Almost by Daniel W. Wright

I get sick of people talking about ALMOST
as though ALMOST is some kind of victory
"I almost asked them out."
"I almost got that promotion."
"I almost went to that show."

Oh yeah?

Well, I almost just scratched my balls
a few minutes ago
but I didn't
and they still itch

A poet of the no collar work force, Daniel W. Wright is a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him. A longtime writer of wild nights and whiskey tributes, Wright speaks for the lover in every loner. He is currently the author of five chapbooks of poetry, the most recent being The Death of the Ladies Man with Bad Jacket Press. His work has appeared in the Gasconade Review as well as underground zines Bad Jacket and Crappy Hour

Tennis Scapegoat by Ethan Goffman

I suck at tennis
Diving for loose balls I plunk them clumsily against the net.

Springing forward to unleash my killer backhand,
I splotch the ball against the edge of my racket
Miraculously, it wheezes over the net,
to the great glee of the slobbering giant
who waits on the other side
smashing a killer blow.

I suck at tennis.
Why do I keep at it?
when I could stay at home,
watching from a safe distance
the magnificent champions born to play the game
and remain
a safe distance from my ineptitude.

Isn’t that the American way?
Hours upon days gawking at the dazzling professionals
dancing like angels across the court
while you slouch on a couch
growing a killer gut.

I suck at tennis;
I provide a useful service
heroic almost
to the weekend warriors
who can feel, just for an instant,
that they are part of a line of greatness
Borg, Navratilova, Federer, Serena
wielding their battle axes
striking another killer blow
against another hapless challenger.

There is no Hercules
without a hydra
no Beowulf
without a Grendel
no Rama
without a
demon king.
Villains are the deep heartbeat
of history and myth!

Still I most resemble
that shuffling goblin Gandalf kills without a glance
On his way to battle the Nazgul.

No one is a hero
without someone they can slay
No champ without a chump.

I provide a useful service
as an extra
in a cast of thousands.

I am a tennis scapegoat.  I exist for a reason.

Still on rare occasions I surprise.
Somehow my desperate lunge
sends the ball bouncing off the cord
careening to the other side at an angle
impossible to return.

For an instant I am a champion
Game, set, and match!

Ethan Goffman accidentally

became a poet by tagging along with his wife, the far more talented, harder

working, and prettier Marianne Szlyk, to poetry workshops.  He is still not sure how, but somehow his poems have

appeared in BlazeVox, Mad

Swirl, Madness Muse, Ramingo’s

Porch, and Setu.

Play Nice Or Play With Yourself. by John Patrick Robbins

I never was a social butterfly or the type of person that  concerned himself with the opinions of others .

When people run to me and say .

"Hey you know what so and so said about you?"

Or any other social media slant  I largely had the same response .

"Who gives a shit ?"

Confidence keeps me insulated and the booze usually for the most part happy .

And in all truth most people will be ever so eager  to kill your buzz but only if you allow them to.

It only effects you if you acknowledge they exist.

And unless your buying the next round or are a old friend then I suggest you get a life .

Because I am far to busy drinking mine away to give a flying fuck about yours .

Cheers asshole .

                 John  Patrick Robbins Aka Coyote .

Is the chief warlord and president of the Frat
He enjoys drinking and holds the title of drunk of the year seven years straight .

When not being driven insane from fellow writers he finds time somehow to write as well his publications include .


Punk Noir Magazine , Ariel Chart , Beatnik Cowboy , The Mojave River Review , The San Pedro River Review , Blognostics , Red Fez , Horror Sleaze Trash., Better Homes And Gardens , Angry Old Man Magazine,  Hustler and Ladies Home Journal.

His work is always unfiltered .

Ken. by John Doyle

Ken

fosters thoughts and dreams,

murder, annihilation, 

all a moment's ripple

within the fetal badlands of his smile -

one faithless semester.

If a smile is what it is

I wonder then which semester

he sat like Robert Wyatt on that window-cill

looking down at the judgmental colours

of street-dancers and perfect flesh,

Jesus and his galleons of switchblade bikers in

a flash of blue-jean lightning.

I wonder how many times they called him Fatso,

before he stood like folklore's sack of ancient bones and held back seas,

a prism made of numbers, a batch of code

he crawled into beneath an ice-cold shower

and clutched the darkness of the womb

and all those smiling souls he would make pay

with strings of silence.

I wondered until Friday. There was a free bar for fallen staff -

I met Marco one last time, Paul I'll see again three years later.

El Clasico spits and screams from the digital venom of the T.V. screen

and Paul tells me - Fatso was a mercenary, nothing more; that we kind of knew -

a few hours into year zero and the ticker tape was knee-deep

on a beer-stained floor.

I can't imagine Fatso on horseback in Texas in 1894,

protecting livestock hours before they give birth,

he was more a plantation owner

named Claude Dupree,

focusing his pout 

on dusted strings of death-punctured soil

long before the id, the ego and the superego had been conjured,

losing all contact with human essence

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.

Midwest Bloodbath. By Rathnar Kilbane

                

As I sit by the fire of poets burning and breath in the smells of skinny jeans and chapbooks .

I think of my wives back in Iceland .

Olga , Ursula, Oksana and Margo.

How I thank the Lord of death and happy endings for the peace of mind distance gives .

Although the food in these savage lands cannot match Olga's stuffed wolf surprise.

I have slaughtered many poets on my tour and written a new collection from the blood of my victims I will title.

Rainbows Need Butterflies As Trolls Need Flesh Of The Dwarfs .

I have hunted these lands .

Seeking the evil troll but apparently overlooked her I would ask a female poet but the last one I ravished I fed to my hounds .

And as they sing songs of my great conquest I yearn for drink and more violence.

As I seek a publishing deal for my newest collection.

Why they all these publishers scream like women and run at just the mention of my appearance I cannot say .

Course maybe if I quit killing so many people along the way they would lighten up .

These strange people I cannot fully understand .

But I have killed many and the children now applaud my arrival and the recent drunkards in some nameless tavern.

Applauded me for killing those poets who were destroying there buzz.

With there ramblings and pissing and moaning over their feelings .

But my journey is far from over as I hunt the bitch dwarf of total insignificance.

Across these lands .

A reporter stopped me as my armies marched through the Midwest.

"Rathnar you just slaughtered another group of poets at yet another open mic , where are you heading next ."

I looked to the sheepish male holding his microphone and replied .

"To hell my friend but I might also stop off at Disneyland to conquer that rat Mickey Mouse's kingdom and ravish Daisy Duck."

Killing is simply part of the poets lifestyle to me.

Conquer you later .

Rathnar .

Rathnar Kilbane 

Is the poet laureate of Iceland he has conquered many savage lands and open mics.

When not pillaging he enjoys watching musicals and snuggling under covers on a cold night in Iceland. 

He is currently seeking a publisher for his new collection and promises not to kill anyone that rejects him anymore that is .

Body Positive Mauritius. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A scrape on the wall

and I find a matcher

on my skin

the tuning fork is really

sucking all the hot air out of wrinkly

balloons these days

making body positive Mauritius

overthrow its government

again

troops deployed in the streets

like burping pylons

women screaming

because there is nothing

else to do

the goats have all the milk

and the motorcycles hoard

all the petrol…

I was thinking of making a sex tape

next Spring and sending it out to the

Canada Council for the Arts folks

for funding  

   

even though I am a straight white male

which never bodes well.

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.

Sick by Bruce Hodder

Opening my door
this morning, dreaming
of a big win
on the lottery tonight,
I put my foot
into a pile of sick
left by late-night drinkers
on the street
outside my house.
That’s three quid’s worth
of sandals ruined.
The gangster boys
in baseball caps
from the Northampton
slums of L.A.
say “Ahh, bro!”
and slap each other,
laughing.  I glare,
but what can I do?
I’m a grey old man
with bad knees
and puke stains
on my sandals.

Bruce Hodder lives with Michelle in Northampton, the most statistically average town in England. He has been published in quite a few magazines over the years, most recently ‘Academy of Heart and mind’ and ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’.

Watching Porn In Reverse by Scott Simmons

I’m confused I watch those funny pictures with naked men and ladies.
Why does the man’s hot dog have to go in and out so much?

Does the mouth between the ladies legs have teeth Is he afraid of it?
Or is she afraid of his lollipop in the back?

At least the pretty ladies like to suck on cherries for a few minutes before...
SPITTING them out! How rude would anyone have to be to spit out cream candy?

Those people are all strange but at least I’m a virgin so seriously why not just......
Cut off my head staple my nipples to my chest and convert my body into a race car.

Scott Simmons has masturbaited across the entire globe (Everywhere inside of his room) to a variety of culturally sensitive tentacle "Films" to conduct his scientific research for uncovering the existence of alternate phallic shaped universes hidden inside the world of Teletubbies. He can often be found sulking about naked locker rooms with ziplock bags collecting the left over pubic hair of hung specimens to put into his hair zoo for everyone locked in his basement to see.

Double Talking Bullshit. by Becky Summerland

                 
People who are quick to turn on you were never worth much to begin with .
Step over shit never waste a second of this life glorifying it.

Drama always draws attention sure shit draws flies.
It all stinks just the same to me .

                        Becky Summerland

Is the head of Sorrority and a part time poet and editor .

Her publications include here at UTB .
She enjoys good whiskey and even better music .

Such a Distinct Clink by Gwil James Thomas

9:AM standing at the bus stop,
with a plastic bag of
clinking and cheap bottles
of red wine - 
the early birds having long since
caught the worm,
as elderly Spanish women stare at me
whispering and sniggering,
as nuns make the sign of the cross
and the young professional
adjusts his tie -
from politics,
to horror films,
to death denial -
fear sells greater than fact,
but stone cold sober
knowing that this wine’s
a long overdue gift for a friend
that’ll never touch my lips -
I can’t help but play along,
as I pretend to stagger to
the back of the bus
as people desperately part
like I’m an anaconda
slithering through a plastic ball pit -
knowing that
in this life
fear can far often
be worse than fact.

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician originally from the historically infamous city of Bristol, England. His written work can be found widely in print and also online. In 2019 his work will be featured in East London Press’ 3 Poets series and he also has two forthcoming poetry chapbooks - Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press) and In The Barrel of a Beautiful Wave (Holy & Intoxicated Publications). He’s currently living in Northern Spain where he writes, undertakes odd jobs and does his best to stay out of trouble.

Congratulations : The Oedipus Complex Was Your Best Ever Marketing Tool. by John Doyle

Your serial killer's baritone did make me shiver

just a little, and those tattoos, oh goodness,


did you get them in prison? oh, you didn't, that's a shame,

though when pops tried to enlist you in cadet school


I can understand a certain hatred, and they say revenge should

really go all out, that, I can dig soul brother. Hey, tell ya what braw,


let's tap our fists together quasi-homey style,

like we're that whitey putz in Gran Torino all the black hoodlums look at


like he's a douche,

and even Eastwood respects the would-be sexual felons more


than he does him. And that can soon be you, just make sure you go

a few more days without washing, looks perfect when you go live online,


skunks, pine-martin and other assorted critters can soon go sleep beside you,

semi-docile while you develop the semi-feral Grizzly Adams look -


makes you look so withdrawn,

like all the shit you’ve been though



since discovering Metallica really drags you down,

and makes you the Shelley of the 21st Century;



or should that be the Age of Aquarius, braw?

Oh, Pops called to say he loves you by the way,



the nurses really think

you should say hello

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.

For a Most Rude Lady from Ancestry.com by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She said she always wanted to know where she came from.

That was why she signed up.

When the results came back she was surprised to find

that such a large part of her family was French.

She had contacted me because she thought we may

be distant relations.

And I told her I had also signed up even though I hadn’t

because I wanted us to have something to talk about.

Long distance charges are not cheap and she seemed so excited

that when she asked me about my results

I told her they came back 38% Martian

and a majority undecided.

And she got quite angry with me.

Hung up like they used to do back in my

telemarketing cold call

days.

All because I wanted to belong.

I guess that’s the 38% Martian in me.

 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.

Joe's Twatted Again by Bruce Hodder

Joe's coffee mug’s balanced on the gate to the flats
when I bring down the bags for the rubbish collection.
He’s nowhere around, so I pick up the mug
and it's stone cold. 'Shit, I forgot I’d made that.'
He says, ‘Wotcher’, flashing me a Cheshire cat smile,
and makes a tenth pass at high speed round the building
with his lawn mower, joint gone out, not that he knows.

Bruce Hodder lives with Michelle in Northampton, the most statistically average town in England. He has been published in quite a few magazines over the years, most recently ‘Academy of Heart and mind’ and ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’.

Hiding Under Where? by Moe Lester

When it comes to stealing underwear the more brown stains the better.
After all if it don’t stink then it ain’t been nowhere near the pink.

The garment’s elasticity is also important for achieving a proper erotic affixation.
If the underwear does not allow for suffocation then simply use a plastic bag.

It should also be noted that if the underwear is wet you can actually ring out a delicious beverage straight from it or mix it with your favorite cocktail.

Finally just remember if you get caught remember you’re just a laundry cleaning professional.

Moe Lester is a Sex Offender with several years of experience and has been voted the best pervert of poetry in 2004 by Sir Scott Pilgrim.  He is also a professional critic and reviewer at several credited publications such as pornhub, redtube, and xhamster.

A Child Named Armpit Fart. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I took a balled up snotty tissue

from my left pant pocket

and threw it in her drink

at a party where no one was dancing

and she demanded to know why

I had done that

and I said it was to be closer

to her.

And she walked away in disgust.

Some people just don’t understand intimacy.

Sitting in pool furniture

under the stars.

   

Picking at skin tags

that should have married

and had children

named Rocco

or Armpit Fart  

long

ago.

 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.

iPhone hygiene. by Eliana Vanessa

no one even takes a crap anymore

without their fucking iPhone!

the other day, i was at Target

and heard someone

making a conference call

while having explosive diarrhea!

what in the hell is going on

with our world

that people are expected to take care

of two types of businesses at once—

so much so

that they compromise

their personal hygiene!

if there’s one message that, as a poet,

i need to urgently drop

it’s to tell motherfuckers

to get back to going to the bathroom

the old school way!

don’t worry! other people’s shit can wait!

Eliana Vanessa is originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina and moved to New Orleans, Louisiana at a young age.  Her poems have been selected for display via a community project called St Tammany Poetry on the Streets, and she recently participated in the Jane Austen Festival (2017,2018, 2019, upcoming) as part of a panel of other selected poets.  Eliana Vanessa’s work appears in Siren’s Call, The Horrorzine, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Ramingo’s Porch, Fearless Magazine, and the anthology, Masks Still Aren’t Enough.

The Futility of Existence by Scott Simmons

What do you think about the cereal that died to extend your life?
And all those precious artificial ingredients that were entirely pissed out from your nostrils.

If you feel guilty like I do then just simply have to beat the all sin from your body via a leather whip wielded by a 5’3 Korean Dominatrix being paid 200 dollars an hour.

Or you can watch the entire broadway musical known as Spongebob Squarenuts.
And have a tear filled hump of shame on a fire hydrant in the streets of Manhattan.

There are many ways to get forgiveness especially if you send me lots of money.

                     Scott Shithead Simmons


Is our favorite little pervert and beloved in men's rooms all over the world .
He enjoys playing naked twister with his imaginary friends and loves internet porn sometimes with chicks in it .


He may be sexually confused but he knows what he wants at the end of the night so ladies if your in Kill Devil Hills tonight and see the UTB tour bus swing by cause Scotts on guard duty tonight and always lonely .


And remember UTB is no responsible for anything this crazy fucker does your welcome.

Johnny Cash by Bruce Hodder

The bloke down the hall has a Johnny Cash fetish.
He plays the Sun records with religious devotion,
windows thrown open, volume cranked to the top,
drowning out mowers and my washing machine.
You might have bought into this Cash thing as well,
that he's cool, but try hearing him day after day.
Even 'I Walk The Line' makes me headbutt the walls.
For five years my neighbour played one Elvis record,
and now this. It's more than my poor mind can bear.
Since he's pissed all the time, perhaps the bastard will fall
in a ring of fire sometime before summer's over.
If he doesn't, I might have to push him.

Bruce Hodder lives with Michelle in Northampton, the most statistically average town in England. He has been published in quite a few magazines over the years, most recently ‘Academy of Heart and mind’ and ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’.

SO, WHAT SO YOU DO? by Brian Rihlmann

He asked what I do and I said,
“Well, I usually wake up early and piss first,
then brush my teeth if it’s a weekday,
or if it’s a weekend I’ll skip it
and head straight for the coffee pot,
then to the computer to get a little writing done...”

I enjoyed the way he smiled at me,
like you do at a crazy,
cracked out street person
who’s telling you their story,
and you really want outta there,
but there’s no way out.

Ok, I’ve never actually done this.

But I think we all should...
just to throw off
the natural order of the universe,
and this not so subtle way
of determining my social caste
and whether or not
I’m worthy of your time.

Fuck you.
That’s what I do for a living.

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse, much of it on the so-called "grittier" side.  Folk poetry...for folks.  He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.