too Much Music

hey, yo, dig this:
can you stand it
when unshaven, broad faced men, or women
with bare bellies and perky nipples
become big
just because they‘re horny?
moaning songs like rabid
dogs on the eve of April
so hard up with wet
licked lips singing
orgasmic microphone mash like
“Ooooo” and “Aaaah”
until their great Grammy
says
they're sages and poets

all because they
can’t keep their hormones
in check:
hey, video potato heads:
quit telling me
how to fuck
because the fruits of Labour

are sour when
you're twenty...

Andrew M. Robulack

| was

walking down a
hot street in
grungy L.A. Mexico town and
a guy got shot;
bloody parkade,
| thought it
was on tv.
Later, from my bed,
it was.

Andrew M. Robulack

Sunday, February _, 1992

Hard sky pressed against my face
feeling swallowed by the
whole damn Gulf of Living;
body of water
feeling the spasm of walking
on cement under the sun.

Heart sky has pulled itself onto
the sun after one day of
drowning, into the sludge of
night, waiting for sleep,
breathing like a broken lung
machine or a dog gone mad over
a cat behind a window.

Andrew M. Robulack

Planet of the Arts Volume 7 Issue 6

To Find the Meaning

| sometimes wonder,

as | looked at her,

and try to understand,

does history matter?

Does Art matter?

These things that imply continuities,
They cater to our need for pattern,
our hunger for meaning,

| sometimes wonder,

as | look at her,

If they cheat us in the end,

if we ourselves,

must make the meanings

Tasha Moth

Rally for Wronged

little girl of the art world

child illusion gone past

you stand at the “Mike”

those words written hit with a blast
writer of those words

he must be so blind to see

that you are not evil

not different from him or me

now you are scared and are hurt
and it’s all so unjust

that loss of comfort

now not knowing who to trust
little girl,

you know it’s not the last vicious word
and the pain will be different

each time it is heard

you stand at the mike

as the last “nice” attempt is made
while unhearing eyes search for the
shade,

you tell of the scars

ask them to help the wounds heal,
just to open their eyes

and to see how you feel,

may they understand the
responsibility is not just up to
you,

you deserve as much happiness
as the rest of us do

Tasha Moth

page

=

Baked Hearts Delight

The kind of cake

shaped in a heart
with white icing
trimmed in pink
you
give it to me on
Valentines day
probably from the
IGA, in one of those
plastic boxes, which
means in this case
the mass production of
hearts

| remind myself, it is
a gesture more than
anything.

You slice it down the
middle, with the knife
| use to butter toast
half for you

half for me

no ice cream

It crumbles when | pick it up
and | smear the crumbs

into the pink

making little half-moons

in the bowl

thinking about rubbibg it
in your face
two people rolling
in gigantic mountains
of artificial pink

we eat in silence
Me, grateful you didn’t
give me an overdone
“| love you, baby”
Hallmark card.
You, looking slightly smug
still hungry
half-hoping
I'll be on the menu.
Later | lie on the couch watching
the day’s good intentions disintegrate
on the nightly news

The icing slowly digesting in my
stomach

| turn off the lights

watching the numbers

on the digital clock, 6:56
Trying to scrape the sour taste
from my mouth

but my tongue is fat and

tired

leaves the roof of my mouth
unsatisfied

When | close my eyes

you are dragged down
into an endless pit

of saccharine

and | watch delighted

as you drown 3-2-1
unable to move, and as
always unable to help you

-Kasey Goldstraw

‘too Much Music

hey, yo, dig this:
an you standit

when ushaven, broad faced menor women
with bare belies and pry nipples
‘become big
jus because theyre horny?
‘moaning song ke bid
dogs onthe eve ofA
‘ohard up with wet
Ticked ps singing
crgasmic microphone mash ike
“00000” and “Aaaah’
ntl ther great Grameny
sa
they're sages and poets
al because they
can't keep thet hormones
in cheek
hey, video potato heads
utteling me
rw fuck
because thefts of Labour
‘ae sour when
youre twenty.

Andrew M. Robulagk

twas

walling down 2
hot set in

grungy LA. Mexico town and
2ghy oo sot

ody pad
Thought

vas on
Later rom my be,

itwas

‘Andrew M. Robulak

Sunday, February _, 1992.

Hard sky pressed against my face
feeling swallowed by the
whole damn Gul of Living:
body of water
feaing the spasm of waking
on cement under the sun.

Heart sky has pulled itself onto
the sun after one day of
«drowning into the sludge of
‘night, waiing for sleep,
breathing ikea broken lng
‘machine ora dog gone mad over
a cat behind a window.

‘Andrew M. Robulack

Planet of the Arts Volume 7 Issue 6

To Find the Meaning

| sometimes wonder,
35 looked at er,

and try to understand,

does history matter?

Does Art matter?

These things that imply continuities,
They cater to our need for patter,
cour hunger for meaning,
[sometimes wonder,

as ook athe,

I they cheat us inthe end,

if we ourselves,

‘must make the meanings

Tasha Moth

Rall for Wronged

lite gt ofthe at world
child lion gone past

you stand atthe “Mike”

those words wten hit with a lat
‘iter of those words
hhemust bes bind to see

that yu ae not ei

‘not cflerent rom him or me

ow you are scared and are hurt

and it'll so unjust

that oss of comfort

‘ow not knowing who totus

lite gi,

you know it’s not the las vicious word
and the pain willbe diferent

each time itis heard

you stand atthe mike

a the lst “rice” attempt is made
‘wile unearing eyes search forthe

you tell ofthe cars

{askthem to hep the wounds heal,
justto open their eves

and to see how you fee,

may they understand the
: responsibilty isnot just up to
you,
you deserve as much happiness
asthe rest of us do

Tasha Math

page 17
Baked Hearts Delight

The kind of ake
shaped ina heart
with wit icing
tivmed in pink
you
‘eit tome on
Valentines day
probably rom the
IGA inne of those
plastic bores, which
‘means inthis ase
the mas production of
hears

Lemind myst
a gesture more than
anything.

You sce it down the
middle, with the knife
| use to butter toast
ha for you

hal for me

no ce cream

Icrumbls when pick itup
and I smear the crumbs
into the nk

raking ite halt moons
inthe bow

thinking about ubbibg it
in your face
two peopl roling
in gigantic mountains
of artificial pink

we eatin slence
Me, grateful you didn't
{give me an overdone
"ove you, baby”
Hallmark car,
You, looking ight smug
sill hungry
hral-hoping
Ibe on the menu.
Later ie on the couch watching
the day's good intention disintegrate
‘on the nightly news

The icing slowly digesting in my

stomach

‘tur ofthe lights
‘watching the numbers

on the digital clock, 6:56
“Trying to scrape the sour ase
from my mouth

but my tongue ft and

tied

leaves the roof of my mouth
unsatisfied

When I close my eyes
you are dragged down
intoan ences pit

of saccharine

and! watch delighted
asyou drown 3-2-1
tunable to move, and as
aways unable to help you

Kasey Goldstaw