NGX Home
Project X
Money Shots
It's good to
We Love Stalkers!
I know, it’s sad right, how neglected NGX has become. But as the words ‘naughty girl x’ spill out as I talk to the (good looking) customs/immigration guy at the airport, I realise that this is still the site I think of first. So here I am, posting again!
Neglect be gone! I promise – all the marketplace graphics will be added here! No, seriously this time. They will!
Tags: childhood, daddy, mdhugs, memories, misnderstanding, mommy, sex, therapy
White Flour! New in the NGX shop. White bread eaters unite!
I think Mother might be dead. She’s been in that chair for weeks now, never moves, never eats the meals I bring her. And to be honest she’s a bit whiffy too, a sickly sweet smell that you even notice in the parlor. Worst of all, there’s a puddle of ooze by her feet. God knows what it is, all I know is that it stinks just like Mother. For some reason though, it doesn’t put Tiddles off as she loves to lick it up. Unfortunately she gets it all on her paws and traipses it round the house. She’ll be getting banned from coming on my bed soon if things don’t change.
As well as Tidddles, bluebottles love my Mother, always sitting on her face, disappearing into her mouth (which she never closes these days) and flying up her dress. I found some maggots in her hair the other day and tried to brush them out, but the bristles got all tangled in her perm and pulled off her scalp a bit. I patted it back best I could. She’s really let herself go.
And her skin’s gone this horrible colour, like blue marble, which doesn’t suit her one little bit.
I’m going to have to do something soon, find out if she is dead. I know that what I should do is take her pulse, but the last time I tried that, her hand fell off.
Tags: morbid, nick allen, parents
New graphic in the shop! This one is for the brown bread lovers of the world.
‘I’ve had all shapes and sizes,’
she said.
‘Of dicks?’ I asked.
‘No. Of pasta,’ she replied.
‘Oh, I thought you meant dicks,’
I told her. ‘Are you sure you
didn’t mean dicks?’
‘Why would I mean dicks?’
she sneered. ‘I was
talking about the menu.’
‘The dick menu?’ I said.
‘No, the menu. We are in an
Italian restaurant.’
I looked about: ‘Oh yeah.’
My mind was always
some place else when
I was with her.
David Mac is a 32-year-old unemployed wino forklift driver from the UK whose work can be found in Ambit, Purple Patch, The Journal, Weyfarers, United Press, Monkey Kettle, Clockwise Cat, and a number of other places. He is a featured poet on The Poetry Kit’s ‘Caught On The Net’ and has various self-published chapbooks available including, ‘These Dirty Nothings’ and ‘Room is Brutal’ from erbacce-press.
Tags: David Mac, dicks, fiction, humor, pastaThe restaurant was busy, but during their meal
the woman suddenly screamed and just
stabbed her guy in the eye with her fork.
The crowd went mad all hooting and babbling.
We pissed ourselves laughing at it all,
all this new madness, and my girl asked me,
‘So, what do you think he said to her?’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘if I had to guess, I would say
that he just told her that he wants to make it
as a writer, and that he’s going to quit his job
and move back in with his parents or live
on the streets, and that he’s bordering on
alcoholism or drug abuse, and that he’s
finishing with her because he doesn’t
love her anymore, because words
are all that matter to him now.’
‘How can you tell that?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ I began, ‘I’ve got
something to tell you.’
David Mac is a 32-year-old unemployed wino forklift driver from the UK whose work can be found in Ambit, Purple Patch, The Journal, Weyfarers, United Press, Monkey Kettle, Clockwise Cat, and a number of other places. He is a featured poet on The Poetry Kit’s ‘Caught On The Net’ and has various self-published chapbooks available including, ‘These Dirty Nothings’ and ‘Room is Brutal’ from erbacce-press.
Tags: David Mac, fiction, humor, relationshipsHorror Sleaze Trash is a beautifully done 110 page hardcover book of poems by Ben John Smith. Simply put it is a loaded bazooka that fits nicely in your hands and fires round after round, guaranteed to knock down anything that moves. Ben is from Melbourne Australia, so his writing gives an insight into his country. He works construction, drinks with his mates, is true to his woman, and likes Elvis Presley. Ben runs one of the top “anything goes” on line literary and art zones at horrorsleazetrash.com.
The poems in Horror Sleaze Trash, his second hard bound collection are each a bit different, examining life under a poetic microscope and exposing it in many brilliant ways. In “Chump” the poem has a poet explaining to his woman (as all poets must do at some time with their loved ones) why most of his non-writing work mates won’t buy his books, but will blow loads of cash on drink and horse races. At the end of this poem he ends up sitting in the rain with a kangaroo with a broken leg until the cops show up to shoot it. Sadness made its debut in this poem, but there are plenty of happy ones and head shakers also.
Words of too much drink, old men described perfectly, vaginas, sweaty dicks, folks going to church, Henry Miller, a black fella with lice, a dude that shits like a drainpipe in a thunderstorm. Ben John Smith writes as all educated men do or as Gary Snyder said “deeducated” which is uncivilized and barbaric. He’s well read and influences of Bukowski, the Beatniks, Travis Bickle, Joseph Conrad, and Galatians from the Bible appear, but Ben’s got an original voice and shows no fear. In “Foreskin” he compares a bulldog on ice cream to sticking his dick in a beer bottle. Included are three poems titled “Shaving My Balls Pt.1, 2, 3” and they end in a query to askjeeves.com about what to do about itching testicles.
Australian English is a bit different from American English, which is refreshing and makes this book that much better. The slick cover by (ths) is the nicely shaped rear view of a near nude lady before a wall of graffiti. There’s a cool photo of Ben at end of the book standing in front of the Liberated X Bookshop, and ladies, he’s easy on the eyes. I wholeheartedly recommend buying this book, you won’t be sorry.
Buy the book: HorrorSleazeTrash via LuLu.com
Find it via: ISBN 978-1-4467-1427-0
Harry was pretty surprised when he destroyed the world. He’d sworn, if he was ever caught behind that light again, that endless, fucking, red light, he was going to rub one out. No one would care. They wouldn’t even notice. They were all texting, or chatting, or primping, or whatever-the-fuck, anyway.
And there was just something about Carolinda in her pink bikini that called to him. Her hint of a smile on the glossy page; her soft-brown, Brazilian skin; the way she seemed to say, “This is the best can of beer EVER!” in her cute, Spanish accent … wait … Portuguese?
But as Harry tugged, hands in his pants, the light changed to yellow going the other way.
No! Thirty more seconds!
He willed the light in front of him red with every fiber of his being, demanding that it stay red, insisting that it stay red, until … until … until he shattered time and space.
“Good one, fuck nut.”
An old man in robes and a white, flowing beard glared at him, the world behind Him a swirling, amorphous mass of red, yellow, and green.
The man gave Harry the finger, “It’s free will, not free Willy! You broke it, you bought it, you monkey-spanking ass-clown!”
#
Harry didn’t see what the big deal was. Seven days? Try seven seconds!
Cars honked, but he didn’t care, he let the light turn red. Carolinda could wait: wait in the cars next to him, wait in the cars behind him, wait in the coffee shop on the corner, wondering, “Oh my God, what is that man doing?”
She looked spectacular anywhere she was: crossing the street, pissed and swearing in his rearview, getting pushed along in that stroller by Carolinda.
The last man on Earth closed his eyes. Thirty more seconds …
He ignored the clack of the hammer clicking back on the Dirty Harry .44 pressed to his temple.
The bearded man said, “Sorry, dude, it’s smitin’ time. I like what you did to the place, but my Mom is kind of pissed.”
“No! Thirty more seconds!”
Robert Lowell Russell is a trophy husband living in the rolling hills of southeast Ohio — and he clearly has too much time on his hands. He has one previous publication, a story about robots you can have sex with — his mom is so proud. He enjoys writing, gardening, and yelling at bunnies in his garden. If you approach Rob, you should avoid eye contact, and please keep your hands at your sides at all times.
