Zombie Logic Review is the online literary magazine of Zombie Logic Press, one of the Midwest's oldest independent literary presses. It is edited by Thomas L. Vaultonburg and contains poetry, webcomics, artwork, and short videos. Zombie Logic Review publishes dadaist, surrealist, Outsider, and Outlaw poetry.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Outlaw Poetry By Victor Clevenger
Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry and short stories from the kitchen table of his ex-wife's home. His latest collection is titled, In All These Naked Pictures Of Us. Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print or online in, Chiron Review; The Beatnik Cowboy; Eleventh Transmission; Crab Fat Literature; NEAT; Dead Snakes; Blink Ink; and coming soon to Poetry Pacific; Your One Phone Call; BAD ACID LABORATORIES, INC.; and the Poems-For-All project. Victor’s work has also appeared in anthologies published by Lady Chaos Press.
It Sounds Worse Than It Really Is
There are times
that I stumble
her might, and
there are times
that I get
a real good feel
of her tits—
right palm / left nipple
left palm / right nipple,
and nothing has
pushes still come
to shoves, but they
are never hard
enough to make
a good fuck-night
we are sober.
The Day Before My 35th Birthday
The Red Sea inside of me is bottled in
Modesto; it rolls over each morning as the
bottoms of my feet hit the stained cut pile.
God is catching a catnap under the couch
cushions. I peel bananas for three-year-old
children and try to shake her awake.
My lips are substitutes for fingertips in all
of my dreams. The first pot of coffee is
never strong enough, the second pot of coffee
is always stronger, but I’m bored with coffee
by that point. I drink beer. There is a jewel
inside the stomach of my desire.
Wake up, God, they are gonna riot soon, but
I’m sure you already knew that, right? . . . and a
machine gun in my sister’s hands may be my
ultimate demise, but things can only get better
from here . . . I'm never certain though, just
human, and intrigued by the possibilities.
In the pauses, I sat with
rolled tobacco, lit and
burning much quicker
than the lead was dulling
A pencil in my hand.
A cock in my hand.
Possession. I dropped one,
the cock; it was mine.
I ran my wet lips softly
across the rolling hills, and then
down to the valleys that my
knuckles and the spaces between
them made; it looked just like I
was kissing myself, but I was not.
I was not that tough. I knew a
man though that was tough and
kissed himself for comfort—
kissed himself from his fingertips
all the way up into his armpits.
The women loved him for it,
and he always got the good
drinks for entertaining (from the
wives, the sister,
the cousins, the daughters).
On the nights when the women
were not around, he took a few
good fists in the back alley
(from the husbands, the brothers,
the cousins, the fathers)
for being such a strange fuck,
but the fists never broke him
like they did most other men in
the back alley.
He would just stumble back
inside, wipe the blood away with
a napkin, and then lick his lips before
kissing himself again. He never
once kissed himself with dry lips.
I took a last slow puff from the
butt and dropped it into a cup of
water. It sunk to the bottom and I
picked my cock up again,
shook it a bit more,
and then dropped it once again—
all for good measure, I suppose.
$4.99 Books from the Dollar General
One Night Stands and Lost Weekends
I finished the story
by Lawrence Block and
Hate Goes Courting
when she asked me,
"If you could rename the seasons, would you?"
"I don't know?" I told her,
"It's possible. I might."
She sat quiet as I finished
Hate Goes Courting
and as I turned the page to begin reading
I Don't Fool Around
she looked over my shoulder.
She smelled like a city sidewalk after a
like wet dirt
and pulpy paper.
I closed the book.
"Why did you do that?" she asked and I told her,
"I think I fuck better when the roses are blooming
outside. The blood flows to my balls better."
Her cat meowed at my feet
and somewhere at that same moment in this city,
someone has just finished
I Don't Fool Around
and turned the page to
Just Window Shopping.
There was no more innocence left showing in my terror, or in my touch. My hands were stained with
radical l o v e
he said, and the Integrated Automated Fingerprint
can’t trace the chance impression
on the pipe bomb kisses
passionate that the lips swallow lips and the front teeth
crash, clank, clangor.
Your women must be thoroughly pleased I told him
like you got goals.
Myself, I just
get pussy when
There isn’t much explosion, or intrigue,
unless you count the
occasional squish, or squash, or the one time
I had a
laugh, because she thought it jiggled my testicles.
I don’t mess with women anymore
he said as he sat my lunch plate on a napkin
I’m a Domestic Love Terrorist
there are fourteen other men
in our secret cell—
in an underground
bedroom plotting attacks on what remains of traditionalism.
You are full of shit. Your brain is a swollen sac; a spider’s nest. You poke that fat finger inside of your ear and wiggle it around with a squint-eyed smirk like you have just stuck your finger between the mid-morning spread-open thighs of a woman who doesn’t fear her asshole being rubbed. I don't like you much. I blame it on your infested head most days, but anyway, are you still accepting poems? If so, here are three more poems that I wrote last night after supper, before I got drunk and shaved the hair off of my balls. I shaved it in the bathtub and it only took about ten minutes. I got the idea from Michelle. I shave her legs with caution and strawberry shampoo; she trusts me with the blade, even near her cunt. We finger fuck in the shower and then soon afterwards I scramble eggs with what’s left of a hard-on before I kiss her off to work. She leaves and I take a short nap, then I clean up the pieces of fallen eggshell from the floor around eleven o’clock before pouring myself a drink and sitting down to write. I usually don’t write much in the daytime, I just waste the day watching this city snarl through the living room windows. I can see Sixth Street from here and it’s a rough strip of hardball; the punks and pussies stroll it doing stick-ups. Well, I hope you enjoy the poems that I sent and I’m sorry for not liking you much. It’s just that I don’t like many editors, but I respect them and I guess in a way that means I respect you too. We have to exist together somehow.