Hollow Publishing

An independent alternative publishing company and print magazine focused on promoting and spreading art, music, writing, poetry etc

In order to deal in this game
Got to make the Queen disappear
It’s done with a flick of the wrist
What’s a sweetheart like you doin’ in a dump like this?

You know, a woman like you should be at home
That’s where you belong
Taking care of somebody nice
Who don’t know how to do you wrong

Just how much abuse will you be able to take?
Well, there’s no way to tell by that first kiss
What’s a sweetheart like you doin’ in a dump like this?

You know you can make a name for yourself
You can hear them tires squeal
You could be known as the most beautiful woman
Who ever crawled across cut glass to make a deal

You know, news of you has come down the line
Even before ya came in the door
They say, in your father’s house, there’s many mansions
Each one of them got a fireproof floor

Snap out of it, baby, people are jealous of you
They smile to your face, but behind your back they hiss
What’s a sweetheart like you doin’ in a dump like this?

Got to be an important person to be in here, honey
Got to have done some evil deed
Got to have your own harem when you come in the door
Got to play your harp until your lips bleed

They say that patriotism is the last refuge
To which a scoundrel clings
Steal a little and they throw you in jail
Steal a lot and they make you king

There’s only one step down from here, baby
It’s called the land of permanent bliss
What’s a sweetheart like you doin’ in a dump like this?

— Bob Dylan, “Sweetheart Like You” (via aclockworkplum)

To Kali, Love Shiva

electric-cereal:

Here’s a plea for you and your Sunday morning optimism,
your tidy suburban dream
The ever complacent mother, [Jack, the] ripper of all of my seams
Your casual Friday night loafers against my teeth, kicked off one by one
You would’ve been filthy anyways
but at least you had your fun

There will be no more cheap tunes to sing of your labor
the touches perverted as love
I am going to remove myself so quickly
not a whisper thereof

You stole parts of me, irreplaceable
pieces one by one
the process of my life —
the process of me — come undone

I want to blame you for something
but you made sure I won’t remember what
I’m sorry I stole your Xanax
but I can’t get out of this rut.

I am going to remove myself so quickly
and I’ll be barely a whisper thereof,
finally ruined, dead on arrival
I’ll be rung up for your fun.

by Emily Sipiora
from Electric Cereal

Night Ranger

profesore:

What it is about pot,

that makes me want to write

about Dungeons and Dragons?

Tonight I feel like a Ranger

named Rick with low charisma,

and a high tolerance for weed,

trying to escape the maze

of his past.  Be gone you

lonely nights of Mt. Dew,

and popcorn balls, boys

casting impotent spells

instead of cruising chicks

downtown in a blue Camero

due to a cruel minded dungeon

masters called Fate, and

another called Bad Acne,

who laughed when I asked

if I could invite a girl to the prom

my senior year.

And no matter how many times,

I rolled the twenty sided dice,

in the lonely cavern of my room,

the answer was always, “no.”

Daily News.

aclockworkplum:

It’s comfortable on the couch,
One hand down my pants,
Wrist bone connecting oddly
With my hip bone,
Like a skeletal deformity.

I am not thinking of you,
As I lazily move my fingers.
I am not thinking of you.
I am not thinking of you.
I am not thinking of you.
As I find a rhythm,
I am not thinking of you.

I cum as the news comes on,
Talking about the daily tragedy,
Rattling off numbers —
Debt and death totals.

(via aclockworkplum)

Baby

stevenluce:

Smoke bellows
Silence riots
Nerves shake
Snide smiles
Suckers suck
Sky fall
Sun rise
Lungs spit
Teeth chatter
Guts spill
Mouths move
Tears creep
Baby man
Scarred hands
Digs a groove
Stays in trance 
Time winds
Love seeps
Through to dirt
Up in trees
Poor lady
Awful crazy
Sings a song
Saying maybe
Tired wind
Stupid sin
Doesn’t know
What it means to win

You decry my cough syrup high
As signs of wasted youth
But the difference comes when
You’re still crying and
I’ll still be fucked up completely

Those Were the Days -Anagram  (via hollowpublishing)

(via hollowpublishing)

No Wave poetry prescription speed song.

libidinous gleaning

wordrummager:

so much to grasp from titles
and yet
being left cold and empty
like swallowing balloons

separate the porn from the chaff

someone made a switch
from the mundane to the grotesque
I think it was the hippie movement
heralding freedom
but finding filthy vacant lots

we’re back to wearing gloves and fedoras
but with gas masks marring our bouffants
there is no better taste
than stainless steel and rubber

reading fine print only when libidinous

did you read the headline
or just the photo caption
do you count the number of deaths and births
and try to figure where the souls went
or just attach string to the balloon and rise

Bullets in vein and vain

History: trail of clotted blood.

Same old wounds opened again and again

By cruel human hands.

How many bodies are buried

Under the same rocks and sand?

Mountains of corpses every few decades

But presidents and generals die old and fat,

Poor still die young for ‘peace’ prophets or profit.

Its a sick cycle, enough to make you insane,

Destroy it, block it out, or try to do both at once

End up indebted and addicted, dead cell,

Discarded tentacle of Hobbes’ Leviathan.

Tj Brown, 2014

Shortening

attention

spans.

Spring Break

profesore:

In the wanton light of daybreak,

with beer cans strewn across the carpet,

sandy bikini bottoms draped over a chair,

cigarettes burned into the drapery,

she opens her eyes, wondering who

this stranger is sleeping next to her.

She can recall a bar where she knocked

back a few to impress a boy…

Isn’t it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father’s roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.

—Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via feellng)

(via nya--papaya)

thereiseverythingandnothinghere:

this is a picture of my ass i took this morning 
i closed my laptop in disgust and worked very hard today 
now i smell bad and have some things to share 
coming back to my ass
okay i don’t fall in the toilet and my legs work great
thanks, ass

thereiseverythingandnothinghere:

this is a picture of my ass i took this morning 

i closed my laptop in disgust and worked very hard today 

now i smell bad and have some things to share 

coming back to my ass

okay i don’t fall in the toilet and my legs work great

thanks, ass

(Source: deadgayalien)