought way, way back was boring (no TV, no androids) think again. 

I even found pornographic photos from the 1800s--when women wore bathing trunks (shorts to their knees) to the beach a far, far, remote relative of bikinis. Rated X stuff when Queen Victoria was in power? Wasn't Victorian Morality exemplified by sexual restraint and strict social conduct? 

Well, here it is. The 91/2 Weeks, the 50 Shades of Gray of the 19th century, the original sexy clinically psychiatric novel, Venus In Furs!



Reader's Review of Venus In Furs

"To be the slave of a woman, a beautiful woman, whom I love, whom I worship - !"
"And who mistreats you for it," Wanda broke in, laughing.
"Yes, who ties me up and whips me, who kicks me when she belong to another man."


If submission and bondage is your thing, then you will probably like this book. In a nutshell, Severin likes women. Severin likes women who are filthy rich. Severin likes women who are filthy rich and treat him like shit. Wanda is that woman. That is pretty much what Venus in Furs is about. 

Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch apparently drew from his own masochistic experience with Baroness Fanny Von Pistor. He agreed to be her slave, and renounce all claim on his own life (she could even kill him if she wished), and this is reflected in Venus in Furs. The "contract" gives Wanda (or "Mistress") free reign to make Severin suffer in a variety of ways; whipping him regularly, kicking him around, starving him, torturing him emotionally, etc. And Severin seems to get off on it. In fact, he begs her to punish him ("I want to be your dog"). As long as she wears her furs whilst doing it, he's happy. 

As you can imagine, the novel caused quite a stir in Austrian society. The idea of a woman being dominant (having the whip-hand, so to speak) was ludicrous to most people. We even see Wanda feeling hesitant at first. She is reluctant to defy social norms, and I can sort of understand this. She is used to being dominated, not the other way around. She is understandably creeped out by Severin to begin with, but I think thats mainly because he keeps kissing her feet and telling her to stand on his neck. He is, to put it bluntly, a pussy. I can think of no other word for him. He also has a habit of falling in love with statues, and treating them as though they were real. Despite all this, Wanda eventually overcomes her apprehension, after realizing that she *really* likes being in control. 

There are many gender issues in this book, and I'm deliberately avoiding that long and winding road known as "Interpretation" as I will end up making no sense whatsoever. What I will say is that I was interested by the handsome, androgynous Alexis Papadopolis, who is so drop-dead gorgeous that literally *anyone* will fall in love with him. For example:

"He was a man like a woman. He knew he was beautiful and behaved accordingly; he would change his coquettish attire four or five times a day, like a vain courtesan.
In Paris he had appeared first in women's garb, and the men had stormed him with love letters. An Italian singer, famous equally for both his art and his passion, invaded the Greek's apartment, knelt down, and threatened to take his own life if his plea was not granted."


See what I mean? Even Severin has a bit of crush on him. I had to keep reminding myself that this book was written in 1869. At times, it voices startlingly modern sentiments. Sacher-Masoch certainly wasn't your average Austrian. 

I gave Venus in Furs four stars because I enjoyed it rather more than I was expecting. The ending pissed me off a bit, as did Severin's constant cries of "Wanda!" (I counted eighteen times in 148 pages) but Sacher-Masoch writes so well that you find yourself unable to stop reading. Give it a go. I dare you. 


http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/427354.Venus_in_Furs


SHALLA Magazine: Wild Apples   https://www.createspace.com/3407110


SHALLA Magazine Special Edition:
Authors: Henry David Thoreau, Gary Beck, John Kaniecki, Andrew Hogan

Edited by Shalla Art 

"Every wild-apple shrub excites our expectation thus, somewhat as every
wild child. It is, perhaps, a prince in disguise. What a lesson to man!", Henry David Thoreau (1862)

In the contemplative "Wild Apples", Thoreau illustrates the essence of people as it parallels with wild apples.

SHALLA Magazine's Special Edition of "Wild Apples" by Henry David Thoreau features artistic, vintage art and photography from the 1800s and works by Gary Beck, Andrew Hogan, John Kaniecki, etc Edited by Shalla Art

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