Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Blondi. By Wayne F. Burke

putting the stick to Eva Braun
last night, her
head banging the head-board of the
bed, legs of the
bed lifting and
thumping the floor:
"Ja! Ja! Ja!" Eva said.
Suddenly, the door swung open and
Shitler's dog ran in
and bit me on the ass--
"No Blondi!"Eva screamed. "Bad dog!"
I hopped off and
Blondi hopped on:
As I left
i heard the bed
start thumping
again.






Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He has published six full-length poetry collections, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019). He lives in the Pine Tree State.

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Now and Then by Puma Perl


Now: Where are my glasses, where are my other glasses, I can’t find the house keys, did I leave them in the door, oh there they are, oh no, where are the car keys, they’re not on the hook, they’re not in my bag, I lost them, how do I replace them, wait, check the jacket, I feel them, ok that’s a relief, money, driver’s license, credit card, it might rain, I need my book, lock the door, ring for the elevator, forgot my lipstick, 13 flights, 2 doors, I didn’t know it was this windy, 2 doors, 13 flights, get scarf and hat, do I have enough money, yeah, 13 flights, 2 doors, did I lock the apartment door? should I go back up again?, where’s my phone, I think I lost it, no I have it, did I remember to charge it? what else did I forget?

Everything finally in order. I don’t even want to go anymore.

Then: Door slam locks behind me, down 5 flights, got the keys and some change, hair swings free.

Nothing matters, no destination, whatever I want may happen, whatever I need fits in my front pocket.







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

Saturday, April 11, 2020

Surprise I'm an Asshole! by Scott Simmons

She asked me once
“Do you have any fetishes?”

Yeah I’m a sadomasochist wasn’t it obvious?

Considering I actually spent time talking to your dumbass.
Seriously with your dull personality fuck nipple clamps!

Oh wait did you just want the rest of my list?

There was silence and soon our relationship was over.

I guess I gotta find someone else to make me miserable now.








Scott Simmons is a retired Electronic Skin Flute player in the jazz/hardcore gangsta rap band called The Ron Murphy & Crystal Meth experience, who sold a grand total of 3 copies throughout their time together in the early 1920s. After this Scott Simmons developed an irrational phobia of being in any kind of hotel room, and shit stained pants. He can now be found in the city of night lights known as Go Fuck yourself Oklahoma creating invisible paintings for imaginary people in his head.

Puking On Your Doorstep by John Patrick Robbins


I thought I would share my views on love.

So I puked on your steps on my way back from the bar.
And pissed in your bushes just for good measure.

I hope this reaffirms how much I think love is the most bullshit concept of them all.
Of course you had no clue I was stalking you.

Remind me to kill you next week.






 John Patrick Robbins 

Actually died weeks ago and Is now being played by members of the Frat.
It's all a great conspiracy as Coyote was assassinated by the illuminati.

He would want to be driven insane by fellow writers even in death.

Cheers.

A Sweaty Ball Gag for King Tex. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan



DON’T DO ALL THOSE PODCASTS!
EVEN IF YOU ARE JUST FILLING IN.
CLICK THAT EMPTY GUN CHAMBER LIKE YOU DO
WHEN YOU TALK TO US.
TELL THEM ABOUT THE MASTER RACE
AND ALL THOSE SEX ROBOTS FROM SUBMISISVE QUEBEC
THAT ALWAYS BREAK DOWN JUST WHEN THE ALAMO 
NEEDS THEM MOST.
RUN WITH YOUR CRAZY AS THOUGH THE MANY VOICES
IN YOUR HEAD ARE AN OLYMPIC SPORT.
PISS ON SANTA ANNA’S GRAVE AS THE RIGHTFUL KING OF TEXAS.
LET THE OTHER 49 STATES LINE UP TO WHIP YOU
IN STRAIGHT SUCESSION.




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.

Exteriors by Alyssa Trivett

I am already used
to the exteriors here.
I was hoping my shoes would change into a
warm color as I
stepped outside in
kitchen coffee footprints,
but it is afternoon and the sun is pouring down on us.





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.



Wednesday, April 8, 2020

training table for John Belushi. By Ben Newell


Driving to work 
on this busy highway lined
with convenience stores.

MARATHON

FINISH LINE

XTRA MILE

A veritable avenue
of misnomers—

Not a runner in sight,
just a bunch of fat fucks 
buying . . . 

gasoline
coffee
cigarettes 

and
little chocolate donuts.  







Ben Newell dropped out of the Bennington Writing Seminars during his first semester, eventually resuming his studies at Spalding University where he earned an MFA.  His first full-length collection of poetry, Fuzzball, was recently published by Epic Rites Press.


Saturday, April 4, 2020

Frisco Never Had It. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan


I know this will be 
doomsday unpopular,
but Ferlinghetti was a publisher
who always imagined himself 
the writer.

Got in bed with the word,
then jumped out as soon as things
became serious.

And that way he treated Brautigan.
Poo pooing humour like a dirty leper
over that warm dance floor Frisco face
he imagined on the cover 
of Time Magazine.

Back to Brautigan because it all begins there.
Saying he had to grow up and get serious,
never seeing the joke of the times.

When flowers in the hair 
would end up injecting speed
and mystery pregnant, 
going to work like all the rest.

This lie is an American one.
Built from the sound up.
Each carful vowel of dragging consonant 
playing politician for the 
human theatre.

Enough ushers 
to lead your truth back out 
onto the street.

No trouble in the half-hungry way
you stalk through Koreatown.

Barbecue on the fingers
so that you lick and wipe
and smell your way into drunken 
sexpot oblivion.



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.

Honk If Your Horny by John Patrick Robbins


She said let's be quarantine buddies and pass our time the best way I know possible.
Then I recalled our last little soiree.

From which I ended up with a little something, that cost me a trip to the free clinic. 


And tempting as the thought of being locked in with someone to play hide and go seek between the sheets was.

I rather not catch a deadly virus named after a shitty beer I always hated to begin with.

"Sorry my old friend."

I said looking down.
But look's like I will have to handle this situation myself.

Just pour me a drink first, after all a girl has her standards. 

And I always set mine ever so low.
Cheers.





John Patrick Robbins; is the editor in chief of way too many mags and no he doesn't want to read your new manuscript.
He plans on leaving the writing world to vanish off the face of the earth.

He enjoys binge  drinking , unprotected sex and silence.

His work has appeared in. The Bathroom Wall, Tiger Beat, Mad Editors Monthly, The Ryan Quinn Flanagan Quarterly, Hustler Magazine, Street Walkers Quarterly.

He also when not writing enjoys serial killing and crafts.

#fuckanyscene


Erectile Dysfunction Isn’t Always A Bad Thing by Scott Simmons

Hey what should you call two old people having sex?
A fucking ambulance.

Seriously grandpa lay off the little blue pills.

I don’t wanna have to lift you up from the floor again.








Scott Simmons is a Jet ski that has learned to be human through a series of electric shock therapy and lots of wpd-40 in his Weiner.  He is an old bastard as of 4/11/2020 as he will be 22 years old which is way to old to be a Jonas Brother and he will become totally uncool and nobody will like him anymore much like Shrek VII back in 1964. Please like this post if you hate Scott Simmons too. 

Rathnar Reviews Pornhub Premium .By Rathnar Kilbane

      

I have been staying in my lodge and have protected myself with a virgin flesh mask, to avoid this evil sorcery from the kingdom of China.

The mighty Rathnar was getting cranky from days spent indoors not killing or raping.

So the sea witch of Michigan recommend I look into her cyber crystal ball and showed me the wonders of fine sorcery called Pornhub Premium. 

The Mighty Rathnar witnessed many fine wenches doing many beautifully twisted acts and soon had Rathnar eagerly stroking his long sword in approval.

The Mighty Rathnar enjoyed it so much he soon realized this was dark magic, to distract Rathnar to his true purpose in life.

Conquering poetic kingdoms and killing his many loyal followers.

So I did what any rational bloodthirsty Warlord would do in this situation.

I had the sea witch burned at the steak. 
And smashed her digital crystal ball and have banned them all from my kingdom.

As we have managed to avoid the virus curse by bathing in golden showers from the piss of the cave troll of Nebraska. 

Now we shall set sail to rape and kill and cannibalize like real Norse men.

Soon I will take the magic kingdom I hear it's unguarded. 

Avoid this sorcery of the Pornhub, burn all sea witches and enjoy your killing.

All hail the Rathnar.




Rathnar Kilbane, is the poet laureate of Iceland a title he has held since he killed the last one at the age of seven.
When not working on his great scroll he enjoys raiding poetic kingdoms and killing his loyal subjects at his now infamous poetry readings.

He enjoys drinking mead and screwing the night away with his many wives.
He also collects fine art and enjoys smooth jazz.




Route by Alyssa Trivett


Early morning lack of traffic has my mind in the sewer instead of the gutter.
I don't know what's going on but I automaton on
and remember to
tally my blessings,
even in thin strands
as they might be.



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.

A Tribute to Rhyming Poets by Jack Morris

Please Kindly offload all your work into my privy.
That is where it belongs for yes it is really that shitty.

But thanks dickhead for actually reading this stupid ditty.





Jack Morris is a poet from Berkshire, England enjoying all forms of banter, tobacco, and stouts. He has been writing for over 15 years and can often be found either in the great outdoors or writing in his study. 



BLACKBALLED by Cindy Rosmus

1979 “You see that?” I asked my roommate, Juanita. “Or am I crazy?” As Juanita peered around the dining hall, Katie got closer.   “’Ju...