The Bad Room. By Gwil James Thomas

I loved establishments where 

the sweat dripped off the walls 

and you could feel the broken glass 

crunch and crack under your shoe, 

as much as the next person -

but this was a different sort of dive. 

Something inexplicably foul 

had happened in that single roomed flat,

something far deeper 

than the strange smell - 

something deviant and tragic.

Fear dripped through the old wallpaper

as unmistakably as blood.  

I knew it, 

the estate agent showing me around knew it 

and the cheap price confirmed it.

There was little poetry to be found there 

and that room wouldn’t need me 

to add to the suffering, 

hopelessly trying to find it.

I left the building and wandered 

back down the street - 

watching dried leaves turn in the wind 

wondering where I’d go next?

Gwil James Thomas is a Best of The Net and Pushcart nominee currently living in Donostia, Pais Vasco. He has worked as a chef, product demonstrator, aeroplane cleaner, labourer and news article archivist. His two most recent poetry chapbooks are In The Barrel of a Beautiful Wave (Holy&Intoxicated Publications) for sales and inquiries: johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk and Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press) which can be found here: https://adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress/publications

Hairy Beast . By Ann Christine Tabaka

As summer closed to an end

a carnival came to town. 
There was one sideshow tent with

“Amazing Abnormalities”

written over the flap. 
This piqued my interest,

so I decided to step inside.

Among the many oddities,

there was one that clearly stood out.

The sign read “Harry the Hairy Beast.”

He was covered with hair everywhere,

except for the top of his head.

Eyebrows that covered his entire forehead,

his bearded face a grotesque mask. 

His back looked like a bear skin rug,

all matted in a wild black tangle.

On his massive chest, a curly vest of

sheepskin, begging to be played in.

The hair on his belly was so long

that it flowed below his penis.

When erect it looked like some

comical nose protruding from his groin.

Muscular arms were woolen sleeves

that kept him warm in winter.

The many tattoos barely perceptible

under that mass of hair. 

His large thighs and calves

wore a pelt so thick,

he could be naked and no one would notice.

Alas, his shiny bald head stood out

like a bowling ball placed upon a

huge fur covered mantel. 

He was the epitome of a hairy beast,

and loved by his Beauty so.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from numerous publications. She is the author of 9 poetry books.  Christine lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and three cats. Her most recent credits are: Burningword Literary Journal; Muddy River Poetry Review; The Write Connection; Ethos Literary Journal, North of Oxford, Pomona Valley Review, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, The McKinley Review, Fourth & Sycamore.

Website: https://annchristinetabaka.com

Stars by Jake St. John

With butterfly
wings
floating
like prisms

a kaleidoscope
of flowers
buzzing

a chromatic field
pulsing across
the hills
of night

Jake St. John writes out of New London, CT and is the author of several collections of poetry and pamphlet poems including, In All The Cities, The Same Faces (CWP Collective, 2017) and Rotations (Night Ballet Press 2015).  His work has appeared in numerous literary and arts magazines such as, The Blue Collar Review, BURP, Big Hammer, and The People’s Tribune. Since 2007 he has served as the editor of Elephant and co-editor of Flying Fish.

The Tombstone by John D Robinson

After a light-lunch I took
some diazepam, smoked a
joint and then took a nap;
the most vivid of dreams in
years came to me and when
I awoke, for a minute or so,
I was making plans to visit:
you’ve been dead now for
over 3 decades but today
you knocked on my door
and I opened up and said
‘What the fuck do you want?’
the old guy said nothing, he
was drunk and then I
recognised him as my father,
no longer 43 but 75
with a cropped grey beard:
I took him upstairs and he
settled down in our
granddaughters bedroom:
my daughter and her
twin-girls arrived and I
asked them not to go into
their room: I said nothing of
my father being in the house:
a couple of times I go and check
on him and see a figure laying
still beneath a duvet:
I wake up and wonder why I
haven’t seen him for so long
and tomorrow I am attending
a funeral and begin to plan
for the following day and then
I realize I can’t visit him
anymore, he’s no memorial
of any kind:
I smoke a joint a little
bemused by it all but a
sense of something of him
renewed itself within me,
I offer up this poem as
his tombstone.

John D Robinson is a UK poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared in small press zines and online literary journals His published solo chapbooks are

‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Press 2016)   scars.tv/

‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016   sold out)

‘An Outlaw In The Making’  (Scars Publications 2017)

‘Hitting Home’  (Iron Lung Press 2018  2nd edition)   ironlungpress.bigcartel.com/about-iron–lung–press

‘In Pursuit Of  Shadows’  (Analog Submission Press 2018  sold out)  www.analogsubmission.com

‘Echoes Of Diablo’  (Concrete Meat Press 2018)  adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress

Too Many Drinks Ago’  (Paper & Ink Zine Publications) http://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/PaperAndInkZine

Pushing Away The Hours    2018   www.lulu.com/.../john-d-robinson/pushing-away-the-hours/.../product-23872337.html 

‎ ‘Hang In There’      (Uncollected Press  2019    USA)  therawartreview.com

THE SINATRA FILES by Bryn Fortey

over a 40+ year period

the FBI amassed

thousands of pages

in an ever bulging file

on Frank Sinatra

their first involvement 

was to investigate a malicious claim

that he’d paid a doctor $40,000

to declare him unfit for the WW2 military 

a rumour that dogged the rest of his life

in spite of being proved false

the FBI might have cleared the singer

in that first instance

but then devoted time and manpower 

in unsuccessful attempts to tie him

as a participant in organised crime

Sam Giancana, Angelo Bruno

Joseph and Charles Fischstti

Anthony and Vito Giacalone

were some of the top Mafia mobsters

Frank partied with as friends

never hiding that he knew them

that he sang at their clubs

and enjoyed their company

so, unable to offer a case against him

for Mafia related criminal activity

the FBI switched to accusations

of communist leanings

using his opposition to racism

and support for liberal causes

as Red Menace indicators 

Frank Sinatra was a complex sort of guy

who enjoyed Mafioso company

yet supported democracy and liberalism

and in spite of all their efforts

the FBI never made a case against him

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 wet night in brooklyn smelling some asshole’s cigarette…again. By John Grochalski

he sits there on the stoop

in front of my bedroom window

like a bad statue, smoking

playing on his cell phone of course

i’ll admit it is raining, sprinkling really

and this is probably the only shelter for a block

but i’m drunk

and i don’t care

it may not have been the best opening salvo

to lean out my window and shout

hey asshole, you and your cigarette

get it the fuck out of here

but the consumption of alcohol

has never blessed me with tact

his response of, it’s a free country, shithead

didn’t surprise me

people find patriotism in the oddest of acts

maybe i shouldn’t have

followed him up with

shithead?

oh, you wanna step, motherfucker? let’s step

and then proceeded to put my shoes on

while calling him a dirty russian

blaming him for the election of 2016

especially since he was already up

and walking away down the street

but…again…patriotism

really

i’m glad my wife was there

to chase me down

just as i was opening the front door

she’s more sensible about these things

and she knows

that at my age

i’ve gone more

from the ass-kicker

to the ass-kicky

it’s just the simple fact of getting older

let’s just go to bed, she said

which seemed a reasonable request

and i kicked my shoes off

and i followed her back down the hallway

the scent of that bastard’s cigarette

still lingering in our room

as cars

and people

and dogs

and my wife’s snores

all permeated the streetlamp night

while i laid there

wide-awake, festering

consumed with violence

but ultimately wondering

was that asshole even russian?

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Vice Visa by Ivan Jenson

By all means
buy into the
condo of consciousness
that allows you to
live comfortably
within yourself
knowing what makes
your clockwork tick
and if you no longer
want to be who you are
then say little
listen more
and seek opportunities
to become an
expat beach-bumming
on some tropical shore
and though you have
savaged and ravaged
most of your four-course meal
and you are not at the beginning
of your nerve endings
be grateful you still have
more rain and pain
In Spian to feel

Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and contemporary poet who lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled Absolut Jenson for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spiritmusuem, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden.
Jenson's painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes.  Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 600 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson's poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two novels by Ivan Jenson entitled, Marketing Mia and Erotic Rights have been published hardcover. Ivan Jenson’s new novel, Gypsies of New Rochelle has been released by Michelkin Publishing. Ivan Jenson's website is: www.IvanJenson.com