Portrait Of A Man Having A Near Life- Experience by Gabriel Bates

 

"Gabriel Bates is a cartoonist living in Tiffin, Ohio."

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.

(I GOT) GOOSED BY TOMMY CHONG By George Schaefer

 

It was a comedy club

and the table

was really close;

three feet from the stage;

seemed like a good thing.



You get the close up view

and can see the comic’s face

and their expressions.



It was Tommy Chong

and he eventually got around

to his doggie routine;

first lifting the leg as if to pee

and then turning into horn dog.



He runs into the crowd

simulating four leg walking

searching for a leg to hump.



Before I realize it,

I find myself getting

Goosed by Tommy Chong;

He’s a rabid dog in heat.



My friends (and the audience)

are howling with laughter.

I just sat there

and passively took it.



I’m thinking, “Thank God

my father’s not alive to see this.”

Surely this moment

inspires pride in any parent.



“Mom, Dad, Guess what happened

at the club last night?”



I got goosed by Tommy Chong

and did nothing about it.

But if he ever

gets elected to the Senate;

I’m taking his ass down.

George Schaefer is a Philly based poet who hides out in a small suburban apartment.  He occasionally utilizes mass transit to visit the city and record poetic observations that he hopes will one day inspire dozens to new heights.  He clings to the hopes that the poetry will speak for itself.

Canned Laughter by Gabriel Bates

 

     Gabriel Bates is a cartoonist living in Tiffin, Ohio

We would accept you if we could…but we can’t…so we won’t by Rick Christiansen

Poetry journal submission rejection letters – a comic sampling.

Dear Poet,

Thank you for letting us consider your work.  Your poem has one line we found incredibly evocative and very intriguing.  Unfortunately, the rest of your verse has the consistency of baby vomit.  If you have any other work that is less like baby vomit, we welcome the chance to reject it also!

Keep writing!


Dear Poet,

Thank you for allowing us to reject your work.  We found reading your poem to be universally painful for our editorial staff.  However, we enjoy punishing our team.  Although this poem is “not for us”, we welcome additional submissions in the future as we LIKE to watch our staff suffer.  It gives us pleasure.  So….much….pleasure….

Are you suffering?

Keep writing!


Dear Poet,

What are you wearing?  Right now?  Are you holding a pen….are you holding it “firmly”?  You are a BAD poet!  So….so…BAD!  You need punishment.

Assume the position!

Oh….and we hated your poetry.

Keep writing!


Dear Poet,

Thank you for allowing us to consider your multi-media project, “Sestinas for all Members”. Although our editorial staff admires your ekphrastic project of writing sestinas to dick pics, we are currently only considering dick pic Haiku.

Keep writing!



Dear Poet,

Our associate editor, Bob, read your recent submission and promptly ended his tenure with our publication in horror and disgust.

We hated Bob.

Thank you for your submission.  Unfortunately it is not what we are looking for.  But Bob was a DICK, so you have really helped us out here.  Just sayin!

Keep writing!

Dear Poet,

Thank you for your submission dated May 17, 1974.  We have reviewed it carefully for a very long time.  Unfortunately, we find your prose a bit old fashioned and perhaps more appropriate for a simpler time, pre-21st Century.  We welcome your future submissions!

Keep writing!

Dear Poet,

We really wanted to publish your work.  We really…really..did want to do it.  Our entire team here is in severe distress.  We appreciate that your work comes from a “special” place inside of you. We are SO privileged to get to experience your poetry.  Each member of our staff has been profoundly changed by your work.  

Unfortunately, the team has very reluctantly chosen to go a different direction.
Please do not submit to us again for at least three years. Rejecting you again too soon would be too painful for us to bear.

Keep writing!

Rick Christiansen has been a stand-up comic, an actor, director of the improvisational comedy group, The Underground, and a corporate executive.  His work can be found in the archives of Oddball Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review and other publications. He has poems forthcoming in Dumpster Fire Press and his poem “Killing Bob Dylan” has been selected for a Fall 2021 anthology by Alien Buddha Press. He is a member of the St. Louis Writers Guild. Rick lives in Missouri near his eight grandchildren and with his basset hound Annie. 

 

Rotting Corpse Vomit by Ludwig Von Killsmith

Love is a cold indifferent stare,

From her superior Scandinavian eyes.

And is utterly meaningless like human life.

Ludwig is the harvester of death and lead guitarist for many bands such as Slaughter The Innocent, Rotting Corpse Fire, and Dismembered Gore. His guitar sounds like the terrified screams of children and his poetry has sent many people straight into the burning fires of hell.