Thursday, December 12, 2019

stuck in a crowded elevator. By J.J Campbell

she couldn't
believe her
could i
two damaged
souls stuck in
a crowded
hanging in
the silence
a businessman
cuts a fart that
smells like
certain death
i laughed and
asked why god
hates all of us
a few catholics
turned around
in disgust
my future wife
i should have
dropped to a
knee right there

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Red Eft Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (

Wednesday, December 11, 2019


said -




Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of eight poetry collections: 
Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; 
Bootlegger’s Bluff; Cockpit Chronicles. 

He is founder and co-editor of The Angel's Share Literary Magazine (Shine Runner Press).

His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower, 
The Cosmic Lost and Found: An Anthology of Missouri Poets (Spartan Press), Best of Mad Swirl Anthology 2018 
and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III.

Peery’s work has been published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, 
Big Hammer, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Veterans Voices Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, 
Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, Culture Cult Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only Magazine, 
Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir,  Mutata Re, Ariel Chart, The Beatnik Cowboy and Apache Poetry.

Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than twenty studio albums over the past decade.


Tuesday, December 10, 2019

Tracing lines. by Ashley Cooke

With fire between his teeth
and smoke filling the air
choking the lungs of those
who watched him so curiously

His greased black hair shone in the sun
like a freshly waxed classic car
and his voice revved like an engine
making the girls swoon around him

They could never catch a hold of him
and only a few were offered a smile
they chased him down as often as they could
but his converse had more holes than canvas

His colorful tattoos he always held his palms over
as if he couldn't hold them in place for much longer
he ran his fingers over the lines slowly
tracing those old stories again.

Ashley Cooke is a creative writing major attending Long Beach City College. She is from Long Beach, CA. She is currently working on her first poetry collection. Her work can be found in various online journals such as Moontide Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Scarlett Leaf Review and many others.

Saturday, December 7, 2019


the gravitation-wave aftershock
of melancholia ripples outwards
in an instant, over a million centuries
yet crawling at the speed of light
from star to star, from galactic core
to the tenuous rim of spiral nebulae,
the great sadness of loss and endings,
they still find shrapnel and fragments
of lives as they clear away the rubble
as we wait for the kiss of the quantum 
ghosts to arrive on seeds of light,
in spectral halls on severed worlds
they detonate suns to lost memory
and speculate rumours of extinction,
yes, we are the phantom presence
imprinted in molecular patterns
on the walls of empty towers, yes,
amino-probes revolve hot jupiters
that register only absolute zero, 
for we are no longer here, we are in
that transition to exile beyond form,
frankly, I despise these songs,
these laments lodge in my craw,
until I spew moons of ice, until
my scream ripples outwards
over a million centuries,


Check out my website ‘EIGHT MILES HIGHER’ – ‘The Blogspot for People Who Don’t Like Blogspots’ – latest postings include… ‘Tales Of Wonder’ the full detailed story of Britain’s First-Ever SF magazine, ‘The Walking Dead: The First Nine Seasons’, ‘Mick Farren: Sex And Drugs, SF And Rock ‘n’ Roll (‘Mona’ and Phaid The Gambler)’, Sly Stone Meets Doris Day, plus music interviews The Secret Life Of Fiat Lux, Floy Joy… From Sheffield, Hula: Old World, New Machines, More Electric Shadows... and more… All with archive photos, and more… monthly updates at

Tuesday, December 3, 2019

The Czech Word For Private Is "Privat" by. John Doyle

Jonathan Greenberg was my lawyer in June 2010.
We dined this Italian restaurant in Prague, near Woodrow Wilson
shortly after Greenberg guessed our souls were heading due south - and soon.

Greenberg saved our sorry Mississippi asses,
a hefty check followed - $18,000,
but it was worth it

not to spend eternity with John Dillinger
sleeping in the bunk above me,
some mamma's boy serial killer screaming at the moon.

So, the Czech word for Private is Privat,
ain't that sweet,
I turn the handle anyway, and Greenberg's seat makes that sound of wood scraping floor-tile -

dropping his napkin
and excusing himself to a host of burly men Bryan Mills would find to be a challenge

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.

Saturday, November 30, 2019

John Clare, Jimtom, Me As Well (at Clare’s statue in Shoe Town) by Bruce Hodder

John Clare sits, hat between his knees,
as Jimtom reads from a scribbled notebook
words the traffic makes it hard to hear.
The small audience all look comfortable,
gathered in the council quadrangle
in the winter night to praise the peasant poet.
When they read, their voices speak of fitted kitchens,
though politely. They are not the enemy.
But Jimtom’s somehow of the earth and trees,
of the ancient stones, of the hidden spaces
where the spirit breathes more easily
and you can live in natural communion.
John Clare sits, hat between his knees,
looking pleased as Jimtom weaves his poem.
When the others leave, perhaps we’ll all sit down,
in the gloom, Clare, Jimtom, me as well
and smoke and talk about Northampton.

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’.

Friday, November 29, 2019

Black Friday blues By Alex Z. Salinas

The best thing is when you
Put on a security guard jacket
And customers stare at you
As though you’re an idiot 

This happened during a Black
Friday I worked in college, 
At Sears, and I often long
To don that jacket

Again so people would
Leave me to my dimwit
Ways guarding nothing, 
Getting steps in, counting 

The minutes till I go home
And hate the world on my own
Time, time, time—that clockwork 
Rooster keeping me up

Thinking about turkey and
Mashed potatoes and dead 
Relatives and stomped-on  
Shoppers who, dare I say, 

Played with the stove
And set themselves ablaze. 

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His full-length poetry collection, WARBLES, Is out now released by Hekate Publishing .

He is poetry editor of the San Antonio Review, and his short fiction has appeared in numerous publications online.

stuck in a crowded elevator. By J.J Campbell

she couldn' t believe her luck neither could i two damaged souls stuck in a crowded elevator tension han...