THE BALLAD OF SIDEREAL JOE. By ANDREW DARLINGTON

the kids in the street chant

‘where you bin today.
Sidereal Joe Sidereal Joe?
where you bin today. Sidereal Joe?’

OK, I admit it, I was drifting,
I slide clear off the edge of time
into that kinda mushy stuff,
what is it they call it? Sidereal space,
something like that, I wasn’t sure,
I woke up once and I wasn’t here,
I was in a place where the stars
are coins tossed by a madman,
on a beach that goes on forever
beneath a sky with sixteen moons
that honk out a beat on the air,
as if traveling to one moon ain’t enough
you think I’m romancing, I can tell,
I can tell by that leery expression,
Oh yeah, old Sidereal Joe
flipping a loop again,
but yes, I admit it,
I was only drifting,
happens all the time…

and the kids in the street chant
‘where you bin today.
Sidereal Joe Sidereal Joe?
where you bin today. Sidereal Joe?’

 

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS NO MATCH FOR NATURAL STUPIDITY!!!

Check out my website ‘EIGHT MILES HIGHER’ – ‘The Blogspot for People Who Don’t Like Blogspots’ – latest postings include… ‘Tales Of Wonder’ the full detailed story of Britain’s First-Ever SF magazine, ‘The Walking Dead: The First Nine Seasons’, ‘Mick Farren: Sex And Drugs, SF And Rock ‘n’ Roll (‘Mona’ and Phaid The Gambler)’, Sly Stone Meets Doris Day, plus music interviews The Secret Life Of Fiat Lux, Floy Joy… From Sheffield, Hula: Old World, New Machines, More Electric Shadows... and more… All with archive photos, and more… monthly updates at andrewdarlington.blogspot.com

  

HELEN’S HOUSE. By Bryn Fortey

Meeting with poets Bruce Hodder and Mark Carver

In Helen Verrill’s. house

A terraced house in Semilong, Northampton

A Bohemian house, once you went inside

Musical instruments here and there

Paintings on the walls

The accumulated clutter of an artistic soul

A place where Cassady might have rested

Following a long hard drive

Where Ginsberg might have chanted

And shook a tambourine 

While Kerouac would have wanted

To keep the party going

But that was then and now is now

And it was gentler souls

I was meeting today

With poetic talent the glue that bound

Sparking a sunny autumn evening

Of wonderful conversation

Confirming friendships that were now

More than just Facebook posts

So thank you, Helen

For welcoming us all into your home

It was a genuine delight

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

To Hot Men by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She has been talking about Jim Morrison 

and how I used to look like him when I was younger,

but now it’s more like the new aqua man.

I laugh and say,

yeah, without any of the muscles.

We are back in the kitchen for a refill.

She asks whose turn it is to toast

and I tell her it is hers.

She thinks for a moment,

then raises her glass.

To hot men,

she says.

I clank her glass without thinking.

Wait…what? 

I say.

Oh my god, she laughs.

…that I married,

she adds on.

That doesn’t help me! 

I say.

I just toasted to hot men everywhere.

You can’t take a toast back.

She has to put her drink down.

She is laughing so hard her sides hurt.

I catwalk strut into the next room 

with my shorts down around my knees

to keep the good times going.

Our fake palm trees lit up like Christmas

in the corner.

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.

With My Head In The Clouds. By John Patrick Robbins

             

I really want to become the guy who runs the hot air balloon at the state fair .

So I can tell people I officially get paid to get high.

As it's tethered to the ground so it can truly go nowhere much like my writing .

But also so I can soar into that beautiful sky and be one with the heavens , and also look down women's shirts without them knowing it .

Much like a modern day God .

I really love boobies .

Whoever said I was going soft told you a lie unless they were speaking on my mental status .

Want to get high?

  John Patrick Robbins

Is the editor and chief of the Frat .
He enjoys binge drinking constant work and being driven insane by fellow writers .

He also worships the devil and runs the legion of doom.

His publications include .

The Yellow Pages , Ariel Chart , Hustler Magazine, Guns And Ammo , The Serial Killer Qurterly , Ladies Home Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review.


His work is always unfiltered

FUCK “NICE” by Brian Rihlmann

I’ve never touched the rim

and I never will

no matter how hard I try

no matter how high I jump

no matter how many coaches there are 

standing around to “encourage” me

you telling me

I should be nicer to people

nicer to YOU

is a lot like that

if all you want is nice

you’re not my tribe anyway

salesmen are “nice”

when they sell you a lemon

politicians are “nice”

they smile and crack jokes

as they sign laws

that’ll starve children 

bosses can be “nice”

as they kick your ass

out the door

and whores are always

so very “nice”

when they slip 

a little something 

in your drink

as their “manager”

waits in the hall

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.

Menopausal Rocket Ships by Scott Simmons

I’m a polyamorous space robot cowboy from the year 2033.
So please insert your quarter into my ass and prepare for the ride.

We will go to Mars in a rusty pickup truck inside of a horny dolphin.
And we will invade the galaxy in search of alien booty!

Just unfold the balls on your stapled forehead and lick my elbows.
Honestly your a real sick son of a bitch but I still kind of like you.

ALSO WE WILL START A DRUG EMPIRE WITH OUR NEW AGED FILMS!
AND WE SHALL RECLAIM THE COCAINE FROM THE WESTSIDE RED MICRODICKS!

So set your phasers to blast buckeroo cuz we have a long trip ahead. ;)

Scott Simmons is a universally acclaimed asshole that graduated major in irreversible brain damage and a minor in public urination 101.  He also is on many watch lists and spends most of his free time plotting about how to get that damned cereal away from that rabbit after it gave him a dirty look in second grade 43 years ago. It is recommended by doctors that no human should read any of his work under any conditions without at least the influence of alcohol or drugs.

Tears in the Night by David Boski

She was a tall, beautiful,
eastern european stripper
and she took a liking to me
and I to her. we were of similar
age and I once took her to my
friends place as he left to go
drive his stripper girlfriend home
and we began making out before
she looked up at me and whispered:
“I think your friend is on the couch.”
sure enough, I turned and looked
and there was another one of our
friends sitting on the couch like a
fucking idiot, and although he
apologized I wasn’t happy at the
time. later I drove her home and
she invited me in and we started
making out again but were interrupted
by her baby crying. I went home
and I jerked off. a few months later
she was pregnant again by some drug
dealer who went by the alias “cash”
and I was grateful my friend sat on that
couch and that her baby cried tears in the
middle of the night, so I wouldn’t have to
for the rest of mine.

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. 

Postcards Of Perversion by John Patrick Robbins

       

I believe I will open a gated community for drunks and perverts alike.

So we can live in peace chasing ass and talking shit down at our local bar .

Group activities will include Roman orgies and an all you can eat buffet .

Taco Tuesdays and wet t-shirt contests every Thursday night.

Bloody Mary mornings every day and a little afternoon delight .

A unattended graveyard for those of you demented shits wanting to simply grab a cold one .

I wouldn't dunk my head underneath the water in the hot tub unless you've had your shots.

And the days of riding bare back are best left to legends of the old west .

It would be the destination of all drinkers and horny bastards alike .

Fuck Disneyland well we do have the furries as well.
Just in case you ever wanted to nail Daisy duck .

We would be like the Basken Robbins of perversion .
With a  hundred and one flavors of absurdity .

The party  lights definitely on , so light a real cigarette because the fools are seldom sober and everyone's  half naked it seems.

What some may consider trash is our perverted treasure .

Sending good vibes from often sticky pages .

Wish you were here.

John Patrick Robbins

Is the editor and chief of the Frat .
He enjoys binge drinking constant work and being driven insane by fellow writers .

He also worships the devil and runs the legion of doom.

His publications include .

The Yellow Pages , Ariel Chart , Hustler Magazine, Guns And Ammo , The Serial Killer Qurterly , Ladies Home Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review.


His work is always unfiltered

Kaiser Rolls Do Not Speak German By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

trust me, I have given them a fair hearing,

many afternoons planted down in front of them

with a pencil and pad of paper

waiting to transcribe what is being said,

but nothing is said, in German or otherwise,

and when I go to bed I lay awake thinking I can hear

whispering in the other room

so now I bring my Kaiser rolls to bed with me

and they smell so good that I take one out

and nibble on it every now and then

which is perhaps why they have nothing

to say to me, though I have had women nibble on my earlobe

and I still talked to them;

it seems a little unfair, this selective persecution

really, the silent treatment…

what are we in grade school again?

yes yes, I know I should grow a thicker skin

to match my beard, I am not without fault in this matter

I know this,

but Jesus H would it hurt them to say something,

anything?

Remember back when you were supposed to talk to the hand

and that meant someone did not want to talk to you?

I talk to my hands and they have

nothing to say    

either.

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.

ALL INDIANS LISTEN TO RAGAS by Bruce Hodder

A fat Englishman in the Indian shop
tells the ever-so-patient young woman who’s serving
that he loves Ravi Shankar.
She smiles politely.

‘And Anousha.’ Misnaming
the great Pandit’s daughter,
he gushes on, speaking of oceans of sound.
I manufacture a cough
to let him know that I’m waiting.

The girl says, ‘They play the sitar, is that right?’
She gives him the incense he’s bought,
then his change,

and with a flurry of more words
about Ravi Shankar, he exits,
missing her put-down completely

Her Sikh dad, hanging up dreamcatchers, laughs.
All Indians listen to ragas, he says.

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’.

A Tale Of Multiple Titties By Cuthulu

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times .
The summer had come to a end and once again I couldn't hang on the ocean .

Because they still hadn't made it jazzy scooter accessible and because of those stupid green peace assholes always trying to push me into the ocean thinking I was a beached whale .

Sure I was a little overweight so what?

My big beautiful body still had the right to enjoy the ocean like all these other skinny assholes .

Cuthulu enjoys the sound of the ocean and the salt water really helps my appetite.

I mean those assholes at the Frat really do hurt my feelings never including me in there secret parties or letting me enjoy the group showers .

But screw them cause I don't want to be included in those group showers anyways.

But now their even turning the assholes at the ocean against me trying to take even the most simple joy of watching half naked chics and their boobies bounce from running up and down the beach.

I mean it's bad enough the strip club discriminates against me by not installing a garage door so I can gawk at women in a nice cool enviroment.

They really know how to keep a overweight player down 😭😭😭😭

But my heart much like my never ending hunger will go on .

Stay strong brothers and sistas.

                              Cuthulu

Is the arch nemesis of the Frat which makes perfect sense publishing him being catering to spoiled ego mainiacs is what writing is all about .

Cuthulu enjoys over eating and destroying worlds and has been on a seven year quest to find his own dick.

His newest collection Cuthulu's poetry slash cook book is a collection of high cholesterol writes with pages that usally stick togather.

He has been published at a few magazines that usally fear him sitting on them.

And one that takes months to reply and largley sucks .

ARIANNA ON TINDER by John Tustin

“Most of you would judge my looks
While sitting on the toilet”
She wrote
As I judged her looks
While sitting on the toilet.
She looked OK.
I swiped right, though,
Because of her comment about judging looks
While sitting on the toilet
Because that is what I was doing.
I had a similarly witty comment
Just beneath my picture.

She did not match with me.

John Tustin is tired of trying to write third person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

I'm Hiding Under Your Bed by Scott Simmons

Do you ever wonder why there are giant sexual Congo lines in Vermont?
Or why cheese tastes better when you have a plastic bag over your head in a convertible?

All of this excitement goes straight to my grandma's carpet but I can't help it I'm not housebroken.
So please stop putting me in the crawlspace with the raccoon people that are trying to eat me.

Also KNOCK KNOCK!

Scott: Get the fuck away from me Scott you fucking scumbag or I'll call the cops on your sorry ass.

So that's why I'm not allowed in public libraries anymore without wearing any pants.
Or maybe that's why I'm not supposed to taser dolphins after they make my butt feel all hurty.

If you thought this write was completely pointless then you have never seen my sex life.

Scott Simmons is considered a pet in 47 states and legally is not allowed to be unattended in a hot car for more than 13 minutes without adult supervision. He has traveled to many strange places inside of his room and is very well versed in the culture of perpetual virginity. So please contact him if you are interested in buying the 1,909 used candy thongs he is offering on craigslist his number is:

832-802-9430 

Ouch, That's Gotta Hurt. By Ivan Jenson

I forgot the three things
to remember
when approaching
my number one goal
and so I was
a tightrope-walking
flamenco dancer
without castanet or a net
and no, I did not get
the carrot or the brass ring
in fact I didn't even
get the first kiss
because I stubbed my toe
under the mistletoe
and then I had to
pick myself up
and reintroduce
myself to you
the pear-shaped apple
of my eye
by then I was
nothing more than
a banana in my pants
happy to see you
yet unfit for romance

Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and contemporary poet who lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled Absolut Jenson for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spiritmusuem, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden.  

Jenson's painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes.  Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 600 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson's poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two novels by Ivan Jenson entitled, Marketing Mia and Erotic Rights have been published hardcover. Ivan Jenson’s new novel, Gypsies of New Rochelle has been released by Michelkin Publishing. Ivan Jenson's website is: www.IvanJenson.com

       

Glass chin By Alex Z. Salinas

If every poem 

Is the eye unto

Its own universe,

Every tear shed

The lament

Of the dead

Yet unborn,

Then this unruly

Fist with 

Pen in hand 

Shall smash

Furious words

Down politically 

Correct maws 

Of jaws square 

And slack

Till their cyclops

Vision sees black

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poetry has appeared in the San Antonio Express-News, Shot Glass Journal, As It Ought To Be Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily,  Duane’s PoeTree, The Rye Whiskey Review, Black Coffee Review, Brave New Word Magazine, Yellow Mama Webzine, Venus in Scorpio Poetry Zine, and the San Antonio Review, where he serves as poetry editor.