A Pretend Beatle by Dan Provost

Jimmy wanted everyone to know he enjoyed the Beatles rhythm section…
Rain was the best song the fab four ever recorded, reminding anyone in earshot.
No one cared.
“They” continued to laugh at him.
 
He took an old broom, cut himself a wig from mother’s corpse.
…and performed as Paul McCartney most nights.
 
The fake Höfner 500/1 Violin Bass in tow.
 
The state hospital staff had to drag him to bed sometimes.
 
Facility ordinance prohibited his concerts to go past
 
8 P.M.

Love it!

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.  He has two books coming out in 2020.  Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.

Assholes To Ashes by Scott Simmons

There were four of us on the cover.
And five before we wrote it.

After two years only half still speak to one another.
Because of course what are brothers really for?

All of it was over shit that barely made one cent.
It mostly only paid in kiss ass compliments. 

But somehow even that went to our heads.

If you write long enough don’t except friends.
Or leaving without having a broken heart.

There’s no glamour only words on paper.

Scott Simmons has recently arrived through a time portal after a tough divorce with his future ex wife and he now lives in cargo van outside of I-Hop.  It's  not recommended to engage him in conversations as he will likely urinate on you and does not believe in the concept of  personal space. Plus his writing also sucks.

This is why we need to outlaw time travel now! #voteyes4theFuckScottSimmonsBill

Facebook by Rathnar Kilbane

Do you want to post some kitten pics today?
Do you wanna share some shit that's really gay?

Ahhh Facebook.

Would you like to see a bathroom selfie today?
Do want to go to jail from all the way until May?

Sitting at home and smoking crack.
Wish I killed that wench who stole my heart and never gave it back.

Blood and guts and some casual rape.
And if you pretend to be an insane outlaw, I will be happy to show what real insanity is like.

Facebook, I think I will friend request a two year old today.
He can't speak a word, but with a keyboard he has a lot to say.

Blood guts mixed with misery and if you wag your ass at me.
I will always be happy to take a bite!!!

Inspired to the dwarf Lord Glen Danzig 

#behead #all #poets #including #myself #johntrovoltafever

Rathnar Kilbane, is the poet laureate of Iceland.

He enjoys raiding villages and pillaging.

His scrolls have been published many places, such as.

The New Yorker, The Old Red Dragon Review, Esquire Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Modern Viking Spring Catalog.

He was recently nominated for a Pulitzer for his soon to be published scroll from High Times Magazine.

I Will Alert The Media by John Patrick Robbins

And let all the so called news outlets know we were never friends to begin with.
As they scratch their heads questioning, who the fuck cares?

Which could destroy a writer's ego in itself just to discover.
The world doesn't revolve around them and there is more to this world than poetry and papercuts.

So as I pen these words dear reader I will let you down easy in this statement.

Like me or hate me I could give a flying fuck either way.
Because opinions are like assholes and the art scene is more toxic than a sewer and smells far worse.

So you may be on your way now.
It's been real and it's been fun.
Least that’s the bullshit I will sell you to get your ass out the door.

What did you expect a fucking gold star and a cookie?

How bout a cheap insult and swift kick in the ass instead.

Bye bye now my darlings.

John Patrick Robbins is possibly the greatest human being since Rasputin.

He now resides as the overseer of the Golden Dawn and when not using his dark powers enjoys stamp collecting and serial killing.

He works as a camp counselor at Camp Crystal Lake where he is hosting a writers retreat for writers he would enjoy murdering.

Where he will drag his critics deep into the woods and paint the forest with their blood.

His work has been oddly rejected by.

Family Circle, Esquire, Jugs, Rolling Stone Magazine, Tiger Beat, This Old Whore House, Better Homes and Gardens, The Village Voice, Serial Killer Quarterly and all of his many ezines due to backroom politics.

He is also currently in training for the 2023 drinking Olympics where he will be defending his title in keg tossing.

He is currently on drugs.

Thank you for reading your a lovely bunch of coconuts.

Laredo by John Doyle

Hell underwhelms those in love
with fire, brimstone, 

five-cent trash-can attorneys, 
those stealing patents from hometown inventors,

rubbing nickels on dreams made from twine.
A child in the Badlands struck oil 

chasing rabbits to the point 
where the river choked in mud, 

Satan nearly crushed in the tongue-dry cracks 
upstream.

We spent an hour at Martinez's grave,
smoked cigars, struck flint on stone. 

I was disappointed when the drag queens turned out to be women, 
I asked Satan to give my money back -

he was polite,
didn’t leave me a penny short

 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.

An Infinitely Meaningless Poem by Ethan Goffman

As the old song goes, “nothing is real”

but how can nothing be real when it’s the absence of something?

Set theory says
there is an infinity of infinities
but I say
there are no infinities
no infinity plus one;
since infinity cannot exist in the first place
and cannot even be conceived
it is impossible to add one to it.

There are zero infinities
not just because infinity doesn’t exist,
but because zero does not exist.
In reality
there are zero zeros.

In this way
zero and infinity are the same
sweet nothings in the human soul
and the minds of mathematicians.

How many mathematicians you ask?
A countable number
a number that exists
something, not nothing.

Nothing is not real
not unreal
not surreal
simply not
but not even not, since “not” is just another way
of expressing zero.

Still, for us humans
nothing is something
so much more consequential 
than infinity.
 
I have no money
zero
nothing.

When you are broke
nothing is everything.

Ethan Goffman accidentally became a poet by

tagging along with his wife, the far more talented, harder working, and

prettier Marianne Szlyk, to poetry workshops. He is still not sure how or why,

but somehow Kelsay Books has recently published his first volume of

poetry, Words

for Things Left Unsaid.

TUNNEL OF INSULTS by J. Archer Avary

the new kid at school came from Texas

he dropped in mid-year via parachute

unfamiliar with the complex social dynamic
of Mrs. Holdren’s third grade classroom

 
everyday was lord of the flies at recess
he was different so they made him a target
desperate to win friends and influence people
the new kid went along with their games

the hardest one was the tunnel of insults
the object was to climb the rungs of a ladder 
while withstanding terrible verbal abuse
how did third graders know such vile words?

the new kid entered the tunnel: ‘asshole!’
as he climbed the rungs the insults worsened
‘fuck your mama!’ they said ‘eat shit and die!’
he was invincible, words couldn’t hurt him

the other kids tried hard to turn him back
‘shit your pants!’ they shouted ‘cocksucker!’
insult after insult, the new kid climbed higher
until he made it to the penultimate rung
no other third grader had made it this far
it was time for the mother of all insults
‘fuck your mama’s cunt with a shit dildo!’
he just laughed as he emerged from the tunnel

the other kids viewed him with new respect
‘is that the best you motherfuckers can do?’
he smiled and cracked his knuckles
knowing that he'd fit in at his new school 

J. Archer Avary (he/him) is a former TV journalist. His writing has appeared in Riot Act Mag, Burnt Breakfast Mag, What Are Birds?, Horse Egg Literary, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Potato Soup Journal. He lives on a tiny island in the English Channel. Twitter: @j_archer_avary