6 hrs on a Saturday. By jck hnry

back in college

i had a one-unit Saturday.

writing class.  Six hours,

$86 bucks, pass-fail.

the instructor came

down from Los Angeles

to the desert campus

to teach about publishing,

editing, formatting, & related.

she ran a big poetry press &

looked great in her jeans, boots, &

Ramones tee shirt.

i sat in the back of the room.

watched intently.

listened closely,

& finally grew restless.

by that time i had been

guest editor on a dozen

on-line or print journals,

ran my own press, had

a journal & thought i knew

it all.

at noon we walked across the street

for lunch. i drank five beers.

smoked three cigarettes &

said fuck a lot.

the instructor cozied up to me,

we were close in age.  she

whispered in my ear, ‘you

don’t give a fuck, do you?’

i smiled, squeezed her thigh a

bit higher than one might

expect, & kissed her.

she kissed me back.

in the back of the classroom

i finished the day

writing risqué poems

about a big time, poetry publisher

& a two-bit, broken down

poet.  she read them standing

next to her car in the

parking light under a dimming

sun.

i passed the class & fulfilled

every line of risqué poetry.

not bad for $86 bucks & six

hours on a Saturday -

jck hnry is a neo-modernist, post-apocalyptic writer, living in the hard scrub of a californian desert.  after a 10 year hiatus hnry is back at it.  recent publications include:  Deuce Coupe, Rye Whiskey Review, Razur Cuts, Cajun Mutt, Dissident Voices, Horror Sleaze Trash, Bold Monkey, Red Fez, dope fiend daily and a bunch of other noble zines and journals.  Chapbooks/Books: “Snow in Summer and the Playground is Closed,” “Empty Houses-Kendra Steiner Editions,” “the Downtown Cafe (Erbacce Press),” “With the Patience of Monuments (neoPoesis) ,” “Crunked, (Epic Rites)” and “the Righthand Curve of a Continuous Circle. (Blunt Trauma Press).”  hnry is also editor and publisher of "Heroin Love Songs, V2.0, 7thEd" available now. for more go to jackhenry.wordpress.com.

WERE GOING TO A PARTY, MAYBE, SOMEDAY BUT NOT IN THIS TOWN. By Bradford Middleton

An old friend gets in touch for the
First time in a while, says hi and
Asks me if i fancy going to a party
Sometime in a couple of weeks
From now.  Sure i say without
Even asking who and where, just
Realising how rare this chance is
Now, so i ask and get told.  It’s
Some place i’ve heard of but have
No idea how to get there or even
If i have work the next day either.

So as usual i guess i won’t be going
To party and shall have to apologise
And return to being a social pariah
Down here in cools-ville by the sea.

Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine.  He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn't until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again.  Ten years later and he's been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled 'Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity', his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK).  He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds.  His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses 'Poet to Notice', Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl.  If you like what you've read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1. 

stuck in a crowded elevator. By J.J Campbell

she couldn't

believe her

luck

neither

could i

two damaged

souls stuck in

a crowded

elevator

tension

hanging in

the silence

a businessman

cuts a fart that

smells like

certain death

i laughed and

asked why god

hates all of us

a few catholics

turned around

in disgust

my future wife

chuckled

i should have

dropped to a

knee right there

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Red Eft Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Tracing lines. by Ashley Cooke

With fire between his teeth

and smoke filling the air

choking the lungs of those

who watched him so curiously

His greased black hair shone in the sun

like a freshly waxed classic car

and his voice revved like an engine

making the girls swoon around him

They could never catch a hold of him

and only a few were offered a smile

they chased him down as often as they could

but his converse had more holes than canvas

His colorful tattoos he always held his palms over

as if he couldn't hold them in place for much longer

he ran his fingers over the lines slowly

tracing those old stories again.

Ashley Cooke is a creative writing major attending Long Beach City College. She is from Long Beach, CA. She is currently working on her first poetry collection. Her work can be found in various online journals such as Moontide Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Scarlett Leaf Review and many others.

TOWARDS THE FALL OF NIGHT/ ANOTHER CITY, AND ANOTHER STAR. By ANDREW DARLINGTON

the gravitation-wave aftershock

of melancholia ripples outwards

in an instant, over a million centuries

yet crawling at the speed of light

from star to star, from galactic core

to the tenuous rim of spiral nebulae,

the great sadness of loss and endings,

they still find shrapnel and fragments

of lives as they clear away the rubble

as we wait for the kiss of the quantum 

ghosts to arrive on seeds of light,

in spectral halls on severed worlds

they detonate suns to lost memory

and speculate rumours of extinction,

yes, we are the phantom presence

imprinted in molecular patterns

on the walls of empty towers, yes,

amino-probes revolve hot jupiters

that register only absolute zero, 

for we are no longer here, we are in

that transition to exile beyond form,

frankly, I despise these songs,

these laments lodge in my craw,

until I spew moons of ice, until

my scream ripples outwards

over a million centuries,

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

The Czech Word For Private Is "Privat" by. John Doyle

Jonathan Greenberg was my lawyer in June 2010.

We dined this Italian restaurant in Prague, near Woodrow Wilson

shortly after Greenberg guessed our souls were heading due south - and soon.

Greenberg saved our sorry Mississippi asses,

a hefty check followed - $18,000,

but it was worth it

not to spend eternity with John Dillinger

sleeping in the bunk above me,

some mamma's boy serial killer screaming at the moon.

So, the Czech word for Private is Privat,

ain't that sweet,

I turn the handle anyway, and Greenberg's seat makes that sound of wood scraping floor-tile -

dropping his napkin

and excusing himself to a host of burly men Bryan Mills would find to be a challenge

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.