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.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926860667/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_awdb_t1_c8rnDbWM37NAQ

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.