The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Month: March 2016

Godspeed, a monologue by Dale Anderson

(A viewing room at a funeral home. An open coffin, subdued lighting. Enter DAVID, age 44. He approaches coffin with trepidation. He comes to at ease by degrees. Finally………)

 

DAVID:
Well. Well well. Just look at you. All decked out in your astronaut’s garb. Dressed to kill, aren’t you? Was this how you planned it? To do your exit as a starman? It does become you, you know. Really, it does. So tell me, are you braced for tomorrow? Have you dialed in your humble mode? You know they’ll be sending you out as only the Air Force can. Full military honors. A flyover with the missing wingman. And they’ll retell how one time you flew so high, you clipped the chinwhiskers of Zeus himself. And they’ll retell how you throttled that demon out at mach seven. Yes yes, I know it’s all true, but remember, the order of the day is humility. They’ll want to see your aw shucks side. Not funny? Sorry. I’m trying to be clever. Guess I’m not very good at clever.

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“The Streets Are Clogged,” a poem by Seth King

The streets are clogged

 

with heat and horns

the crash of sliding metal gates

 

sidewalk steams where it’s been hosed

 

in the paper

I search for mention of people I used to know

the sun bakes my face


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“The Worst Hangover,” flash fiction by Adam Kluger

The Worst Hangover

by Adam Kluger

 

Lady-in-a-Blue-DressHe was pretty hung over.

So bad that he was burping into a glass of water. He hadn’t noticed the waitress right away. She must have been new. It was wintertime. The morning after the Smart-TV Christmas Party.

Booger had secured the location for the station and he put together a very bad Christmas reel. The bureau chief cornered Booger at one point and asked what happened with the reel… why was it so lame? Booger was mortified and the only thing to do at that point was drink heavily. He ordered a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser and kept hitting the same number until the embarrassment gave way to stupor. He got home, smoked a bone, whacked off and went to sleep. When he woke up in the morning his mouth was full of cotton and his stomach was doing somersaults. He threw on a coat and went across the street to “My Most Terrific Dessert Company.” It was expensive but he could sit there order a soda and a croissant and feel a little better. The waitress moved across the floor like a ballerina. She was friendly too.

Very friendly, Booger thought. Continue reading

Poetry by Jack D. Harvey

  Daughters of Anomaly

      (for Traci Lords)

 

All the cock-sucking,
all the cunt-lapping,
all the butt-fucking
in the world
can’t forge a bond
that lasts beyond
the bounds of flesh and boredom;
time, a river with
Charon waiting
patient as Job,
shuttling busy
as a bee
from bank to bank

 

carries us all.

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“Dance of the Ogre,” artwork by Darrell Urban Black

dance of the ogre

Artist’s Statement: My name is Darrell Urban Black, I was born in Brooklyn New York, My artistic pursuit started at an early age around five years and as a teen living in New York, Long Island I produced some 500 drawings. receiving much encouragement and support from my mother, who worked in a mental hospital. She bought me paper, ink and pens. In 1980 I joined the National Guard in New York only to transfer in 1988 with the Regular Army continuing my artistic pursuits and In April 2001, I was nominated by the German government ‘for this year’s prize for promising young artists’. The idea came from Dr. John Provan of the Zeppelin Museum in Frankfurt. For the exhibition entitled ‘The Zeppelin in Art, Design, and Advertisement’, held between May 11 and July 30, 2000, for an artwork titled ‘The Invasion’. I’ve had many local, national and international group art exhibitions and have artwork permanently displayed in a number of art galleries, museums and other institutions in America and Germany.

Follow Darrell online at his website or on Twitter.

 

Poetry by D.C. Wiltshire

old hundredth

a sparrow flit through
    the Great White Sanctuary
with august men in suit jackets
and thinning hair
and their wives appropriately uncomfortable
in mauve Manolos and hose. she made laps back and forth,
l an Olympic swimmer
swimming a breaststroke
of pure panic—
“why am I here?” (echoing the thoughts
of us below), and
“how do I get out?” (ditto) thirty feet above,
pacing the giant ovals of glass
cruelly streaming light
on a bright Sunday morning. she alit
on an organ pipe, only briefly
before the explosion of sound
saw her shit
on the organist’s cotta
(a true martyr—he played on)

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Poetry by Holly Day

All the Days After

 

days pass into weeks

and now even the flowers

are dead, curled brown in their vase like squirrel paws

little hands. I call

my husband

tell him to take

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