John Clare, Jimtom, Me As Well (at Clare’s statue in Shoe Town) by Bruce Hodder

John Clare sits, hat between his knees,
as Jimtom reads from a scribbled notebook
words the traffic makes it hard to hear.
The small audience all look comfortable,
gathered in the council quadrangle
in the winter night to praise the peasant poet.
When they read, their voices speak of fitted kitchens,
though politely. They are not the enemy.
But Jimtom’s somehow of the earth and trees,
of the ancient stones, of the hidden spaces
where the spirit breathes more easily
and you can live in natural communion.
John Clare sits, hat between his knees,
looking pleased as Jimtom weaves his poem.
When the others leave, perhaps we’ll all sit down,
in the gloom, Clare, Jimtom, me as well
and smoke and talk about Northampton.

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’.

Black Friday blues By Alex Z. Salinas

The best thing is when you

Put on a security guard jacket

And customers stare at you

As though you’re an idiot 

This happened during a Black

Friday I worked in college, 

At Sears, and I often long

To don that jacket

Again so people would

Leave me to my dimwit

Ways guarding nothing, 

Getting steps in, counting 

The minutes till I go home

And hate the world on my own

Time, time, time—that clockwork 

Rooster keeping me up

Thinking about turkey and

Mashed potatoes and dead 

Relatives and stomped-on  

Shoppers who, dare I say, 

Played with the stove

And set themselves ablaze. 

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His full-length poetry collection, WARBLES, Is out now released by Hekate Publishing .

He is poetry editor of the San Antonio Review, and his short fiction has appeared in numerous publications online.

https://www.amazon.com/WARBLES-Alex-Z-Salinas/dp/1912017857/ref=sr_1_1?qid=1573663241&refinements=p_27%3AAlex+Z.+Salinas&s=books&sr=1-1&text=Alex+Z.+Salinas

Hawaii Jive Ho. By Ron Murphy

                    

Ron Murphy is a complex man , most people are thrown off by the mask .

But don't we all hide behind a mask of some kind?

I mean Ron knows a few people and some very affordable hookers he wished wore a mask .

And then again some people simply belong in a cage like Scott Simmons .

But jokes aside sometimes even I miss the company of a good woman.

Nothing beats having someone to wash Ron's Ski Masks or cook his meals.

Or better yet shake her head and agree with everything I say .

And honestly it really is rough with the holidays coming up .

Because not having to pay for sex really saves money for the important things like high quality scotch and crack cocaine. 

What silly reader did you believe I would actually buy little Ron Jr Christmas presents ?

You tell that little freeloader to ask the neighbor next door for something , being I believe that's who his real father is.

Yes sometimes when you look for a deeper meaning in a place where everything is a joke, even I have to laugh at your goofy ass. 

But really when I joke to you fine men reading this magazine or ladies who have your husband explain the complex humor of a low class asshole afterwards.

It really warms that vacant place where a heart used to exist , which that cold hearted bitch ripped out.

Ron is sad and alone .

If you would like to comfort him , meaning .

Mix Ron's drinks and be rewarded in great conversation and disappointing sex .

Please email UTB with naked pics .

No names needed because really your name doesn't matter .

Ron Murphy is truly a man of the people.

You're Welcome!!!! 

                               Ron Murphy

Is the golden voice of UTB .
And although not a poet he still finds time to write whole collections dedicated to his dark adventures .

You may have heard his voice over work on many a after school special and his recent add for Mickeys Fine Malt Liqour .

He is currently wanted for back child support and some minor drug trafficking charges .


He is always offensive and highly mentally unstable .


You're welcome!!!

Thousands of Eligible Singles in Your Area. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

perhaps,

but once you weed out the strung out

the bipolar

the syphilitic

those in men’s dress shoes three sizes too big

the incarcerated

the HIV positive

and those with child,

it is really

slim pickings...

And who the hell ever said

you were such

a treat?

   

Your mother

and that guy who talks to fire hydrants

along Dixon Road

don’t count.

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.

Oil Check Olie. By John Patrick Robbins

                     

I wonder about the guy who invented the move of jabbing a thumb up someone's ass during a wrestling match .

And how he presented this new move to his coach at practice .

I cannot fathom the look of surprise in his opponents eyes.

When he first put this technique to use .

And how he first discovered this secret weapon. 

Was he fooling around with his girlfriend or boyfriend for that matter .

Did he think to himself.

What a marvelous counter maneuver. 

Did the man who invented the crouch ride get jealous .

Most wrestlers think all they ever need is to get another win.

And after listening to some of the names of these moves I sip my cocktail and have to think.

Most wrestlers really need to get laid more often .

See you in the showers. 

Toodles .

John Patrick Robbins   

Is the Mad Editor and editor in chief warlord of way too magazines including .

The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only , The Angel's Share , Inmate Of The Month Quaterly , Tiger Beat and special guest editor of the upcoming Church Of Ryantology Newsletter .

He has recently been published in the Yellow Pages and on the FBI's most wanted list .

He is actually dead and replaced by a actor as a front for the illuminati .

When not enjoying a nice relaxing vist to the state mental hospital he enjoys .

Finger painting and opening portals to hell .

My Scroll Is Bigger Than Yours. By Rathnar Kilbane

           

Never cross swords by the fire or rub your sticks together in fear of catching the curse of the soft ones .

The mighty Rathnar needs not to brag.

For that is the job of my singing wench .

I am not just killing and writing of my blood thirsty quests .

Yes you may have many collections evil troll .

But I wash my hands in the ale of the old ones and wear the tooth of the witch of knowledge around my neck.

And no matter under what tree you hide .

Always remember. 

My scroll Is bigger than yours .

Praise the Rathnar .

                        Rathnar Kilbane

Is a Viking poet legend he has written many scrolls and killed many fans at his notorious reading raids across the foreign lands.

He seeks the mighty troll of knowledge so he may claim his eye and consume his flesh to gain his powers and get a Sam's Club membership .

He is still seeking a publisher for his most recent scroll .

And promises not to kill this publisher like the his previous ones .

He enjoys raiding poets villages and bonefires and mating with his many wives .

And is working on launching his own Scandavian Fried Wolf Franchise .

If only those assholes at Peta would stop busting his balls .

Insert Poetry Here by Scott Simmons

You ever wonder why no one’s at your readings?
 I don’t.

 I actually read your work.

Scott Simmons has put his genitalia into several different kinds of kitchen appliances and is afraid of the dark because Elmo is always lurking in the shadows with a deep endless craving for human flesh. Scott Simmons is considered incompetent in most countries and he should not be relied upon for any task without the constant supervision of a legal guardian.  

The Bad Room. By Gwil James Thomas

I loved establishments where 

the sweat dripped off the walls 

and you could feel the broken glass 

crunch and crack under your shoe, 

as much as the next person -

but this was a different sort of dive. 

Something inexplicably foul 

had happened in that single roomed flat,

something far deeper 

than the strange smell - 

something deviant and tragic.

Fear dripped through the old wallpaper

as unmistakably as blood.  

I knew it, 

the estate agent showing me around knew it 

and the cheap price confirmed it.

There was little poetry to be found there 

and that room wouldn’t need me 

to add to the suffering, 

hopelessly trying to find it.

I left the building and wandered 

back down the street - 

watching dried leaves turn in the wind 

wondering where I’d go next?

Gwil James Thomas is a Best of The Net and Pushcart nominee currently living in Donostia, Pais Vasco. He has worked as a chef, product demonstrator, aeroplane cleaner, labourer and news article archivist. His two most recent poetry chapbooks are In The Barrel of a Beautiful Wave (Holy&Intoxicated Publications) for sales and inquiries: johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk and Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press) which can be found here: https://adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress/publications

Hairy Beast . By Ann Christine Tabaka

As summer closed to an end

a carnival came to town. 
There was one sideshow tent with

“Amazing Abnormalities”

written over the flap. 
This piqued my interest,

so I decided to step inside.

Among the many oddities,

there was one that clearly stood out.

The sign read “Harry the Hairy Beast.”

He was covered with hair everywhere,

except for the top of his head.

Eyebrows that covered his entire forehead,

his bearded face a grotesque mask. 

His back looked like a bear skin rug,

all matted in a wild black tangle.

On his massive chest, a curly vest of

sheepskin, begging to be played in.

The hair on his belly was so long

that it flowed below his penis.

When erect it looked like some

comical nose protruding from his groin.

Muscular arms were woolen sleeves

that kept him warm in winter.

The many tattoos barely perceptible

under that mass of hair. 

His large thighs and calves

wore a pelt so thick,

he could be naked and no one would notice.

Alas, his shiny bald head stood out

like a bowling ball placed upon a

huge fur covered mantel. 

He was the epitome of a hairy beast,

and loved by his Beauty so.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She is the author of 9 poetry books.  Christine lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Burningword Literary Journal; Muddy River Poetry Review; The Write Connection; Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.

Website: https://annchristinetabaka.com

Stars by Jake St. John

With butterfly
wings
floating
like prisms

a kaleidoscope
of flowers
buzzing

a chromatic field
pulsing across
the hills
of night

Jake St. John writes out of New London, CT and is the author of several collections of poetry and pamphlet poems including, In All The Cities, The Same Faces (CWP Collective, 2017) and Rotations (Night Ballet Press 2015).  His work has appeared in numerous literary and arts magazines such as, The Blue Collar Review, BURP, Big Hammer, and The People’s Tribune. Since 2007 he has served as the editor of Elephant and co-editor of Flying Fish.

The Tombstone by John D Robinson

After a light-lunch I took
some diazepam, smoked a
joint and then took a nap;
the most vivid of dreams in
years came to me and when
I awoke, for a minute or so,
I was making plans to visit:
you’ve been dead now for
over 3 decades but today
you knocked on my door
and I opened up and said
‘What the fuck do you want?’
the old guy said nothing, he
was drunk and then I
recognised him as my father,
no longer 43 but 75
with a cropped grey beard:
I took him upstairs and he
settled down in our
granddaughters bedroom:
my daughter and her
twin-girls arrived and I
asked them not to go into
their room: I said nothing of
my father being in the house:
a couple of times I go and check
on him and see a figure laying
still beneath a duvet:
I wake up and wonder why I
haven’t seen him for so long
and tomorrow I am attending
a funeral and begin to plan
for the following day and then
I realize I can’t visit him
anymore, he’s no memorial
of any kind:
I smoke a joint a little
bemused by it all but a
sense of something of him
renewed itself within me,
I offer up this poem as
his tombstone.

John D Robinson is a UK poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared in small press zines and online literary journals His published solo chapbooks are

‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Press 2016)   scars.tv/

‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016   sold out)

‘An Outlaw In The Making’  (Scars Publications 2017)

‘Hitting Home’  (Iron Lung Press 2018  2nd edition)   ironlungpress.bigcartel.com/about-iron–lung–press

‘In Pursuit Of  Shadows’  (Analog Submission Press 2018  sold out)  www.analogsubmission.com

‘Echoes Of Diablo’  (Concrete Meat Press 2018)  adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress

Too Many Drinks Ago’  (Paper & Ink Zine Publications) http://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/PaperAndInkZine

Pushing Away The Hours    2018   www.lulu.com/.../john-d-robinson/pushing-away-the-hours/.../product-23872337.html 

‎ ‘Hang In There’      (Uncollected Press  2019    USA)  therawartreview.com

THE SINATRA FILES by Bryn Fortey

over a 40+ year period

the FBI amassed

thousands of pages

in an ever bulging file

on Frank Sinatra

their first involvement 

was to investigate a malicious claim

that he’d paid a doctor $40,000

to declare him unfit for the WW2 military 

a rumour that dogged the rest of his life

in spite of being proved false

the FBI might have cleared the singer

in that first instance

but then devoted time and manpower 

in unsuccessful attempts to tie him

as a participant in organised crime

Sam Giancana, Angelo Bruno

Joseph and Charles Fischstti

Anthony and Vito Giacalone

were some of the top Mafia mobsters

Frank partied with as friends

never hiding that he knew them

that he sang at their clubs

and enjoyed their company

so, unable to offer a case against him

for Mafia related criminal activity

the FBI switched to accusations

of communist leanings

using his opposition to racism

and support for liberal causes

as Red Menace indicators 

Frank Sinatra was a complex sort of guy

who enjoyed Mafioso company

yet supported democracy and liberalism

and in spite of all their efforts

the FBI never made a case against him

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

a wet night in brooklyn smelling some asshole’s cigarette…again. By John Grochalski

he sits there on the stoop

in front of my bedroom window

like a bad statue, smoking

playing on his cell phone of course

i’ll admit it is raining, sprinkling really

and this is probably the only shelter for a block

but i’m drunk

and i don’t care

it may not have been the best opening salvo

to lean out my window and shout

hey asshole, you and your cigarette

get it the fuck out of here

but the consumption of alcohol

has never blessed me with tact

his response of, it’s a free country, shithead

didn’t surprise me

people find patriotism in the oddest of acts

maybe i shouldn’t have

followed him up with

shithead?

oh, you wanna step, motherfucker? let’s step

and then proceeded to put my shoes on

while calling him a dirty russian

blaming him for the election of 2016

especially since he was already up

and walking away down the street

but…again…patriotism

really

i’m glad my wife was there

to chase me down

just as i was opening the front door

she’s more sensible about these things

and she knows

that at my age

i’ve gone more

from the ass-kicker

to the ass-kicky

it’s just the simple fact of getting older

let’s just go to bed, she said

which seemed a reasonable request

and i kicked my shoes off

and i followed her back down the hallway

the scent of that bastard’s cigarette

still lingering in our room

as cars

and people

and dogs

and my wife’s snores

all permeated the streetlamp night

while i laid there

wide-awake, festering

consumed with violence

but ultimately wondering

was that asshole even russian?

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.

Vice Visa by Ivan Jenson

By all means
buy into the
condo of consciousness
that allows you to
live comfortably
within yourself
knowing what makes
your clockwork tick
and if you no longer
want to be who you are
then say little
listen more
and seek opportunities
to become an
expat beach-bumming
on some tropical shore
and though you have
savaged and ravaged
most of your four-course meal
and you are not at the beginning
of your nerve endings
be grateful you still have
more rain and pain
In Spian to feel

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