
Wonderland - Club 1350, Long Beach, California Tonight I want to go to hell, I want to know there are Hearts more rock than the granite in me. Down Anaheim Street, the yellow dandelion street lights spread more sparingly in the rear view, the city reaches—like a garden of hungry blossoms and weeds—to me. I’m going to hell, past Wilmington where all is mechanical and rust to Club 1350, a black wall, a rabbit hole grafted to night, to sea water stench, to dark. I’m going to hell, like Alice, who talks To doors that warn: “This is a Private Club, you may be asked to leave” and I think how odd, After all this time, hell still tries to imitate heaven. Poor Hearts. I pray for them shoving behind me, rushing to doom, to some other wonder land— The upper level of hell has lockers to keep families and clothes locked up, mirrors dripping streams of steam and no one looks through them. Naked men, winter pale like rabbits or white roses. They have no eyes—eyes are for love, eyes are for heaven—just penises, pendulums reminding you that you’re late! No matter, hell is eternal. Stairs sink to the next level, lit on the sides like movie theater isles and naked wanting bodies usher me to the Queen’s Court… It is hell’s second level and stinks of bleach and cum of sweat and shit, decapitated Hearts and hunger, foul from being so long in this dark, here where it fermented and crawls up black walls, On tiles where bare feet and asses lift it on to the white bleached sheets, under the angels, the Hearts, the ones I need to see… Body over body, indistinguishable, some nightmare Nazi-camp deck of bodies, stacked still groans, still sweats and shivers, cold in the black walls pierced with glory holes; The red diamond lights and the porn showing the Hearts how the angels do it, and they do it, staring through the looking glass, at me, and I know they don’t see…
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J.D. Isip’s poetry has appeared in DASH Literary Journal, Loch Raven Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and Thirty First Bird Review. His play, WISER, was published in In Uniform anthology from Slash Books. A short story, “The Flowers,” was published in the Pain and Memory anthology from Editions Bibliotekos. He is currently a doctoral student and English Teaching Assistant at Texas A&M University-Commerce.








Fierce! Teeth. A little of Ginsberg in there maybe. Moloch! Moloch!
BTW, does stanza 4 suggest that the only men in hell are white guys?