Friday, January 18, 2019

A Cold One. by Gwil James Thomas



Could you bring me a cold one 
if you’re going past the fridge? 

Because, the needle just fell and 
Son House has sounded, 
the painkillers have run out 
and my arm’s still fucked from 
that night with my best friend 
and the motorbike.

Since, after all these years of not 
learning from my mistakes, 
I think that I might as well 
just celebrate them now
and I know that I’m no role model, 
but also that we’re all  
name calling in the madhouse 
when you truly think about it. 

As, we’re only here for a moment 
and sometimes just stopping 
to take in the beauty amongst 
all the moving masses can 
get a little too much. 

But above all else - 
could you bring me a cold one, 
because 

this can’s almost empty!




“Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. His work can be found largely in print and occasionally online in places such as 3AM Magazine, Punk Lit Press, The Beautiful Space and The Dope Fiend Daily. His most recent poetry chapbook is titled Romance, Renegades & Riots (Analog Submission Press) a split with the poet John D Robinson. He lives in Northern Spain.”

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Thunderbolt. by Doc Sigerson



The white flash blitzes the intersection
to catch the scofflaw in the very act.
A fine is levied and a notice sent
to the vehicle owner of record.
One day my wife unsealed an envelope
and she withdrew a grainy photograph.
Frozen in a moment of distraction
behind the wheel I sit with jaunty grin.
In my eye gleams a spark and beside me 
my girlfriend with her unseen hand at work.

Drive too cautiously and you cannot help 

but hit every red light on your route.





Doc Sigerson lives in the Seattle area. He is a military veteran, works in retail, and leads a sedate life. He has had the wonderful fortune of having his published work disappear when online sites lose their domain rights and the terrific good luck to have his printed work fade to obscurity when those publishers would rather buy cannabis than cough up contributor copies.

Saturday, January 12, 2019

Winter Colds by Ian Copestick


Aren't winter Colds a pain in
The arse ? I keep waking myself  through the night, because I have to cough. A horrible, chesty, sputum spouting cough. My nose is blocked, my
Throat feels like I've been
Gargling with razor blades, and
To quote from one of my
Favourite films " My head feels
Like it's been shat in by a pig"
Taking paracetamol is like trying to
Solve world hunger with a
Big Mac.
In short, I feel fucking awful, and
There's HOW many months of
Winter left ?








Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer ( I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror, Sleaze, Trash.

Friday, January 11, 2019

Hand Job Hannah & The Summer of ‘92 by Brian Fugett


Hannah had an orange-belt
in Tae Kwon Do
back when
Ninjas were all the rage
& The Karate Kid
was a sex symbol.
But now that
Ralph Macchio
is passé
& the ninja-nation
has spiraled
into a recession,
she functions
as a disposable girlfriend
in the parking lot
of the Food-&-Fuel truck stop.


“A buck-fifty for a hand job,” she whispers,
demonstrating the strength
of her kung-fu grip
on the necks’
of bleary-eyed truckers
as they climb
out of their rigs
in search of
coffee & cigarettes.








Brian Fugett is a member of the slacker, fast food generation that has been branded with an “X”. He sits in his pad all day consuming more oxygen than he’s worth. He’s been doing it for 47years now & has become quite efficient at it. Some day he hopes to be president of the “International Society of Incontinent Gum Swallowers”, a support group for people who compulsively swallow gum & piss themselves. Until that day arrives, he occupies his time with writing, photography, boozing, tail-chasing and occasional pugilism.

Saturday, January 5, 2019

BECAUSE. by Jay Passer



because I'm catching up on the black bear's 
hibernation

because the curtain leaking in paltry morning
light

because the 6 AM meat truck vibrates with refrigerated
butchery

because I crack my knuckles and toes reading Bulgakov in
bed

because my eyelids are closed to the policies of the alien
overlords

because I stretch out
while the cosmos
cry out in celebratory
fervor

because some half-wit was elected king of the
clowns

because I've got you next to me whispering while immersed in

dream




Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. He is the author of several chapbooks and has appeared in a bunch of anthologies. His latest collection, they lied to me when they said everything would be alright, from Pski's Porch, is available at Amazon. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.

Friday, January 4, 2019

A Little Horse by James Babbs


I asked her
why couldn’t the pony talk
and she told me
I was drunk
I said
that might be true
but it still doesn’t
answer the question
she sighed
it was the same sigh I’d heard
so many times before
the one she used
when she was really annoyed
hey I said
I’m just having a good time
she said oh
I know
I took another drink from my beer
what’s wrong with that
I asked
not a thing she said
but she didn’t look at me
I laughed
and looked down
at the bottle in my hand
I took another drink
because I said
he was a little horse
she said what
and I laughed again
she let another sigh slip
from her beautiful lips
that’s why the pony couldn’t talk
I said
and I laughed again
she grabbed some of the empties
scattered on the floor
I heard them hitting together
when she walked out of the room








James Babbs likes the night life but he doesn’t like to boogie.  James has written hundreds of poems and a few short stories over the years and has even had a few of them published.  If you happen to visit the internet you may find something he has written.

Monday, December 31, 2018

Dreams of Pins and Needles. by The Wolf Kevin Martin




last night
flash of blood inside
cylinder before dropping
hammer down cold sweats
used to be dry sheets
tossing turning old day
dreams

hard to come by authentic ones
cold rusty sinew veins aches deviant dominating conversation
a new glass in hand raised toward

New Year

new me believing in her myth again

there are always other applicants waiting  
happens next i’m sorry no one understands
her love and spark was the last vengeance marching
arriving later after sunset fire on chest my muse imitates
road construction bridge building bong hits scorching my throat
downtown wearing a cross of the advocate in bronze leather
strapped heart my chest is brown two rattlesnake vertebrae intertwined
joshua tree thorns taste pierced scapegoat heart before i smelled
her perfume or blood look into the poor begonias appetite waiting for tastes to ferment after waking hungover she realized that she had left her house without her chapstick





The Wolf Kevin Martin is an amateur photographer and poet from Lexington, North Carolina now residing in Pittsburgh,  PA. Contributing poems and images to The Arrival Magazine , The Rye Whiskey Review,  The Dope Fiend Daily , Cajun Mutt Press , Alien Buddha Press.

A Cold One. by Gwil James Thomas

Could you bring me a cold one  if you’re going past the fridge?  Because, the needle just fell and  Son House has sounded,  t...