bb guns. by John Gochalski

for a while

all the boys wanted a bb gun

and as usual the rich kids

got them right away

while the rest of us ate cake

i don’t know what sparked the need

maybe all of those violent 1980s films

maybe slaughter was just

an american right of passage

all i know is that

it was open season on squirrels and birds

any rabid racoon

trying to negotiate his way around the sun

jamie kelso had a shotgun bb gun

that you could pump up to ten times

he shot at toads in the woods

and salamanders under rocks

when it rained

we went into his basement

and lined up action figures

and non-valuable baseball cards

and blew them away

one time

jamie handed me the gun

i pumped the thing up to ten

while he arranged baseball cards

without thinking i pulled the trigger

and the bb got jamie right in his ass

he ran around his basement

screaming and yelling and crying

looking like

a squirrel

a bird

a raccoon

a toad

a salamander under a rock

hopping over to me

with his pants down

and his bare ass showing

wanting me to make sure

that i hadn’t blown

a second hole in his ass

and honestly

none of it

felt like a violent 1980s film

i was just glad

that i had bad aim

and that jamie’s rich parents

were not

at home that day.

John Gochalski is a writer whose poetry has appeared in several online and print publications including:  Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Outsider Writers Collective, Underground Voices, The Lilliput Review, The Main Street Rag, Zygote In My Coffee, The Camel Saloon, and Bartleby Snopes.  He is also the author four books of poetry The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch (Six Gallery Press, 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Press, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018).  I am also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press, 2013) and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press, 2016)

The Jimmy Choo Blues. by Jesse Rawlins

My Swiss Gucci watch read midnight—

I felt just like a pumpkin. My body round-n-plump. My insides wet and squishy. The parted-smile I’d worn all night—splitting my frozen face in two—like a hellish dose of Botox.

The DJ hopped. The music popped: and dazzling colored lights pulsed across the floor.

I leaned my virgin ass against a beastly throbbing Yamaha that had to weigh eighty-pounds. The innervating reverb made me feel more wanton, as I downed my dozenth Cosmo.

But like every other night in lusty Santa Monica … all the guys ignored me: even though I wore my spankin’ deep-blue Jimmy Choos. Those sleek thousand-dollar booties—which sport the ultra-modest four-inch fuck-me heels. And the studded ankle-collars: designed to coyly prolong foreplay (assuming the shoes come off).

Tossing appearances to the wind, I crunched a cheek ballooned with ice … a pathetic attempt to cool my multiple frustrations. When the remnants easily slid down my moist-and-willing throat, I knew I lacked the energy to play this burdensome game till closing.

And rather than call a cab—

I flipped caution a middle finger.

***

Five blocks from my place—you stepped out of that alley ….

I suspect you’d ducked inside to have yourself a pee. But unlike the way I would’ve you didn’t look self-conscious. And instead of staying put, you followed me down the street.

When I crossed over you did likewise. Each time I stopped … then so did you—

I crossed over once again … and again … you next crossed, too.

Tingles climbed my spine. Regardless of your intentions, the imagined thrill of being wanted was almost more than I could bear.

I paused outside my door … feeling almost breathless. I could tell you’d closed the distance—

But suddenly you halted.

I almost screamed in anguish. And let myself inside.

***

I planted those Choos behind a window—

And yanked aside the curtains.

Basking beneath a streetlight you boldly stared at me.

And much to my surprise … I boldly stared right back.

Neither of us tired—

So after fifteen comfortable minutes … I opened the door—

And called you in.

***

Ten years melted like milk chocolate left in the summer sun.

Until that wretched winter day ….

I denied what I had witnessed—

At what I’d seen with mortified eyes ….

And to erase that gruesome horror, I tried drinking myself blind.

Of course that didn’t work. Now I’m totally fucking angry—you stupid bloody turd.

For ten contented years you happily shared my bed. So each time I tried to sleep, your constant memory plagued me—like an unholy horde of bed bugs. To dispel those creepy-crawlies I had to buy a new one.

Headboard. Mattress. Foundation. Footboard. They all had to go.

Still that wasn’t enough to negate your wicked curse.

Sheets. Comforters. Pillows. Shams.

I burnt ALL in our backyard—trying to repel the dastardly devils—you likely left behind on purpose.

You cold selfish prick.

***

This morning I held your funeral.

Now in case you haven’t noticed ….

My virgin ass and I are braving rabid torrential rain—

Easily ruining these old-blue yet sadly-sexy Jimmy Choos.

I’m not mad at you anymore. I’m totally depressed.

But I’m not the only crying person in this regal cemetery. The sobbing girl three headstones down … has also lost her cat—

Under the uncaring thumping tires of a violently screeching car.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross claims I’ve got one stage left in this god-damned grieving process ….

This story first appeared at avant-garde Red Fez in Issue 104. Unlike Douglas Cronk, Jesse has no Super Powers. But nine of her tawdry tales have kindly been given homes in some loving rowdy pubs—like The Rye Whiskey Review—in just eleven months. She also interviews and tortures writers for southern crime mag Story and Grit.

In the mood for a virtual drink? You can visit her on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/jesse.rawlins.583

https://www.facebook.com/Jesse-Rawlins-Fiction-Writer-472903656414539/

That Sucks. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I feel like one of those work-release prison buggers

with his pecker in his hand.

Peering out from behind musty brown curtains,

past uneven eyebrows.

A group of kids in the motel parking lot

going from one vehicle to another.

With a two jerry cans and a hose.

Siphoning off the gas.

When they get to my car,

I bang on the glass.

One gives me a thumbs up

as they move onto the

next.   

The smallest one providing the suction

to the hose

as though he may have a future in the stalls

of public bathrooms.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.

The Only Thing My Dad Ever Taught Me. by Alfred Gremsly

If you fall in love with a looker

Drop her and run far away

The ugly ones are always much kinder

And they’re always willing to stay

If you fall in love with a booker

Prepare for work and no play

As every word from her mouth gets smarter

You’re belittled with nothing to say

If you fall in love with a cooker

You’ll get fatter by the day

And you’ll have no time for any others

As you watch your balls go away

-so be careful-

If you find the one and she’s the one

If she steals your heart and burns like the sun

If she’s the last breath you’re willing to take

If she’s the one and not a mistake

-remember what I’m trying to teach you-

There’s no such thing as a perfect smart kind looker

‘and always remember’

You can’t make a house wife out of a hooker

Alfred Gremsly is an American born poet. His style of writing is often right in your face

and wrote about the darker, negative sides of life. Gremsly prefers to push the envelope and has begun turning heads with his “I don’t give a damn what people think” poetry attitude.

Look for two full length books scheduled for release late fall.

Put An Apple On My Head First. by J.J. Campbell

the ghost of

burroughs

comes to me

some nights

and just laughs

i'd actually like

him to be the

one to cook up

my first shot

he always wants

me to put an apple

on my head first

I remember how

that story is going

to end each and

every time

J.J. Campbell (1976 - soon) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Fourth and Sycamore, Pyrokinection, Dodging the Rain, Midnight Lane Boutique and Rusty Truck. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was recently published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

CALLING THE 1% by Jay Passer

what about

a poet laureate for

every Major League

baseball team

a painter for the NFL

a sculptor for the NHL

a photographer for the NBA

a filmmaker for FIFA

you could switch it up

every season

spread the wealth

support the arts

and worst of all

it'd be a tax write-off

for the piece of shit

owners.

Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. He is the author of several chapbooks and has appeared in a bunch of anthologies. His latest collection, they lied to me when they said everything would be alright, from Pski's Porch, is available at Amazon. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.

My Best Friend --for Tobe’ by Todd Cirillo

I felt the vibration,

looked down

and saw 

he was calling me,

on the phone no less!

No text, no email,

no quick Facebook comment,

a real person to person connection.

We can go months 

without actually speaking.

He HATES talking on the phone.

I answer quickly,

“what’s happening my man.”

Nothing...only faraway voices

mumbling amid background noises.

I try again....

one last time.

Same.

I hang up.

I text him,

“Hey brother, 

you must have butt-dialed me.”

A response came quickly,

“No butt-dialing buddy,

the phone was in my FRONT pocket.”

and that sums up

my best friend-

a truly talented dick. 

This poem was first published in Todd's

book.   Suckers Paradise 

Published by Six Ft Swells Poetry 

The finest books to drink by out on the market .

https://www.amazon.com/Suckers-Paradise-after-hours-poetry-Cirillo/dp/0985307528

Todd Cirillo is co-founder and editor of Six Ft. Swells Press. His latest book is Burning the Evidence (Epic Rites Press, 2017). He has other books available and has been published in numerous national and international publications. Todd lives in New Orleans, Louisiana and can be found soaking his pirate heart in second lines and smiling under the neons searching for shiny moments. Look him up at Todd Cirillo

Todd Cirillo

Poet Writer Editor Publisher Pirate

"The news is bad today, in America and for America. There is nothing good or hopeful about it--except for Nazis, warmongers, and rich greedheads" HST

Presentable. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She says I have to look presentable

if I want a job.

I do not want a job, I need one.

There is a big difference.

I walk over to a nearest rack

and hold something frilly up to

my chest.

She laughs

and says that is the Women’s

section.

Women often seem the most presentable to me,

but I put it back to avoid any argument.

Then I walk over to another section

grab a new one off the rack

and hold it up.

That’s a Poncho, you would really

walk into a job interview in that?

I hold it out

look at it for some moments

then put it back.

How about these?

That’s a pack of underwear,

you are not even trying.

It’s Men’s,

look it says it right here

on the package.

She turns away

and starts flipping through racks

with a strange bionic efficiency

that no man can ever understand.

Shirts first, then pants.

When she has a large enough pile draped

over her arm

we head to the change rooms.

She has already swatted off two different

sales ladies like flies that were buzzing around.

Now she makes me come out with each new outfit

and eyes me.

Scrunching up her nose

and nodding “no” many times.

When I am in the change room,

she keeps coming back

with more.

This goes on for much longer than I have ever participated in sex.

Before she tells me she doesn’t like their selection,

and that she know this other place with better

prices, and that perhaps we can try

that place tomorrow.

I put my clothes back on

and walk out of the

store.

Telling her I really liked that Poncho

when I didn’t.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.

My Mom’s New Dog. by John Grochalski

is a terrier mix

of some sort

he’s a little kick-me dog

but you have to feed him hot dogs

before you come into the house

otherwise he’ll rip your face off

my mom’s new dog

hates the postman with passion

even though he doesn’t receive

any junk mail or bills

yet he sits at the door barking and growling

like the postman is a cop

or a member of the GOP

sitting there with my hands smelling of hot dogs

while my mom’s new dog

sits on the floor and growls at me

i wonder what kind of shit

that mutt has really seen

gang violence or compassionate conservativism?

you see, my mom’s new dog

was shelter dog from kentucky

we imagine him having lived

in some opioid den with good americans

who only wanted

to make america great again

we know he’s been hit by a car

my mom’s new dog

loves kids and candy

and he’ll stop growling at me

at any moment i’m told

he just has to get used to you, my mom says

as her brand-new dog

keeps snarling at me from the floor

of her living room

while i sip a beer

and look at the coffee table

where the hot dog bag just sits there

fucking empty.

John Gochalski is a writer whose poetry has appeared in several online and print publications including:  Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Outsider Writers Collective, Underground Voices, The Lilliput Review, The Main Street Rag, Zygote In My Coffee, The Camel Saloon, and Bartleby Snopes.  He is also the author four books of poetry The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch (Six Gallery Press, 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Press, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018).  I am also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press, 2013) and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press, 2016)

Just For Good Measure. by John Patrick Robbins

            

They all gathered some out of respect and others I believe just to make sure he was truly dead.

The old bastard had been a mean hearted person most his life .
He hated people but he lived with ten cats .

Each one of them more fat and spoiled than the next .
He drank in excess and cursed everyday he awoke to see another sunrise .

His cats were always thrilled to see him up cause it meant breakfast time.

They all had silly names .
On his walls were pictures of his past felines .

He had a whole play room for them they tore curtain's and shredded everything in sight .

He didn't give a damn as long as they were happy.

He had litter boxes everywhere .
The cats lounged about the house as he watched TV drank cocktails and sent out rejections .

As he got deeper into the drinks the more nasty he got.

He wasn't respected he was feared .

He made writers with his approval slammed others and buried his competition.

He only left the house to restock the bar and to buy his furry friends food .

They didn't give a damn about him as he could give a damn about anyone else .

One night as he was really on a roll at his kitchen table halfway through he suffered a heart attack and keeled over .

Most were surprised to learn he had a heart at all.

He left everything to his cats .

They never seemed to notice he was gone .

Those who showed up mainly went to see him chucked into the cold ground.

Afterwards I met his daughter she was distant and cold .

I told her I was very sorry for her loss.

She told me she was never close to her father .

We shared a few drinks she had eyes like a cat .
I wondered did she purr just the same .

Me and the old bastard had one thing in common .
We both loved pussy .

I just prefered mine standing upon two legs rather than four.

I went by his grave it was lonely as the bitter old shit himself once was in life .

I poured him one last drink .

Course it was through my kidneys I probably should have brought a flask .

He never liked me much told me I was a shit writer .

I may have been shit but least I was alive .

It's far better to be pissed off than pissed upon .

                 The End

John Patrick Robbins 

Holds a black belt in drinking and is the editor and chief of The Rye Whiskey Review and also this fine magazine .

When not spending his days drinking his liver silly he can often be found passed out behind the bar .

Or hosting a podcast or working on his never ending book .

Cheers and stay crazy .