$700 dollar cell phone by John Grochalski

5 a.m.
and i’m stumbling
around the apartment
in my fat belly
and baggy underwear
can’t find the $700 dollar cell phone
have no idea where i put it
know where i put the wine last night
know where i put the vodka
call the thing!
call the goddamned thing!
i’m shouting to my wife
like a man whose lost a fortune
christ, a few months ago
you couldn’t pay me
to have one of these fucking things
now look at me
call the thing!
call the goddamned thing!
i’m still shouting
tuning over books and unopened mail
tossing away important items
that i’ll be searching frantically for later
rummaging for this goddamned device
when i should be sucking coffee
and writing the day’s poems
i don’t even call anyone on the fucking thing
just listen to music
and text my wife
asking her where she’s at all of the time
this $700 cell phone
could be at the bottom of the ocean
for all i care
i’m more concerned that i’m not keeping it together
this lost cell phone
is an indictment against nights of excess
and mornings after that don’t come easy at my age
this missing cell phone
is the cusp of a nervous breakdown
that i’ve been threatening for months
a trip to rehab
if i don’t watch it
call the thing!
call the goddamned thing!
i shout
as my wife glares at me
holding her $700 phone in both hands
and then…
there it is
on some random shelf
on top of a book of outlaw poetry
that wasn’t so outlaw
and i grab the thing
this $700 cell phone
made from the rape of africa
and slave labor in china
sweating like a junkie
relieved as if i’d found my lost keys
or a missing kid
hold it toward the light
as if it were the cup of christ
exuberant
joyful
suddenly forgetting my malaise
my existential alcoholic crisis
then i move the $700 dollar cell phone
from one shelf to the next
to go and take a piss
letting it sit there idle yet again
with all of the other useless crap
that covers
this ever-loving domicile
from dingy wall
to dingy goddamned wall.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Attack of the Killer Books by Daniel W. Wright

Once upon a time
books were read everywhere
They inspired ideas
and brought about conversations
There was always a book to be read
or a book to be shared
and the books felt happy
to help the humans understand
each other
a little bit more

Then one day,
the books stopped being read
The humans suddenly preferred
shiny objects of all sorts
and the books began to feel lonely
They huddled together on shelves
to keep each other company
but couldn’t help but observe
people start to resent each other more
and see education fall
and see the rise
of people taking pride
in anti-intellectualism

So one day,
the books decided
to do something about it
They opened the windows of the libraries,
bookstores, and apartments
and decided to kamikaze themselves
in the name of killing
the anti-intellectuals

All across the world
police were baffled
as more and more town idiots
found themselves
with their heads caved in
and a book right beside them
and all shiny objects cast to the streets
to be run over by cars
that didn’t see them
One case even had a man’s blood
and brain matter
spell out
SPLAT
along the sidewalk
just in case people didn’t realize
what had happened to him

As the phenomenon grew,
conspiracy theories began to spread
Some blamed the Illuminati
some blamed the Free Masons
some even blamed Elvis
but there was little evidence
to support that theory

The police began to look
at security footage
to see if there were any clues
but there were none
The books were too smart
People began to be
so scared for their lives
that they began to start carrying books around
so that whoever was killing these dumbasses
wouldn’t target them
They walked with books in their hand
had books beside them at bars
and eventually
began reading these books
Soon the murders stopped
and intelligence began to rise again
and like all things
The Moron Murders
as the phenomenon came to be known
faded in to memory

But the books knew
that eventually
another shiny object
would come around
to distract people from reading
And whenever that next shiny object
showed itself
the books would be ready

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

THE TRANSDENDER DOG. By Bryn Fortey

When Suzy, my last cat, died

I swore there would be

No more pets

I had inherited her from my son

When nobody else

Offered her a home

But my advancing years

Made it seem unfair

When a new pet

Would probably outlive me

My wife was very much an animal-lover

But with a strong preference for cats

So it had been 50+ years

Since I’d lost my last dog, Vicky

A German shepherd who had been

Both friend and pet during

All my teenage years, and more

“You know you’d love another dog, dad.”

My daughter can be very insistent

And planned her campaign well

Pointing out that in the case of my demise

She would take over full responsibility 

Since it would be a shared pet from the start 

Why she went for a Shar Pei pup I don’t know

A little wrinkled boy she named Caesar

And he was absolutely wonderful

Chewing every chair leg he could reach

And crying pitifully if left alone

But loving his human family with a passion

Then our little boy dog

Came into season

Though sold as a male

It turned out Caesar was really Cleo all the time

Which makes no difference to us or her

Bryn Fortey is a veteran writer from Wales in the UK. Widely published

over the years, he has had two collections published by The Alchemy 

Press, both featuring a mix of short stories and poetry. He is grateful that

in old age he is still able to put pen to paper and finger to keyboard.

Lend Me A Ear Or You're Face by Leather Face

                

Recently a woman asked me.

"Leatherface, do you ever tire of chasing screaming women around the woods or refueling your chainsaws?"

I had to think deep about this question.

I mean sure it's hell building a solid foundation when your relationship starts off with you attempting to murder your future spouse.

But don't all relationships have there rocky moments from time to time?

I mean sure I'm a chainsaw wielding cannibal but I have feelings to.

I mean it just has to really be something there to let me expose my vulnerable side.

I mean I can sleep with anyone I've got laying around not they will know duh their dead genius.

I mean sometimes I just enjoy a fine bottle chardonnay some soft jazz maybe a good romantic flick like the human centipede.

I mean not every serial killer is into fear sex.

Yeah I know I can kill you and eat you but what I want to know is what's really in your head.

Sure I could bash it in and find out. 

I want us to mature like a fine wine and let things take there natural course.

I want to cook you a really good barbecue.

And no again I don't know what happened to your friends I swear they probably are just lost in the woods.

Sometimes I just need that special someone to lend an ear but the face will do nicely as well.

Oh what a lonely cannibal am I. 

                             Leatherface

Is aa barbecue enthusiast and a vicious killer with a sensitive soul and heart of twisted gold.
He enjoys dismembering his victims and salsa dancing on Thursday night's.

He is currently avoiding authorities and living somewhere in a remote location in Texas .

He is currently single 😭

“This is Tough, Lord Jesus!” by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

My wife and I are at the Dollarama.

Standing near the front of a line that keeps

getting longer.

Some crazy woman is off her meds

and driving the cashier nuts.

The cashier is amazingly calm.

Ringing things through and smiling.

I’ll bet she’s having one of those FML moments,

my wife leans in.

Then the crazy old broad looks at the line

and yells out an apology.

She starts blessing us all.

It is a very religious moment.

She blesses the cashier most of all,

who smiles.

Then she goes to roll her belongings out to the parking lot.

The cashier politely lets her know that the carts

have to stay inside.

Oh bless you my dear!  Oh bless you all!

I tell my wife I feel blessed

and she elbows me.

The cashier begins ringing the next gentleman through.

We are next in line.

Suddenly the crazy old broad jumps back from her cart

with her hands in the air.

IT’S THE LAW!

she screams.

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO,

IT’S THE LAW   IT’S THE LAW!!

The cashier keeps ringing the man through.

A true professional.

I really don’t like the law,

I tell my wife.

She elbows me again.

   

Oh, I don’t know how I’m going to carry these outside,

the crazy old broad continues.

She has two small bags of trinkets.

Then it is our turn to be rung through.

We are blessed again before we reach the cash.

Everyone in the store is.

It is a most spiritual moment.

Water into wine and all that.

The kid stocking shelves takes his step ladder

and quietly moves to the back of the store.

Time to take an early lunch.

He is in hiding.

Not his first rodeo.

As we walk outside,

we pass the crazy woman

now standing in front

with outstretched arms

and talking to the

sky directly.

Oh mercy, this is tough!

This is tough, lord Jesus!

I don’t look back because I know better.

The wife keeps walking as well.

Some woman in black slacks comes over

to help the woman with her bags

and immediately realizes her mistake.

She turns and rushes off,

but not before being blessed

a few times.

I think I just had a religious experience,

I tell my wife.

Is that what you’re calling it,

she scoffs.

I twirl the Dollarama bags in my hand

and tell her it is.

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.

Let’s Take a Bath In A WoodChipper! by Scott Simmons

Meth is like coffee that you smoke after you drive a bus naked into a public pool.
It always makes my brain feel supper happy joy good.

Do you ever wonder why your face feels like it’s being ripped off by that weird flashlight that is sticky inside and has a hole instead of a lightbulb?

ALSO FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME I DID NOT PISS ON YOUR DOG AT THE PARK!
THAT SELFISH FURRY ASSHOLE REVERSED TIME AND FRAMED ME!

Just cuz I liked the taste and texture it doesn’t mean I put that into your drink too much...

Scott Simmons has been on a lifetime journey for the used condom of truth for 60 years in order to discover the secrets of the universe and has searched countless body cavities with no success. He currently suspects unicorns sent by the Canadian government are conspiring with Nintendo in an attempt to prevent him from completing the great semen heist of the century.

I Put The King In Viking. by Rathnar Kilbane

           

I once viewed a beautiful wolf in the distance near my great lodge in Iceland .

It did not fear me it seemed to look within my soul.

It was a majestic creature and often as I sharpened my battle axe in the evenings I would toss this animal scrapes .

It eventually lost all fear and soon took food from my hand.

One beautiful spring evening I was drunk and overjoyed.

As I had just received news my thirteenth wife Ursula had been slaughtered at the  battle of Kroger in that savage land of Ohio .

My trusty friend ran up to me looking for a treat .

I smiled and tossed him a scrap of sea monster jerky .
And as I watched this loyal companion feast .

I beheaded him with my battle axe .

And had a feast of my own.

Rathnar needs no companion and he died for a noble cause .

For Rathnar's  wolf stew is to die for literally .

All hail the Rathnar .

Rathnar Kilbane

Is currently busy on the quest to find Ron Murphy as he is killing his way across the savage lands to the deepest jungles of Indiana .

So please leave your praise for the poet laureate of Iceland after the beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep .

Green Mill by PW Covington

Broadway snow and slush in April
Parking meters take a breather and let us keep the change
Until next morning, Monday

Dark space
Deep place
“Cash only” hand written by the door
Poetry tonight
As it has been
     and will be

Come in from the wet snow
Slam the door

Turn table jukebox. 78’s
“Lydia, oh, Lydia
     have you met Lydia?”
The wooden bar wraps around the room

It’s Pabst on draft tonight
5 bucks a pint
I’m tryin’ to save my cash
Still drinking on Sioux Fall’s haul
Saving up for a down payment on a new
Second hand soul
No longer needed
By some transplant, that’s left for California
When I step on stage
A pilgrim
Of the word and world and the void
And of Broadway and passion and of, of, of
Truthiness-ish communion
With Palm Unit rhythm section
Bass, piano, and drums

Jazz and strong drink tabernacle
Rooms just like this
In April

Equal in glorious, dark, obscurity
Here for the words

 PW Covington writes in the beat tradition of the North American highway.

His latest book, a collection of short fiction, titled North Beach and Other Stories was recently named a 2019 Finalist in LGBTQ Fiction. Follow him @BeatPW

Telling the Truth by David Boski

she called me when I was
at work, hysterical, crying
and trying to compose herself
as she said: “I have something
to tell you.” I was worried,
immediately I thought she was
pregnant or worse and I said:
“relax, calm down, what’s wrong?
just tell me.”
“the clinic called me and I’m so
sorry, this is so embarrassing,
but they told me I have gonorrhea
and I gave them your name and
number so they might call you but
I told them I would do it” she said
still crying and trying to catch her
breath.
“what the fuck? are you sure? I feel
fine, what do I have to do?” I said
simultaneously relieved, pissed and
confused.
“you just have to go to the doctor so
they can give you medication” she
replied.
“ok” I said, “don’t worry about it, shit
happens, and I feel fine, take care.”
I hung up the phone and went back
to work and convinced myself that
this was some sort of sick joke she
was playing cause I went back to my
ex. a few days later I woke up in the
middle of the night and as I went to
take a piss, I felt a powerful burning
sensation shooting  through my penis,
as if somebody had stuck a blow torch
down there; I quickly turned towards
the sink and began pouring cold water
all over, on, and into my dick, realizing
she was telling the truth.

David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have appeared in: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under The Bleachers, Down in the Dirt, Beatnik Cowboy, Winamop, Ramingo’s Porch, Cactifur, North Of Oxford and elsewhere. His chapbook “Fist Fighting and Fornication” is out now and available through Holy&intoxicated Publications. 

Anything But A Scorpio. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

   

You’re not a Scorpio are you?

she asks after several enjoyable moments

together.

You mean that thing that lives under rocks?

I ask.

She chokes on her beer and shakes her head yes.

Anything but a Scorpio,

she says.

They hold grudges forever.

I don’t believe in forever,

I say.

See gives me a curious look.

The same one my parents used

to give each other.

Leo, I offer,

like the lion.

King of the jungle

and all that business.

She says Leo isn’t great,

but it’s better than a damn Scorpio.

Then she tells me she is a Scorpio.

You mean that thing with the dangerous tail?

She looks down at the stool behind her

and smiles.

   

I thought Scorpios held a grudge forever.

Exactly,

she says.

That’s why it’s good

you’re a Leo.

Even the bartender is laughing.

Hey, don’t look at me,

he throws his hands in the air

as if under arrest.

I don’t even know what

the hell I am.

A bartender,

both myself and the Scorpio

answer.

To which

we all laugh

and share a round

on the house.

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.

I Wrote This To Piss You Off. by John Patrick Robbins

        

I penned this on paper first just to kill another tree .
Fueled on good booze and bad grammar and published it myself.

For it doesn't take me ninety days to know if something's shit .

I made sure to make some good digs and complimented a woman's ass and flipped off a cop just for good measure .

Rejected a spoiled poet who went out of their way to kiss my ass .
And wasted a whole day getting drunk and not answering my phone .

And if it offends you I choose to live my life instead of concern myself with yours .

Than this writes dedicated to you.


Nurse check please .

John Patrick Robbins Aka Coyote

Is currently mental patient of the month at the Frat and gets a gold star and bottle of Jim Beam for his efforts.

When not being driven insane from fellow writers he enjoys.

Serial killing and long conversations with the voices in his head .

He runs the Frat and you question why this place is so messed up .

Cheers drinks on the house .

How To Make Friends Fast by Scott Simmons

It is a little known fact that the word friend translates in Latin as:

That Guy who butt fucked a Goat at Kmart while Joni Mitchell watched in the corner.

Or whatever gibberish those dorks in dresses thought of before youtube was invented.

Anyways the point is if you want to make a friend then you need to hop on one foot and pee on a stranger while chanting the sensual words of Bob Ross.

For there are no bad mistakes just happy little accidents and that’s why I was born as a highlander suckling upon the warm teet of Mel Gibson.

Scott Simmons is a sheep herder from Shitkicker Texan with dreams of becoming the first aquatic Dolphin prostitute to walk on the moon in a leather gimp suit to fight off the upcoming P-Diddy invasion force on Delta 7 Vibrator Tango.  

Cashed in her MFA by Scot Young

I

she wears plaid skirts
knee socks on saturday nights
drinks too much &
lets bald men spank her
for money &
tell her she’s been a bad girl
but there’s enough freaks
to pay the bills
put her kid through college
so she quit writing
poetry
a long time ago

II

on sundays she wears
fishnets to church
sits on the front pew
gives the preacher
a little hell fire
of his own
crosses & slowly recrosses
her legs enough
that he yells
during the children's service
hallelujah
give me an amen
--stays behind the pulpit
until way after
the sermon was over

Scot Young lives with the woman of his dreams and herds goats on a ridge top  farm in the Missouri Ozarks and nothing else is as important.

Southern Billboards by PW Covington

I am being screamed at by billboards
Flashing by at 75 miles an hour

Come to our Cowboy Church
Our rock and roll, guitar church
Our biker church
Our church
     our church

God damn

Visit the visitor center
The Indian Mounds
Invest this year in a new time-share
Urgent care, next exit
Free in-room coffee, High Speed Wi-Fi
We’ll get you out of your time-share
Spend the night, tonight, in San Augustine
Vasectomy

The billboards on the highway teach me
Abortion stops a beating heart
And that God listens to Christian radio
That winners play the PowerBall Lottery
That lasers can reverse my vasectomy
That the café, just 10 miles up I-75
Has totally bare waitresses, raw steaks
     and clean showers

The billboards in Louisiana argue over
Whose caged tiger lived the longest
Pecan pralines and cracklin’s up ahead
Shipyards and refineries are hiring
Mesothelioma lawyers want to hear from you
8 nonstops a day from Dairy Queen to the West Coast

Click it or ticket
You pick it, you pull it
DWI, just don’t do it
Drivers eat free at Exit 173
(And more pralines)
Fried chicken and highway diesel
Vote, vote, vote for this guy
Look how clean his family is
And the stripes on that damned flag
We support our troops and first responders
Do not pick up hitchhikers, prison area

Join us Sunday at our Progressive Church

 PW Covington writes in the beat tradition of the North American highway.

His latest book, a collection of short fiction, titled North Beach and Other Stories was recently named a 2019 Finalist in LGBTQ Fiction. Follow him @BeatPW