Saturday, May 25, 2019

Play Nice Or Play With Yourself. by John Patrick Robbins

I never was a social butterfly or the type of person that  concerned himself with the opinions of others .

When people run to me and say .

"Hey you know what so and so said about you?"

Or any other social media slant  I largely had the same response .

"Who gives a shit ?"

Confidence keeps me insulated and the booze usually for the most part happy .

And in all truth most people will be ever so eager  to kill your buzz but only if you allow them to.

It only effects you if you acknowledge they exist.

And unless your buying the next round or are a old friend then I suggest you get a life .

Because I am far to busy drinking mine away to give a flying fuck about yours .

Cheers asshole .

                 John  Patrick Robbins Aka Coyote .

Is the chief warlord and president of the Frat
He enjoys drinking and holds the title of drunk of the year seven years straight .

When not being driven insane from fellow writers he finds time somehow to write as well his publications include .

Punk Noir Magazine , Ariel Chart , Beatnik Cowboy , The Mojave River Review , The San Pedro River Review , Blognostics , Red Fez , Horror Sleaze Trash., Better Homes And Gardens , Angry Old Man Magazine,  Hustler and Ladies Home Journal.

His work is always unfiltered .

Ken. by John Doyle

fosters thoughts and dreams,
murder, annihilation, 
all a moment's ripple
within the fetal badlands of his smile -
one faithless semester.
If a smile is what it is
I wonder then which semester
he sat like Robert Wyatt on that window-cill
looking down at the judgmental colours
of street-dancers and perfect flesh,
Jesus and his galleons of switchblade bikers in
a flash of blue-jean lightning.
I wonder how many times they called him Fatso,
before he stood like folklore's sack of ancient bones and held back seas,
a prism made of numbers, a batch of code
he crawled into beneath an ice-cold shower
and clutched the darkness of the womb
and all those smiling souls he would make pay
with strings of silence.
I wondered until Friday. There was a free bar for fallen staff -
I met Marco one last time, Paul I'll see again three years later.
El Clasico spits and screams from the digital venom of the T.V. screen
and Paul tells me - Fatso was a mercenary, nothing more; that we kind of knew -
a few hours into year zero and the ticker tape was knee-deep
on a beer-stained floor.
I can't imagine Fatso on horseback in Texas in 1894,
protecting livestock hours before they give birth,
he was more a plantation owner
named Claude Dupree,
focusing his pout 
on dusted strings of death-punctured soil
long before the id, the ego and the superego had been conjured,
losing all contact with human essence

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.

THE DEWBERRY HUSTLE. by Willie Stroker

I used to shoot dice
every Saturday night
behind Two Keys Tavern
up in Ladson

It was the only sure way
to parlay my weekly
golf hustle scratch
and have enough
jack stacked
to attract
a high class
piece of ass
in the martini bar
at The Dewberry Hotel
over in Charleston

Willie Stroker is a serial killer from Surfside Beach. He has a Ph.D in English with an emphasis in American Literature from the University of South Carolina.

Stroker is a six time National Book Award winner in poetry and non-fiction.
He has been nominated seventy-three times for the Pushcart Prize.
His work is published frequently in Heavy Players Penthouse, The Dope Fiend Daily,
Under The Bleachers, Yemassee and RQF Quarterly.

His collection of rare, leather bound books rival that of international
drug baron, Ron Murphy.

Stoker’s actual whereabouts remains unknown, but he is willing to entertain
personal appearances in most border states for sizable cash donation. Payable
via Venmo, thirty days in advance.

Midwest Bloodbath. By Rathnar Kilbane


As I sit by the fire of poets burning and breath in the smells of skinny jeans and chapbooks .
I think of my wives back in Iceland .

Olga , Ursula, Oksana and Margo.

How I thank the Lord of death and happy endings for the peace of mind distance gives .
Although the food in these savage lands cannot match Olga's stuffed wolf surprise.

I have slaughtered many poets on my tour and written a new collection from the blood of my victims I will title.

Rainbows Need Butterflies As Trolls Need Flesh Of The Dwarfs .

I have hunted these lands .
Seeking the evil troll but apparently overlooked her I would ask a female poet but the last one I ravished I fed to my hounds .

And as they sing songs of my great conquest I yearn for drink and more violence.

As I seek a publishing deal for my newest collection.

Why they all these publishers scream like women and run at just the mention of my appearance I cannot say .

Course maybe if I quit killing so many people along the way they would lighten up .

These strange people I cannot fully understand .

But I have killed many and the children now applaud my arrival and the recent drunkards in some nameless tavern.
Applauded me for killing those poets who were destroying there buzz.

With there ramblings and pissing and moaning over their feelings .

But my journey is far from over as I hunt the bitch dwarf of total insignificance.

Across these lands .

A reporter stopped me as my armies marched through the Midwest.

"Rathnar you just slaughtered another group of poets at yet another open mic , where are you heading next ."

I looked to the sheepish male holding his microphone and replied .

"To hell my friend but I might also stop off at Disneyland to conquer that rat Mickey Mouse's kingdom and ravish Daisy Duck."

Killing is simply part of the poets lifestyle to me.

Conquer you later .

Rathnar .

Rathnar Kilbane 

Is the poet laureate of Iceland he has conquered many savage lands and open mics.
When not pillaging he enjoys watching musicals and snuggling under covers on a cold night in Iceland. 

He is currently seeking a publisher for his new collection and promises not to kill anyone that rejects him anymore that is .

Body Positive Mauritius. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A scrape on the wall
and I find a matcher
on my skin

the tuning fork is really
sucking all the hot air out of wrinkly
balloons these days

making body positive Mauritius
overthrow its government

troops deployed in the streets
like burping pylons

women screaming
because there is nothing
else to do

the goats have all the milk
and the motorcycles hoard
all the petrol…

I was thinking of making a sex tape
next Spring and sending it out to the
Canada Council for the Arts folks
for funding  
even though I am a straight white male
which never bodes well.

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.

Sick by Bruce Hodder

Opening my door
this morning, dreaming
of a big win
on the lottery tonight,
I put my foot
into a pile of sick
left by late-night drinkers
on the street
outside my house.
That’s three quid’s worth
of sandals ruined.
The gangster boys
in baseball caps
from the Northampton
slums of L.A.
say “Ahh, bro!”
and slap each other,
laughing.  I glare,
but what can I do?
I’m a grey old man
with bad knees
and puke stains
on my sandals.

Bruce Hodder lives with Michelle in Northampton, the most statistically average town in England. He has been published in quite a few magazines over the years, most recently ‘Academy of Heart and mind’ and ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’.

Watching Porn In Reverse by Scott Simmons

I’m confused I watch those funny pictures with naked men and ladies.
Why does the man’s hot dog have to go in and out so much?

Does the mouth between the ladies legs have teeth Is he afraid of it?
Or is she afraid of his lollipop in the back?

At least the pretty ladies like to suck on cherries for a few minutes before...
SPITTING them out! How rude would anyone have to be to spit out cream candy?

Those people are all strange but at least I’m a virgin so seriously why not just......
Cut off my head staple my nipples to my chest and convert my body into a race car.

Scott Simmons has masturbaited across the entire globe (Everywhere inside of his room) to a variety of culturally sensitive tentacle "Films" to conduct his scientific research for uncovering the existence of alternate phallic shaped universes hidden inside the world of Teletubbies. He can often be found sulking about naked locker rooms with ziplock bags collecting the left over pubic hair of hung specimens to put into his hair zoo for everyone locked in his basement to see.

Play Nice Or Play With Yourself. by John Patrick Robbins

I never was a social butterfly or the type of person that  concerned himself with the opinions of others . When people run to me and say...