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.

Man Nipples are Meant to be Ceremonial. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Remember when you didn’t have to go dragging 

the sparkplugs out of the car each night to get your jollies?

Man nipples are meant to be ceremonial,

like flowers at a wedding.

The moment you start sucking on the flowers,

the rest of the garden grows uncomfortable.

The veggies get stunted and the hoe can’t do shit 

for the soil.

   

I feel as though someone should have already 

had this conversation with you.

Now,

it’s on the page 

for everyone to read.

Part of the public record.

Like your allergy to nuts and my 

allergy to you.

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.

Your Name Here by John Patrick Robbins

I never pen poems for friends but I damn sure hold a space for people who think they want a taste of my venom.

And the list is long so don't hold your breath when waiting to read about yourself within my lines.

Because if I truly know it feeds your ego, I will allow you to turn blue.

And then there will be one less pain in the ass to deal with much like myself.

I never claimed to be the hero besides the villains always seemed cooler to me.

It's all an act to begin with.

Cheers.

John Patrick Robbins 

Is currently not home so please leave your name number and measurements after the beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Sexual Rodeo To Salvation by Scott Simmons

Gaze into the anus of Aquaman and ye shall know the truth. 

Thou must venture without fear of the swamp ass! 

For thine ass sweat is a most juicy treat! 

(particularly when blended with lucky charms and broken glass.) 

The brown eye shall giveth no deceit with the fresh aroma of Taco Bell!  

Taste of it and it shall give thee strength in the valley of the gooch. 

Only then can thou face the great evil of getting a limp bizkit in the morning.

Or while you watch the sexual/musical stylings of Russel Brand.

So sayeth Ryan in the eternal house of waffles.

Scott Simmons has been many places and wanted nowhere because he is a dick and he is not as sexy as he used to be since the taping of Bay Watch. However in spite of this Scott is too stupid to actually be aware of this and can be found in his natural habitat of his room jerking off 24 hours a day to a picture of Ryan Quinn Flanagan. 

Dear Rathnar by Rathnar Kilbane

Today the mighty Rathnar shall answer some of my future victims scrolls sent into the mighty kingdom of UTB.

First from MicroPenisKC.

Dear Rathnar, I am a pathetic Midwest poet who has a deep secret I must share.

For I secretly wish to wear the skin of actual men so I can know what it is like to truly be one. 

Any advise you can give me would be greatly appreciated. 

Well pathetic poet of the Midwest realm.

Skinning another for his flesh is nothing to ashamed of.

I skinned my first victim at the age of three.

Then turned his backside into nice gloves to keep Rathnar's hands warm.

Now jump in front of a semi at the truck stop you work swallowing swords to give praise to please Odin.

The next scroll comes to us from the realm of West Virginia. 

WrasslinIsRealToMe69 asks 

Dear Rathnar,

This girl in school is really hot but I'm just too shy to approach her and ask her on a date, how is the best way to approach my sister and let her know my true feelings?

Strange man from the kingdom of West Virginia. 

What are these silly feelings of which you speak of?

You sound like one of my wenches bleeding the river of red.

Simply put a knife to your sisters throat and take her as a true Viking.

Or if you are a romantic invite her to a orgy, drink much mead and bash her over the head taking her from behind while howling at the moon allowing the Gods to watch.

My last question comes from a scroll from the kingdom of France from Popthecorklickthesnail2000.

Dear Rathnar,

I would love to be your next sacrifice at your next bloodbath poetry reading.

I have included some pics and some say if almost blind I kind of look like a girl or sexy orgre.

Dear strange being from the kingdom of France,

Rathnar would be happy to slay you and toss your body upon the fire, for Rathnar loves killing all no matter whatever the hell they are.

Odin will be pleased.

Well until next time the Mighty Rathnar shall enjoy killing and searching for trolls.

Kill many, drink much and pillage without remorse and remember.

To visit your local sorcerer afterwords to avoid getting the curse of the dripping fire.

All Hail The Rathnar! 

                                                                  Rathnar Kilbane

Is the poet laureate of Iceland and has written many scrolls In-between conquering kingdoms and burning down villages.

His poetry bloodbath reading series is still one of the most savage gatherings in poetry.

It is so brutal it earned him an Ezine for 2019 most blood thirsty poet.

He is currently looking for a publisher for his newest scroll.

After his most recent died in a unfortunate raid on the middle of the night.

Love in Space. By Vicki Iorio

I’m cockpitting with my boyfriend, the Dummy,

or test pilot, to be PC. We are rocking the 

galaxies in Elan Musk’s Tesla.

Every time we orbit earth I say 

Hi Mom or Let’s Go Mets, depending

on the season.

I smuggled in extra batteries

so we can keep the Bowie going a little longer,

I don’t even have to go to the bathroom up here.

Starman and I want to settle down

on planet Zillow that welcomes our kind.

Instead of looking up at God

we will tell our little space cadets to look down

on earth. We thank our lucky stars

that we have risen.

Vicki Iorio is the author of Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press and the chapbooks Send Me a Letter, dancinggirlpress and Something Fishy, Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, poets respond on line, The Fem Lit Magazine, and The American Journal of Poetry.

Royalty. By Puma Perl

At the poetry reading

today

I overheard 

two people discussing

royalty checks

It struck me

that I’d not deposited

the five-dollar

check

I’d earned

at the Brooklyn book fair

Rummaging

through my bag,

I dropped

my sunglasses

on the tile floor

While retrieving

them

my leather cap

fell off of my head,

landed on a candle,

and caught on fire

The room filled

with smoke,

the fire alarms

went off

The reading

was cancelled

because

the unbearable smell 

of burning leather

made everyone sick 

My favorite cap

was ruined

but I did find

the check

in the bottom

of my bag,

made out

in the amount

of only four dollars

and eighty cents.

Puma Perl is a poet and writer, with five solo collections in print. The most recent is Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books, 2019.) She is the producer/creator of Puma’s  Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll, and she performs regularly with her band Puma Perl and Friends. She’s received three New York Press Association awards in recognition of her journalism, and is the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing.

Photo, Dina Regine

Beer, Fish & the Morning After by James Babbs

all four of us bought beer
so there was plenty to go around
T.J. was living with his brother
in a two-bedroom apartment
but his brother was gone for the weekend
so T.J. said we could all spend the night
we were all young guys and
didn’t have anything better to do
so we sat around drinking
playing up and down the river
until we were all pretty drunk
and somebody said
we should go get something to eat
I finished my beer and
let the can fall on the floor
we walked down to Steak ’n’ Shake
which was just a few blocks away
trying not to make any noise
but we were probably way too loud
because when you’re drunk
no matter what you do
you always think you’re being quiet
I’m sure it was the same thing
when we were in the restaurant
but nobody said anything to us
before we finished eating
T.J. said
we should go to Wal-Mart
and buy some fish
I said fish?
yeah said T.J.
didn’t you ever have a pet fish
when you were a kid?
I had some fish sticks
said Joe
and we all laughed
I said
what the fuck kind of fish
are we gonna buy?
how about some gold fish?
said Steve
no said T.J.
you want a beta fish
and we must’ve been getting really loud
because the waitress came over
and asked us
if we needed anything else
Steve said
how about your phone number?
and it made the waitress laugh
she said
I might be old enough to be your mother
I said no
I don’t think so
he’s older than he looks
she brought us our checks and
we all chipped in
and gave her a big tip
Steve didn’t want to leave the money on the table
so he went and handed it to her
while we waited for him outside
Wal-Mart was only a couple of blocks down the street
so we started walking
I was feeling pretty good
but wasn’t nearly as drunk
after getting something to eat
Joe told us his uncle had a piranha at one time
but Joe said
he didn’t know it at first
his uncle kept putting other fish in the tank
and they kept disappearing
it took his uncle three or four times
before he, finally, figured it out
Joe said
his uncle named the fish Mr. Piranha
and that the fish lived a really long time
I don’t like fish
I said
but I eat tuna
sometimes
that’s about it
yeah said T.J.
what’s her name?
Steve said
my mom use to make salmon patties
that shit from a can
god I hated it
whenever she made that
it stunk up the whole house
are we all getting a fish?
T.J. asked
yeah said Joe and Steve
not me I said
I don’t want a fish
you should get a gerbil
said Steve
and he tried to punch me in the arm
Joe said
I don’t think Wal-Mart has gerbils
hey, I know said Steve
we should all buy a fish
and a bottle of tartar sauce
I said okay
I’ll get the tartar sauce
I don’t know
how long we were in Wal-Mart
but I’m sure the guy in pets
was glad to see us go
the lady at the checkout didn’t say anything
when I paid for the tartar sauce
after the others had bought their fish
but we all started laughing
before we made it out of the store
the guys were carrying their fish
in plastic bags filled with water
none of us had thought about a fish bowl
until we got back to the apartment
T.J. pulled these big glasses out of the cupboard
and they all poured their fish into them
I told them
I was ready for another beer
so we all had a few more
before going to sleep
the next morning
we found one of the fish still alive
and another one was dead in its glass
floating on top of the water
the third fish just disappeared
its glass had been tipped over
and the water spilled on the floor
but all of us kept looking around
and we never did find the fish
I left the tartar sauce at the apartment
and T.J. stuck it in the refrigerator
he told me
every time he saw the bottle in there
it reminded him of that night

James Babbs likes the night life but he doesn’t like to boogie.  James has written hundreds of poems and a few short stories over the years and has even had a few of them published.  If you happen to visit the internet you may find something he has written.

Uncle Frank on the One-Seven-Two. By John Doyle

I told them ‘bout you, Frank
when the lock-in started;
some pulled out rifles,
some pulled their pants down
showed scars
they claimed happened in Harlem,
or from the cobra’s jaws
making good on unpaid debts.
Who cares.
I showed them that photo of you, Frank -
standing by the cab of the 172,
engineer's hat eclipsing the sun.
They put their guns away,
pulled their pants up,
stood to attention.
Your Uncle Frankie drove the 172?
Damn fucking sure Frankie drove the 172.
Ah, maybe you want to go back to sleep now, Frank.
I'll prop that pillow up for you,
tell the doctors I’ve only just arrived.

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.

trust by jck hnry

she's says
it's okay
as you
lean against
a wall
for stability,
your pants
& boxer
shorts
around your
ankles,

it's not

when she
smiles
and
says
'oh it's cute'
when it's
flaccid
and shrivelled

it's not

when
she offers
an assist
provides
stimulation
and
nothing
happens
it's time to go

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.

LOOKS LIKE A COLD DAMP DAY. By Bryn Fortey

it looks a cold damp day outside

and Newport County have

scraped a 1 – 1 draw

which might be better than losing

but does extend the miserable

winless sequence that currently

has them by the throat

same old problems for a New Year

it looks like a cold damp day

to start off 2020 

but I’m old enough now

to let others do the shopping

while I write poems

and check out Facebook

it might be a cold damp day

but it’s another New Year 

I can tick off

another to add to a long list

that is longer now

than I ever expected 

one of these cold damp days

I will tick off a New Year

that will be my End Of The Line

to quote a Travelling Wilburys title

which will be okay

we all have one New Year 

that will be our last

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 young lover. By J.J. Campbell

the soft curves

of a young lover

you see the

disappointment

in her eyes

i suppose i should

stick to the ones

with daddy issues

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)