The Kick by Alyssa Trivett

Modest soccer players
envy the flailing leg
you drag around in this parking garage,
threatening to fire at will.
It’s hotter than a basement in hell.
Car lights chirp as your short fuse
pitter-patters and drips sweats of blood
on shiny disinfectant cement.
Foot to side door impact.
Your heartbeat dials up,
like a thermometer
held under hot water
by a kid amped to skip class.
And as you finally come down from the
winners circle as the security officer
graciously hands your key
back to you
from your running vehicle;
I must confess,
I still feel a broken window
would have been better
than forty-five-and-a-half minutes
of what you put us through.

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places, but most recently at Ex Ex Lit, and Duane's PoeTree site.

Mistress of the Dark by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I had never seen another woman
like Elvira.

Never cum to the thought
of a woman quicker.

And I didn’t feel bad about the brevity.
Not in the least.
I considered it the supreme compliment
to her beauty and sass
and craft.

I hear such things are not taken that way
in popular circles,
but that is how I took it.

She was so sexy
I figured the whole world was exploding
around her.

That I was just one more erupting volcano.
Into my hand and sometimes
my pants.

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.

No Peeking. By El Bastardo

She was in love with me as senoritas often are.
They thirsted for a real man of power and fine things in life.

Like mucho satellite package and plenty of gallons of baby oil to greeze my muscles up .
So they would look el sexico for the ring.

Many would share my bed I let them wear my title belt if they show me their maracas.

They all love me yet I am a lonely man.
Destined to be alone for it is the burden of the mask .
I cannot allow a woman to see the man.

They may see my chimichanga and know the taste of my hidden valley ranchico.

But I cannot give that part of my soul away .
So I cry one tear cause I real man not no pussy.

Alone in my bed cuddling my teddy bear .
His name is name is El Diablo.

He very nice and have good job at Walmart and beautiful gringa with nice tit's that make me tingle in special place.

She asked me one time .
"Mr Bastardo may I please see your true face I let you motorboat my maracas if you just let me see."

I could not resist they were beautiful double D True man cannot resist big tits and nice big assico or he probably one of those others I believe they call them republicans .

We made mucho sexico I cry as I climaxico but only one tear cause I no pussy .

I mean really how many times I need to tell you dis?
What you soft in the cabasa?

She drain me of my ranch dressing many times .
And then afterwards I kill her cause no one know the true identity of Bastardo .

El Diablo very unhappy with me but tough shit!, he just teddy bear with no dick much like are sexy presidante Trump.

Even now I get strange tingle.

So senoritas remember dis.

Before you go trying to find my true identity .
Tempting me with your maracas and bootyico.

If you see my true face I make passionate love to you cry one tear .

Then kill you.

I sorry it just the way it is bitches.

Ole .

El Bastardo 

Is the Luchador poet and renisance man.

He enjoys collecting fine wine and wrestling other oiled up masked men to the death.

His words have been published here and at the Dopefiend Daily .

Rathnars Excuse Scroll For Missing The Party. By Rathnar Kilbane

 The mighty Rathnar has been hunting the great gnome for years and finally he has taken the bait stepping foot upon Rathnars  shores .

I could smell his putrid stink upon the wind and hear his woman like screaming for miles away .

So even though it hurts the mighty Rathnar to miss the Hallows Eve calibration were I was looking forward to the Roman Olive Oil Orgy .

I must take this opportunity as it has arrived to slay this little gnome so I may attain the great eve of power and feast upon his flesh for there can be only one laureate to stand upon my northern shores .

As he mocks me by stepping foot upon my lands not offering Rathnar gifts of young maidens or some of his service boys .

I would love to roast one over the fire as my wenches sing my praises .

Reading from my scroll puking together like real men and poets .

But no this serpent mocks me .

My legion is on its way and you will not escape me this time.

And to my brothers feast and pillage and open portals to hell and rape the she devils and tell that beast of the Abyss to return Rathnars microwave this mighty device of sorcery I lent him many moons ago..

As Rathnars many wives are tired of not making use of this magic in the great dining hall.

But enough trivial talk I must be off and not allow the mighty gnome to escape to his shabby midwest kingdom.

Tonight I shall bathe in the blood of victory .

Rathnar Kilbane 

Is the poet laureate of Iceland .

His scrolls are housed in the finest wizard's schools across the lands .

Statues are erected and many die happily at his readings to honor him.

He is still currently seeking a publisher for his newest scroll .

Which is really hard to find being he has killed all his previous publisher's. 

His work has been published by.

Sea Hag Quarterly , Time Magazine , Doom And Gloom , Hustler , Vanity Fair , Big Top Publications,  Jugs Magazine and The Dope Fiend Daily .

Trying to Pick up a Fat Farm Girl by Dan Provost

After I made my smooth move to get down her pants,  She said, “I’d would rather make love to a pitchfork.”

Looking back—maybe I should have changed my pickup strategy.

Telling an obese girl that you would like to go home and “swap some fat” might not be the phrase I should have used to help me get laid.

Unless, of course, we were going to get really kinky.
And fuck while bathing in lard.

  Dan Provost has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura.

Butterfly Of Bullshit By Ivanka Eloise

Purple crystals and canned ham ,
Twist oddly in the night togather like lovers .
Until a fart cuts through the silence .

What is that do I hear?
Somewhere in the cemetary two freaks and other shit nobody will  cleary understand .

Fuck part 12 .

Unhappy endings ahoy.

                         Ivanka Eloise

Is a poet who even we here at the Frat don't understand what the hell she talking about .
But we are sure she clearly hears voices in her head  and that's grounds enough to be at the Frat.

Her work has been published by many horn dog editors who clearly need to get out of the house .

She bases her existence around likes so you heart that shit or she will cut you .

Her work has been published by.

Build A Bear Workshop , The Hound Of Horn Dog Review, The UTB Anthology, On The Corner Qaurterly Poetry, The Backseat Chronicles  and in the upcoming RQF Qaurtely.

Not So Deep Thinking by John Patrick Robbins

She had legs that ran so perfectly up to her tight little ass.
And that was the makings of a poem all in itself .

Most women viewed me as a pig for all I ever seemed to obsess over was booze and sex .

I believe that put me in the rare category known as being a man.
And honest ones where amongst a ever dying breed .

Maybe if I was lucky I would become endangered and they would put me in a zoo , feed me booze and pornagraphy on a regular basis .

People would come to view me in my natural dingy room habitat .

Then one day some clumsy woman would fall into my enclosure, with a nice rack and long legs .

They would have to shoot me.

 For after checking on her, I would compliment her and make her feel threatened as men no longer acted this way anymore .

She would feel bad as they put me down.
And protest would spawn all over the country.

People would wear shirts with my face on it women would attend these rallies.

 And shout for change .

My sad face would cling to breasts all over America.

And many strangers would shed a tear for the last of a long line of perverts had passed .


But in strange twist of fate I would be reincarnated into a girls bicycle seat .

And forever remain happy .

Spending eternity in my true moment of zen.

                        John Patrick Robbins

Is the editor and chief warlord of the Frat .
Which is a secret society and open cult dedicated to debauchery and serving the Dark Lord.

When not drinking his liver silly John enjoys running fifty publications at once and being driven insane from submissions .

His work has been published in .

Head Hunter Quarterly , The Black Magic Review , The I'm Secretly Living In Your Attic Magazine , Ariel Chart , The Dope Fiend Daily , Punk Noir Magazine, Tiger Beat Magazine and America's Most Unwanted .

His work is always unfiltered.

Pappa, Where does Nick Jonas Come From by Scott Simmons?

The change in quantity of Robo ass demanded does NOT Equal the cubed power of Ln(balls/43).
THE TIME FOR A DARK SEXUAL LIMBO BETWEEN ME AND URANUS IS NOW!

For I am the Charizard that you do not have enough gym badges to bind to your twisted will.
So you gotta catch all of dis nut all over your dirty human face!

To bang or not to bang is not the question, but rather how much do you want really me to pay you?
Cuz not even my parents wanted me around for more than 5 minutes and 34 seconds.

So in conclusion Scott's dick dick is smaller than his tiny head brain.

Thus spoke the pubes of Isaac Newton.

Scott Simmons plays with hand puppets in the dark and wears a pretty pink dress that only shows a tasteful amount of cleavage.

To The Assholes Of The Frat by Cuthulu

Yeah you are having a party and once again forgot to invite me because you assholes always seem to forget me .
But that is totally hella cool .

Because I'm going to sit at home all alone and trap trick or treaters and eat them and there delicious candy .

And you guys are not invited to my personal celebration so screw you !!!.

I'm going to sit in front of my TV naked taking my air bath allowing my beautiful body to be on display to the world .

Showing everyone big is beutiful.

Now if I can just get those assholes from the zoo to leave me alone thinking I'm a escaped elephant .

Well I didn't want to go to your stupid party anyways .

Fucking assholes !!!.

Cuthulu is a slightly overweight creature who enjoys eating people and worlds and when not doing that he dabbles in poetry .

His work can be found in .
The Takes Months To Give You Rejection Mag ,
And usally anywhere you don't have to have a ounce of talent to get published .


He also has published numorus cookbooks and now sells his signature style gravy at Wallmart.

Peeking by Alex Z. Salinas

I love the sound of
My silence tonight,
Spying the striped
Feral cat slide under
My SUV for warmth,
Supper, contemplation,
Something else this
Simian brain can’t 

grasp.

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His full-length poetry collection, WARBLES, will be released by Hekate Publishing in fall 2019.

My Insanity. By Ann Christine Tabaka

 I wore my insanity

like a proud accessory,

something to flaunt.

It guarded me from reality.

It shielded me from responsibility.

The words “I can’t help it,”

came so easily.

They were always on my lips.

Pain and circumstances were real,

but I allowed them to live me.

Snaking through another day of

disillusion, one excuse at a time.

I accepted who I was,

I was not proud of it.

Lying on my bed of sand

sinking deeper into my madness.

I learned to use my shiny

jewel like a crown of glory. 

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She lives in Delaware, USA.  She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Synchronized Chaos, Pangolin Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.

 Website /https://annchristinetabaka.com/

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https://www.amazon.com/Ann-Christine-Tabaka/e/B06XF2PWSK?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1564488528&sr=8-1

Happy Ea(ter of Acid)ster!! By Heath Brougher

Psychosexual Psychodynamic Psychedelic eggs/ bunnybrain personified/
Lysergic Easter / foilwrapped chocolateprisoned cream / happy Zombie Day!
/ oval acid hits / a divine tongue
was born when God decided to try LSD.

"Why did we hide all those eggs knowing that we didn't want to lose them in the first place?"

"Don't know. Maybe it subconsciously says something about our intrinsic yet latent need to break away from the herd and work to fulfill our True Destiny."

"Don't say heavy shit like that right now!
Fuckin' A, man! Forget trippin' balls!
I'm trippin' OVARIES for fuck's sake!"

Heath Brougher is the poetry editor for Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine and, even though he hasn't submitted in a looooong fuckin time, is already tired of bragging about himself.

3D by John Patrick Robbins

                           

I remember in my younger days going to the local bar during the super bowl game.

I remember during the halftime show every one getting these stupid 3D glasses to watch some Coke or Pepsi commercial.

They were like children waiting for something big that truly was anything but that to happen.

I remember how impressed they all were at this one basic effect. 

And I thought to myself how easy it was to impress drunks.

So when I started out writing, I decided that they would become my core audience.

I been writing awhile now and penned a few books as well.

Largely my audience seems to have let me down a bit.

Probably because my books have no corporate sponsor or 3D glasses. 

And if by chance anyone at the Jim Beam distillery may read this.

Don't hesitate to drop me a line. 

Because I would sell out in a heartbeat.

Screw critical acclaim give me free booze and let me die happy.

This message brought to you by the fine voices in my head.

                         John Patrick Robbins

Is the editor and chief warlord of the Frat.
When not in training for the Olympic drinking team he usually spends his time starting mags just to annoy everyone around him.

His hobbies include.
Studying the occult, Binge drinking, playing with matches.

His publications include . High Times Magazine, Shakespeare Sucks Quarterly, Better Homes And Gardens, The Dope Fiend Daily, Aerial Chart, And The Yellow Pages.

His work is always unfiltered.

My Liver is a Spotted Hyena by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

My liver is a spotted hyena.
I hear it laughing at me at night.
A sickly spotted hyena.
Flesh torn away and necrotic.
That rabid smell of Death.
The eyes sunken back into the skull.
The jaw slung low and panting.
Everything meaty and fly-ridden.
Maggots falling out of the wounds.
But still it laughs.
Because it is both a hyena
and my liver.
I crack a fresh bottle
turn up the music
and smile a little
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.

THE END IS NEIGH! by Todd Bagger

Listen Sheople, the writing is on the walls!
(unless you are actually a reptilian then close your scaly eye flaps and stop reading this!)

We all know that U.T.B related incidents of drunk driving have more than tripled this fiscal year.
But what most of you don't realize is that by simple calculations a dark plot emerges.

Take the total number of drunk driving accidents 5,190 in 2018 then multiply that by 23.
And divide the product by 666 this results in the number 179.

179 is almost 180 which is the sum of the angles of the angles added up in a triangle.
This is no coincidence as the triangle is the symbol of the illuminati.

Whom are the current funders of U.T.B.

If you take this data into consideration and then look at the unique anal finger print left by Ryan Quinn Flanagan on 2 ply toilet paper.

The trajectory adds up to the coordinates of a nuclear silo built in Antartica during the "Cold war".
And the amount of pizza beagles that can be stored there is exactly 173.2 million units.

THESE PIZZA BEAGLES ARE BEING SOLD TO YOUR SUPPER MARKET AND ARE INJECTED WITH DRUGS TO BRAINWASH YOU INTO BUYING U.T.B BOOKS!

AND THE FUNDS FROM THESE BOOKS ARE BEING USED TO MAKE GOVERNMENTS INTO PUPPETS FOR OUR FUTURE MARTIAN INVADERS TO CONQUER US!

YOU MUST RESIST AND FREE YOUR MINDS FROM YOUR CORPORATE OVERLORDS AMERICA DON'T BECOME THE CHEESE PIZZA OF AN ALLIEN RACE!

Todd Bagger is currently at an undisclosed location and dedicates his life to unveiling the evil truth behind U.T.B. Nobody knows his true identity but he will always be there watching and reporting on the state of the world. If you want to also set your mind free then buy his patented vitamins and  tin foil hats at  a secret dropbox near you.

Never a Leave It to Beaver Episode by Dan Provost

She was a face from a 50’s Pulp magazine.
Cool for sleaze.
Comfort for boys who needed an outlet for
busty worship.

Lipstick too red.
Dress too tight.
A harlot in distress for libido.

Cigarette inhaled; tits heaved then
expanded…a cloud of billowy smoke
surrounds her devilish charm.

Haze of sultry between streams of tobacco.

Ultra-vixen that Wally or the Beav never
mentioned to Dad on the car ride to Friends Lake.

Dames like her were strictly beat-off propriety.
Photos hidden under feared mattresses.

Hoping never to be found by Hugh Beaumount.

  Dan Provost has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura.

Kiss Like Jagger by Linda Imbler

The night before his sex-reassignment surgery,
I kissed Mick Jagger goodbye.
(surgery deemed necessary to increase today’s
relevancy for a rock band with fifty-plus years
of formulaic riffs and moves.)
His mouth was wrinkled and stiff.
He was hesitant at first.
He said, “She (Gladys, that is) won’t let me.”
But, once I put my lips on that famous pout,
he relaxed into the kiss.
A kiss lasting but a few seconds,
brief, but thorough.
As our faces moved apart,
his eyes found their smile.

Relinquishing a 76-year old rooster’s ego won’t be easy.

Linda Imbler likes cheap wine, but expensive rock concert seats.  When not reading dime store novels and noodling on her guitar, 

she puts chicken scratches on paper with a pen, which oddly enough, turn into poems.  Her work can be found all over the place, 

but if you insist on being anal about it, check out lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.net.

A Treatise On Fucking A Sexy Triangle by Scott Simmons

I went to an airport naked and refused to buy a ticket.

And declared “Fear not all of you mortal scum, I shall glide to the skies like a unicorn from the Isukadik Provence of the Eastern Canadian wilderness!”

For I could fly through the vibrations of orange pulsating in my ballsack.
And swim the seas with a toothbrush called Karl Marx gently inserted in my anus.

TO EUROPE WHERE MEN WEAR DRESSES MADE OF SQUIRREL NUTS AND SPARKLING VAMPIRES ILLEGALLY FEED AMONGST OUR HORSE SEMAN FARMS!

I SHALL NOT BE CONFINED TO YOUR PUNY PHYSICAL PENILE LIMITATIONS!
FOR I AM THE SEXIEST BITCH OF THE KNOWN ELCTRO-COWBOY UNIVERSE!

Scott Simmons is an accredited resident pervert at the Ron Murphy's School of Bullshit after he paid Ron a tuition fee of $25,000 and was then immediately abandoned in the parking lot of a Texaco gas station. Scott Simmons work has been seen in various manifestos and children's coloring books that remains locked in form the of 8 tracks in the national vault of Chuck E. Cheese. 

Tailgate Jesus. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

We are sitting around drinking
and listening to music
when Norman Greenbaum’s
Spirit in the Sky comes on.

We both sing along.
This song is one of my favourites.

I tell her this song has always made me happy
even though I don’t have a religious bone
in my body.

Wouldn’t you go to church and be one of those wild
singing Baptists if they played this?
she asks.

I’d be front pew and center if they played this
each Sunday and had a barbecue out back
after the service.

They could just tailgate it,
she jokes.

There’s a lot to like about tailgate Jesus,
I say.

To tailgate Jesus,
she laughs raising her glass.

To tailgate Jesus,
I second.

Our glasses clank.
We drink enough blood of the lamb
to not remember large parts of
this rainy Friday night.

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.

NAMES by John Tustin

Mr. Hyde is in plain sight
Mr. Wide is very narrow
Mr. Luce is very tight
Mr. Smiley’s full of sorrow

Mr. Mann is not a man
Mr. Dryer is a wino
Mr. White is very tan
Mr. Black’s a full albino!

Mr. Swift is not too bright
Mr. Sweet is very sour
Mr. Amity loves to fight
Mr. Strong is without power

Mr. Gordo’s very thin
Mr.  Braver has no guts
Mr. Outer won’t come in
Mr. Sain’s completely nuts!

Mr. Capps’ head is naked
Mr. Tam’s head’s the same
To Mr. Godley, nothing’s sacred
A man is more than just his name

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

Dumbass Cops by John Grochalski

dumbass cops

ride up and down suburban developments

looking for trouble

dumbass cops

are trying to catch teens smoking weed

or shooting heroin

dumbass cops

have never seen a rental car

in this neighborhood

or maybe even a car with out of state plates

out of state plates

are always suspicious to dumbass cops

out of state plates mean trouble

for dumbass cops

who have watched too many

dumbass cop shows

dumbass cops check their dumbass reflections

in their dumbass mirrors

then they put their doughnuts away

and turn on their dumbass police lights

to chase a car three blocks

before pulling someone over

just to check out their i.d.'s

and then letting them go

because dumbass cops

don’t have anything better to do right now

they already shot their quota

of young black men for the week

and have to cool their jets and sit there

like the dumbasses they are

waiting on something else.

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.

Religion __________ ? by PW Covington

So,
I’ll just believe
     and behave
As I please, and

I’m cool with any religion
That wants to claim me

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

Dirty Old Guys by Dan Provost

 Don’t we all want to be dirty sometimes?
Trudged through the mud emotionally?

Can’t help but looking at her undies on a dress two times too small.
Quickly staring up…saying to yourself: “my oh my—I just didn’t look there!”

Getting bagged by the wife as you stare into endless cleavage…
Reassuring her that she’s still a beauty.

Once in a while it’s good feeling cheap…
Naughty, but accepted as a filthy old man,

Dwindling down to limp emphatic…when the urge is there
but the power isn’t.

  Dan Provost has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura.

NOT ALL POETS MAKE IT BIG. By Bryn Fortey

I’ve just been reading

Al Winans poem about Bukowski

A great piece, as always

Since AW is a writer of note

And Buk related copy

Is always of interest

But then I read a Facebook message

That British poet Bruce Hodder

Woke in the middle of an epic warning

For a seizure that fortunately

Failed to materialize

But left him with 

Headaches and nausea

It’s something he lives with

Every day of his life

With an attitude and outlook

That deserves, and gets

My total admiration

Not all poets make it big

Some very good writers

End up as mere footnotes

Lost in a deluge 

That would have floated

Any number of arks 

Hodder, in a writing career

Often interrupted by considerations

Outside his personal control

Crafts meaningful lines

With dedication and devotion

Yet has only recently

Had his first collection published

But he is no less a talent

In spite of remaining under the radar 

Not all poets make it big

Few get the full Bukowski treatment

But the lesser known

Are there to be found, and enjoyed

     

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

Unspoken rule By Alex Z. Salinas

Eat this word

Drink this image

The poet answers to metaphor 

Desires only the clean page

And I soil it

Wherever she drops me 

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His first full-length book of poems, Warbles, will be released by Hekate Publishing in fall 2019. He serves as poetry editor of the San Antonio Review.