Pissing. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

a

hot

yellow

happy

face

into

the

snow

bank

outside

after

midnight

you

must

know

that

the

circle

part

is

the

hardest

and

there

is

always

a

little

spillage

and

that

there

are

no

Rembrandts

at

twenty

below

plus

wind

chill.

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.

Pills and Piss Stains By Scott Simmons

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I Eat Orphans. by Ron Murphy

                 

I find them sad so I always add a dash of barbeque sauce and a garnish of wild onions with a side of fries.

Nobody reports them missing but my neighbors are certainly curious as to why they never see them leave .

But they know better to ask.
But they don't complain cause you won't find any vagrants or stray animals on my block.


Well maybe a cat seems I'm allergic to pussy.

That's why you never see any around.

They banned me from sea world for trying  to steal Shamu.

I have a hell of appetite for only one man.

My ex never seemed to mind .

She has been missing for two years nobody's ever seems to wonder  where she went.

She was a real bitch .

She gave me a horrible case of heartburn .

And when I have a bad case of heartburn I reach for the only thing that always gets the job done .

Billy Joel's Burn Be Away .

Yes he didn't start the fire but he damn sure will end it .

Yes the piano man now not only tickles the ivories but now stops what burns down deep in your tummy.

Yes just look for bottle with Billy Joel's face on it .

Burn Be Away .

You're Welcome.

Billy Joel is not a licensed doctor and side effects may include .
Explosive diarrhea, Internal human combustion,  Sweating bullets , And open mic poetry readings.

Children under the age of twelve should not read this post if not in the presence of a adcult or  Scott Simmons .

Eating another human is not funny and will probably have some bad side effects but if you do eat  another person you should probably avoid clowns cause I have heard they taste funny.

UTB does not condone or support drug use .

If you are depressed and need a friend.

Please call a random stranger at..

832 802 9430

I am not on drugs while writing this.
For I am high on Jesus .

You have a great day you have a great day for it .

                     Ron Murphy

Is the golden voice of UTB and currently resides in parts unknown with his asshole dog and imaginary friend .

Capt Slappy .

Ron is also a published author and his recent book Memoirs  Of A Madman is currently a bestseller in Canada wear he is worshipped as a God.

Ron has been linked to many starlets like .
Betty White , Miss Piggy,  Jennifer Lawrence, Jason Voorhees and Brad Pitt.

When not doing voice over work and being involved with petty crimes Ron enjoys the life of a true thespian .

He has a large collection of vintage bug lights and electric chairs .
He is also the lead researcher for the Bigfoot and female orgasm and other mythical things institute.

He is a painter and rock climber and part time firefighter .

Ron Murphy will be running as a independent candidate for President of the United States of America .


His motto is .

He wont change shit but least he won't blow the world up.

And will drop the drinking age to seven and make all drugs legal .



                   You're Welcome !!!!

Halleluja Of Soaked Grass. by Mendes Biondo

dance

you are the music

dance

grass is waiting for your

bare feet

the moon’s high

and you’re white

you’re the milk of life

there’s honey in your wombs

the skin of your hips is birch bark

dance and feel the planets

rolling around you

keep the fire burning

woman you’re joy

keep flowing rivers

woman your blues is

the music of the world

in your eyes

deep black holes

light is just a morsel

of this time sliding

on your skin made of dunes

woman you’re the scream

the sun is behind the clouds

woman you’re rain on earth

all is sounding

of your bluesy vibes

Mendes Biondo is an Italian journalist and author. His works appeared on Visual Verse, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Literary Yard, Angela Topping Hygge Feature,  Indigent A La Carte, The BeZine, Scrittura Magazine, The Song Is, Poetry Pasta and other magazines. He is one of the editors of The Ramingo's Porch along with Marc Pietrzykowski and Catfish McDaris. His first book Spaghetti and Meatballs : Poems For Hot Organs, Is published by Piski's Porch and available through Amazon.

The Best A Man Can Get. by Robert Ragan

Here at Gillette, we'd like to apologize for offending you.

No, we'd rather tell you to shut the fuck up!

If you're a man and offended by a commercial then you should castrate yourself with one of our razors

The creative team behind our ad campaign, well none of them have any type of writing degree. No, they're just pissed off failed poets. Writers we found on the streets and pay with dope.

Plus we're owned by Procter & Gamble, so you can't fuck with us.

‘Now the world premiere of a brand new Gillette commercial.’

In the early morning, a paperboy on a bicycle throws a newspaper on someone's freshly cut lawn behind a white picket fence.

Inside the house, a family sits at the table.
The father in a suit and tie, cleanly shaven.
His bright, cheerful, blond wife pours him a glass of milk.

Their son long haired and pale-faced is slumped down in his chair. He's wearing a dog collar and a Marilyn Manson t-shirt.

In the next scene, the father is shirtless and shaving in front of the bathroom mirror. To his reflection, he says, "My whole family uses Gillette. My old lady shaves her legs with the same ones I use." Flashing to her in one of his old t-shirts with her legs nicked all to hell.

Next, they're inside an emergency room with a doctor sewing up a long gash in their son's arm. The goth kid cries like a bitch. His father, smiling at the camera says, “Even my son, Ralph, uses Gillette and he doesn't even shave yet."

In the final scene, the father is drunk outside a bar. Some biker pushes him down. Before getting back up he looks at the camera and says, “I never leave home without a Gillette," then pulls out a razor blade hidden in his mouth.

The commercial ends with the father attacking the biker with the razor blade pinched between his thumb and fingers.

Now, before you bitches go into an outrage, just remember that we here at Gillette don't give a fuck what you think!

Anyone offended, well suck a fat one!

Instead of a shout out, I'd like to send a ‘fuck you’ to all the men out there growing beards. Old mountain man looking motherfuckers, they should give y’all rabies shots.

Oh, and women with hairy legs and pussies, fuck y'all too!

Last but not least. Bic, we all hate you and hope every one of you dies. May your entire staff go postal.

Y’all got us with those lighters, but we'll always be the upper echelon of the razor game bitches.

Robert Ragan from Lillington NC lives his life for art and writing. He has stories and poetry online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only, Under The Bleachers, Cajun Mutt Press, and Punk Noir Magazine. Alien Budha Press has published his short story collection “Mannequin Legs and Other Tales”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.