Squeaky Springs. by John Patrick Robbins

                 

My neighbor in the apartment beside mine has squeaky  springs and a loose disposition .

Every night like clockwork I hear them clearly through the wall .
As she fucks the night away and me I simply try to write .

She seldom said a word when I passed her in the hall.

I tried to make small talk but she heard enough fights between me and my ex to know better .

She didn't ever have much to say but at night the bed kept steady squeaky rhythm.

Sometimes actions speak louder than words .

She called out to God often in throws of passion .
She wasn't religious but she seemed very spiritually horny .

She seldom had a word to say but often upon her face she wore a smile .

She kept the boys up all night .
Those squeaky springs kept steady rhythm.

And here I sat like a fool at the typewriter drinking the night away .

It became part of my process and when it was silent I just couldn't write .

I believe I will knock on her door and ask her does she mind finding someone to screw .

She will view me as a pervert .
Or maybe if I am lucky she will invite me in.

And then I won't give a single damn about the page.

I saw her mattress on the sidewalk and realized it had been retired for something silent and new .

I believe I will move into a brothel .
Then finish my masterpiece or at least die from fucking.

Either way I will finally craft a happy ending people say they seldom read in my work .

But these are just pipe dreams from dirty sheets and a dismal view .

John Patrick Robbins aka The Mad Editor Aka Coyote aka The Man Of Million Pen Names Aka Gonz Aka The Alcoholics Alcoholic.

Has won several awards all of which he created for himself .

He has been dubbed the Mad Editor .

His Facebook wall is often used to praise his greatness and display the newest members of his ultra secret Satanic cult that meets in the woods upon every full moon for a wild orgy and free pizza buffet .

Like us on Facebook.

When not working in his crystal meth lab slash day care facility .

John is usually starting and running ten new mags a day so his dark legion may achieve world dominance and more likes on Instagram for his elegant and tasteful bathroom selfies .

John enjoys a good drink and practicing black magic to smite his enemies who are many within his mind .

He is currently single because his ex chewed off her leg and got away .

He is the Frat president and chief warlord of UTB.

Once is nominated for Worst Of The Net .

His work can be read at such kickass mags such as .

The Street Walker Review , Tender , Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, Ladies Home Journal , Hustler , Who Farted , X Hamster , Christian Rock Sucks Quarterly , Care Bears Crack Den .

His work is always unfiltered and if you are offended please download a sense of humor .

Cheers

A Dog Named Bitch. by Alfred Gremsly

You only come around

when the fleas start biting

And nothings been the same

without all the fighting

I gave away the dog

but still find myself itching

To what I thought was the problem

but most likely the bitching

With her nose up my ass

like a nagging disease

I’d rather have the dog

And all her fleas

At least when she’s bad

I need only a switch

To run off the dog

Rightfully named Bitch

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.

Angry and Unpredictable. by Ian Copestick

My God !

There is nothing as angry

And unpredictable as a woman.

I am now sitting downstairs

Listening to music

To get away

From the constant criticism

And character assassination

Of my wife. Tonight

I accidentally bought

Stale bread for our

Evening meal.

That was two hours ago

And she still has not stopped

I've heard all about 

All of my deficiencies

And disasters

Dating back over the

Fifteen years we've been

Together

I'm left in no doubt

What a useless piece of

Shit I am.

Hence, I sit down

Here in the dark.

Headphones on

With a drink at my

Side. Listening to music

That doesn't berate me, or

Belittle me.

Thank a God for

Music and books.

They know nothing about me.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer ( I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror, Sleaze, Trash.

Fuck. by John Doyle

Fuck all you mods,
fuck all you rockers,
fuck all you ravers, goth kids, hipsters,
the sophisticated artisans,
the bogman farmers with hands the size of shovels slurping Club Orange on Sundays as pig-shed keys
dangle from Wranglers belt-loops;
fuck all of you who voted yes and fuck all of you who voted no,
the rich, the poor, feminists, misogynists, the 1930s religious zealots
and the right-on
progressive atheists;
and fuck you Mr. Whippy, parking your ice-cream van in the disabled driver space.
What any of these have to with unlawful carnal knowledge, I'm fucked if I'll ever know.
Oh, and fuck the 19 year old arts students beside me in ironic hard-rock t-shirts, and ironically digging 1980s power ballads.
Yeah: fuck you and Mr. Whippy most of all

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

Tuesday Night at the Bar. by Alyssa Trivett

My male friend comments

everyone propped up

at the bar

might be headed to a local

sleazy hotel to check in,

thereafter.

They're all drunk from 

spewing commas

at one another, the way

they throw their coats on

at last call,

like honorary football players

after a big win.

I just want to sit and unwind 

and put the Jukebox on 

for an hour or two.

And throw comic bubbles for a few.

Two beers, and a shot glass

if I can't remember the name of it.

Not a bad evening.

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music, chirps down coffee, and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared recently at In Between Hangovers, The Penwood Review, The Rye Whiskey Review ,  and Apricity Magazine.

Pregnant. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I’m pregnant,

I say.

You’re a man,

she laughs,

you can’t be pregnant.

I lift my shirt

and expose my rounded

belly.

How do you explain this?

Too much beer and poutine,

she says,   

men can’t get pregnant.

Male seahorses get pregnant,

I say,

so why not male humans?

I’m not having this conversation with you.

Of course you are, I offer,

otherwise I’d just be talking

to myself and that’s crazy.

THAT’S YOUR LINE, she scoffs,

It is okay for men to be pregnant,

but not to talk to themselves.

Well, when you put it that way

you make me sound unreasonable.

Can you rub my feet?

I ask.

They are all swelled up from

the pregnancy.

She is ignoring me.

Now I am talking to myself.

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.

App for That. by Michael Dwayne Smith

Death calls

At the most inconvenient times—

Holidays, driving to work,

Late at night when most I need my sleep.

I always hang up on him.

Rude, yes, and maybe foolish.

He says something needs to be put in my ear,

And I’m not listening.

Last week I downloaded an app

To block his number.

But I keep checking the stats

To see when and how often he calls.

Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals. His most recent book isRoadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press, 2017). Nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work haunts many literary houses--including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Star 82 Review, Blue Fifth Review, Skidrow Penthouse, Word Riot, Rat's Ass Review, Gravel, San Pedro River Review--and has been widely anthologized. When not writing or teaching, he edits Mojave River Press & Review.

Ass Blues On A Bench . by Mendes Biondo

Maybe asses in Hollywood are better than these ones.
He said one afternoon.

We were sitting on a bench
looking at sweating joggers
dressed in leggings.
Asses bouncing like mozzarellas

These are b series asses.
I'm sure there are better women in united states
like the actresses you see in movies.
He said and he was thinking

to Jennifer Lawrence

I know it because he told me about his crush one day.

They have cellulite too

flat asses.
Not well shaped peaches moving on their back
I said.

"There must be something better somewhere
better than this life we're doing here".

He said.

"Well it could be".

The clouds become black and the weather was cold and wet.
We went back to home.

Leaving asses getting wet with the rain.

We had exams to prepare,
and a lot of cold beers to drink at the end of the day.

Mendes Biondo is an Italian journalist and author. His works appeared on Visual Verse, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Literary Yard, Angela Topping Hygge Feature,  Indigent A La Carte, The BeZine, Scrittura Magazine, The Song Is, Poetry Pasta and other magazines. He is one of the editors of The Ramingo's Porch along with Marc Pietrzykowski and Catfish McDaris. His first book of poems will be