there alone amongst the faithless. By Jck Hnry

the trees

            are breathing      again

she says

fresh rain

falls

hard

fills culverts

& basins:

streams creeks & rivers

branches

thick & green

reach up

beyond the mist

beyond

the clouds

each year

decade

century

            a delicate dance

reaching above & beyond

            touching

            up next & near

            the face of god

there alone

amongst the

faithless

a god awaiting

            rain

that may allow

her

            to breathe again -

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.

Swimming By Alex Z. Salinas

So what does he do? He hunkers down. Gets busy. Writes some of the worst verse imaginable—plunges forward. Who gives a shit? Nobody reads anyway. A Chicano poet’s work is never done. Ever. He must never be content. Must never fall out of love with failure. Must swim in obscure lakes until his arms, his lungs, give out. Then he slams into a branch. The tree of life must be nearby. Larry Rios, picture your book on a dusty bookshelf. In a forgotten library. Names of the dead. Voices. Yours among them. Delusions of grandeur—poets’ lifeblood. Drink up. Swallow.

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of WARBLES, a full-length poetry collection from Hekate Publishing (2019). His short fiction, poetry and op-eds have appeared in various print and digital publications, including in Under The Bleachers, and he serves as poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. He holds an M.A. in English Literature and Language from St. Mary’s University.

a procedure by J.J. Campbell

i had an EKG
this morning
for a procedure
i'm supposed
to have
tomorrow

that's the most
action i have
got from a
woman
in years

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)

Attention Whore by Frank Murphy

                    

"Sweetheart it's not that you're a great writer that gets you in every place under the sun."

"It's that men no matter their title are still men just the same."

She paused upon this deep moment of thought.

Looked too me and asked.

"But what about you? You believed in me didn't you?"

"I believed I could get in your pants and also exploit a bunch of horny writers. So yeah I believed in something alright."

"Wow you act like I'm just some talentless whore, you asshole!"

She responded.

I lit a cigarette.

"Sweetheart I would never call you a talentless whore, in fact I consider you a very talented one especially after last night's performance."

"Hey fuck you! Your such a worthless bastard!"

Victoria said as she gathered her clothes in yet another fit.

She stormed out and as she slammed the door, there was the one thing that Frank enjoyed the most in her departure.

Total peace and quiet.

Victoria was a perfect storm, hot tempered and a fine illusion and an occasional escape.

Frank was a prick, but he never tried to portray himself any other way.

Honesty was good and silence was better.

She was gone for the moment but much like herpes she would return.

It was far from love but it wasn't all that bad either.

Sex, Drugs & Poetry wasn't all it was cracked up to be course at times if you ignored the annoying ass husbands and death threats.

It almost seemed like paradise. 

With a occasional dose of the clap.

Is a North Carolina based writer who lives in

Kill Devil Hills on the Outer Banks.

He is also the editor of the Black Shamrock Magazine.

Frank drinks too much and spends his days chasing skirts and cursing his old mutt boozer.

He lives alone and will die alone.

His next book will be published by Syndicate Press.

The Devil Is My Co Editor will be out whenever the hell he finishes it.

Placenta Pills. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The annex is the only place on earth

with more dykes than Holland

and for the rest,

it’s healthy baby through 

healthy living,

new mothers even grinding up

the placenta now

into a fine powder

and having it fashioned into 

pill form

something they can take 

to feel closer to that great earth mother

they are always talking about

   

the one you can’t see

because you are a total asshole 

according to these many fine temples 

of great compassion.

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.

Sensitivity Training With Rathnar Kilbane

Recently a chief in my war council approached the mighty Rathnar and informed me.

I was very inconsiderate to his feelings after I had just raped his wife on their wedding night.

This troubled Rathnar greatly.

So Rathnar beheaded this unloyal subject and ate his family after I torched his village to the ground.

True Norse men do not concern themselves with the emotions of women and men clearly under the influence of female sorcery.

I sent him to Odin screaming, this is a great honor.

As I redeemed his soul.

Then got drunk on mead and passed out upon my sister. 

This is the way of the true Viking.

All Hail the Rathnar.

Disclaimer:

The barbaric opinions of Rathnar Kilbane are not supported by UTB.

Rathnar Kilbane is the mighty Viking warlord of poetry.

His scrolls have been published many places that have all been raided in the middle of the night.

His readings are total bloodbaths and no one has yet to survive one.

He is currently working on his newest scroll.

Proud Humanitarian by Scott Simmons

I love people.

That's why I don't like talking to them.
Or being near them.

But some of them have money.
And $= Beer

See it works out.

Scott Simmons has hid inside many different crawlspaces and he could be in yours so be careful he may bite you if he is caught off guard. If you see a Scott Simmons outside of it's room please call animal control immediately and do not attempt to handle it without any sedatives as it's powerful forearms from masturbating are more dangerous than they may appear. For any other sightings please call 832-802-9430 I swear that is not a wild Scott Simmons on the line pinky promise.

Hail Satan by Ping Ping The Panda

Hello dear reader,

My name is Ping Ping and I would like to take a second of your time to speak to you about the dark Lord himself Satan,

You know when I was approached by the church of Satan to be it's official spokesman.
I was like these fools got to be trippin'.

Then they offered me some big bucks and some big titty fat booty bitches, I'm fuck like yeah! I'm down.

So now I'm here to convert as many lost souls to burn in hell with me.
Hey your life sucks to begin with or you wouldn't be reading this shit mag.

Like sell your soul today and get something other than a case of diabetes laying your ass on the couch.

Sure you may have to kill a few people but who gives a fuck?

People are mostly all assholes to begin with.
Hey remember soon as the world comes to an end the dead will walk the earth.

It's like a badass slayer video.
So lets all get fucked up and drink one another's blood and have an orgy.

I recently got high on acid and lit a Wal-Mart on fire, oh well one less corporate Nazi shopping center to put every other small business and barely pay it's employees around.

Join the dark side, cause our music is awesome.
And being evil kicks ass.


And remember if you don't join.
I will be forced to creep into your house at night and eat your entire family.

Sorry but I tried to get you to join nicely.

And remember to subscribe to our newsletter and don't forget we also have an exciting coloring book just for the kids so nobody's left out.


Join today or I will fucking kill you!!

Have a nice day and he is watching from the abyss.

Toodles.

Ping Ping is the new spokesman for the Church of Satan.
He enjoys killing, Binge Drinking and orgies.
When not busy doing the devils work he also collects fine art and wine.

DON’T PICK MY BRAIN. By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Don’t pick my brain.

There is nothing 

there. Don’t pick my

bones. I don’t taste 

too good. Don’t pick

a fight with me

because I’ll let

you win. Don’t pick

sides because I

don’t care at all

to be chosen

or pushed away.

Don’t pick my eyes

out vulture. I

will not provide 

a single ounce

of nourishment.

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health 

field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy,

Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.

THE TEENAGE BAND by John Grey

We were crap at first.

But we had the instruments,

the amps, and we looked good on stage.

We needed the attention,

the applause.

Did we get better?

Yes.

But not as good as we wanted to be.

Friends and family,

and kids with no place else to go

came to see us.

Our gigs were the same few places.

We got paid enough for picks and drumsticks.

We figured our audience deserved better.

But we gave them 

barely recognizable cover tunes,

a couple of lame originals,

a hideous drum solo,

and loud riffs

that our bassist never could follow.

The clapping seemed more sympathetic 

than genuine happiness.

But we stuck with it.

As folks tell you,

if you stick with it

something good is bound to happen.

It never did.

Truth is,

if you stick with it

it just means

you’re stuck with it.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in

Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming

in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Clade Song.