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, April 25, 2016
David J. Thompson Has Fallen Into a Sex Pit and He Can't Get Up
Every Place Except Bed
I need a place to crash for a few days,
he says as he shoves a 12-pack of High Life
into my hands and steps past me into my apartment.
Nice to see you, too, I tell him, as he throws
his suit jacket on the coffee table and sits down
in my favorite chair. I take out two beers,
walk the rest out to the fridge. I was having
a little thing with this new girl at work, he yells,
told Heather I had to work late on some quarterly reports.
Nothing serious, you know, just drinks and sex
a few times, but tonight I didn’t show up at her place
like we planned, so the little cooz called the house
and when I get home Heather goes all apeshit
on my ass yelling, You’re not going to get away
with this about a million times loud enough
to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood
I got nowhere else to go. You don’t mind, do you?
No worries, I yelled back, shaking my head,
reaching past the Maker’s Mark for the Jim Beam
in the cabinet over the sink. You need some bourbon?
Sex Pit by David J. Thompson
There’s still a few minutes left in the game
when he starts snoring. I look over at him,
mouth wide open, sprawled on the recliner,
shake my head, wonder how long he’s going
to stay. Not long before he got married
he told me one night in a bar he’d spent
the weekend fucking and doing cocaine
in New York with his old college girlfriend.
Heather’s great, he explained, everywhere
except in bed. She’s a real Catholic, so
she feels a little guilty about sex right now,
but that’ll get better after we’re married,
don’t you think? Of course, I said standing up
quickly and looking only at the tv over his shoulder.
I steadied myself with my hands on the table,
asked him if there was something he wanted
to hear on the jukebox.
Souls In Hell From Sex by photographer David J. Thompson
I get a pillow and a blanket off my bed, chuck them
on the couch, figure he’ll wake up some time to pee,
and make himself at home. I turn out the lights,
brush my teeth, get into bed, start thinking about
how I’m going to feel at work in the morning.
I roll over on my back and say, Oh, shit, out loud.
I can’t help but think about the rehearsal dinner
and the little toast I made. I don’t remember it exactly,
something about how great they were together,
how happy they’d always be, a little lie I always thought