Nihil Dicit (Or as Judas O’Halloran Likes to Say…) by John Doyle

There are 19 shades of shit 

crawling through a sewer system 

underground, 

there are 29 level crossings latching shut 

across an endlessly drifting planet - all in sync. There are silver dollars buried somewhere in Arkansas, my nephew neglected to save his map. 

That's how Homosexuals do it, said Judas O'Halloran, 

they stand for hours on end  

slapping their willies off each other. 

There were a number of decades gone by, where I may have corrected him, 

instead I crawled down a few feet further, 

rolled up my sleeves 

and listened to trains above 

falling off the ends of the earth.  

That’s how grafters do it, O’Halloran, I say, 

now put that Smith and Wesson away

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.

A Note From My Dealer. By John Patrick Robbins

 

Dear John,

Bro, you really got to slow down. Like I'm having to work double time just to keep up with your habit  

And  I got into dealing because like, I  don't want to work this hard.

So I'm referring you to this really scary biker dude I know.

He has some really good shit and when he gets drunk, sometimes lets guy's fuck his wife.

Sorry to pass you off man but I really think you have a problem.

I mean I thought all you poets drank wine and were like gay or something?

Like that Oscar Wilde dude you know, the one that wrote Twilight or some shit.

Anyways bro, later.

I read the note and had to laugh. 

Tommy was a good kid, I just had a hell of a bad habit.

Besides he was still in high school and had his whole nonexistent future ahead of him.

And me, I was just a drunk ass drug addicted writer. 

Working on some great never ending novel and grateful to not be writing that young adult fiction shit.

As I went through dealers like relationships, minus sex and the occasional  encounters with ticked off husbands.

Sometimes I think I may have a problem.

But as long as I have plenty of drugs and loose party girls numbers on speed dial, I am good with myself.

Oh what a friend we have in Jesus.

Now say four our fathers and bang a couple of lonely house wives for good measure.

Yahtzee!

John Patrick Robbins, is the poet laureate of Valhalla and Dollywood he walks between both realms eagerly crushing simpletons who dare interrupt his binge drinking workshops.

He is currently in preparation for Ragnarok where he will help cleanse the earth of shitty Canadian pop stars and bathe in the blood of Nickelback & Justin Bieber.

He hosts  regular open mic's on Mars and holds the keys to destroying the universe.

He also collects vintage oxygen tanks and enjoys painting by number.

He is also a sculptor and is currently building his seventeen story monument to Brittney Spears that although hollow on the inside has way more depth than the actual person.

When not writing bios for the poetry famous stars.

He enjoys talking about himself in third person.

And is currently worshiped as a pop God in Norway where his classical rendition of Me So Horny is currently number one on the modern heathen jazz charts.

He also likes to party.