Another Day In My Non Existent Life by John Patrick Robbins

I believe I will start to lip sync my readings and pay others to write for me.
I will remind them to misspell every other word  to keep the secret safe.

I will hire a ugly rugged bastard to impersonate me and secretly go on the wagon .
Get married and become a preacher.

And picket my own readings .
And when someone looks at me and ask's.

"Hey aren't you him?"


I will respond by saying no I'm just his former stand in .
Then remind them to go to church on Sunday and say there prayers every night.


It will all be going swell till I get caught with a hooker and a sack of blow .

It will make the headlines and bring great shame to my stand in when he realizes his gig is up.

My fellow writers will scratch thier heads and my flock will all pray for my soul .

My wife will demand for a divorce and my girlfriend will ask about the hooker who will problay write a book cashing in on her fifteen minutes of fame .

And in the meantime I will problay start fifteen more mags , two presses , publish fifty writers record ten podcasts and start five feuds with my pen names .

Some call it madness to me.its just another day at the races .

Cocktails anyone?

                        John Patrick Robbins

Is the witch doctor of the Frat and member of the Illuminati
He is actually a 2000 year old vampire who enjoys chasing ass far more than publication .

And listening to writers piss and moan everyday about papercuts when largley the paper now is virtual.

He enjoys making people hate him and is nominated for Asshole of the Year at this years Ezine Awards.


He also enjoys binge drinking and having conference calls with total strangers .

And if he offends you then download a free sense of humor at.

Itscalledajokemoron.com


Cheers .

Sushi Stomachs. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Have you seen those sushi stomachs

cut open?  The way the worms pile out

like a losing soccer pitch frenzy.  All that uncooked

food for top dollar from years of high end restaurants

that go by a number or some stupid backlit name that

translates to: Leaf.  And it’s not even enough to be

called eating, it’s gastronomy.  As though the science

of not cooking your food so that you are filled with worms

that eat away your stomach is a good thing.  And I know more

than a few that swear by it.
 Slim university types who will

correct your grammar before they ever try reaching orgasm.

Of course they are slim, they are being eaten away by worms.

Whenever I run into them, I see only worms.

It is hard to shake hands without thinking about it.

Always smile because that is the polite thing

to do.

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.

Viking Love Poem by Rathnar Killbane

I asked the mighty chief of a nearby village
For his daughters hand in marriage .
I offered him fresh wolves meat and the eye of a local witch which granted immunity to the piss of fire curse .

He refused,  Rathnars heart was broken much like when his sister refused his first advances before she gave birth to a Cyclops which was clearly not Rathnars child.

But back to the story .

So Rathnar almost wept but he is no sissy like foreign poets .

Rathnar raided the village burning it to the ground killing the old chief and taking his daughters for my first wives .

Sure they all died mysterious deaths while Rathnar was in a undisclosed location or in battle.

This was very unfortunate but I pillaged many to soothe my pain .

That's the way true viking love goes .


First published in the Old Crusty Dragon Review.

                            Rathnar Kilbane

Is the Viking poet laureate of Iceland.
His conquests are that of legend he has his scrolls published many fine places like.

The Fiendish Hen House Quarterly , Rolling Stone Magazine,  Pirates Of Indiana Review, The Ryan Quinn Flanagan Quarterly , Rainbow Reader Review, Hustler Magazine , Viking Times Magazine , Rape And Pillage Review .
And the Dioe Fiend Daily .


Rathnar is currently working on his followup scroll to his best selling The Age Of Burning Down There .

And seeking a publisher he promises not kill Untill after they publish his scroll .

A Farewell To Lucky Charms by Cuthulu

It was the best of times and almost worst of times .
When they told me that I was going To lose both my feet .

Then I thought screw walking and bought a brand new jazzy scooter .

I mean why walk when you can drive?

Sure I could slow down on the eating.
 But now I only have ten sides of fries with my fifty cheeseburgers and always wash it down with a diet coke .


Responsible living kicks ass much like Cuthulu.

Oh yeah and the Frat still sucks .

                                    Cuthulu

Is the arch nemesis of the Frat which makes perfect sense publishing him being catering to spoiled ego mainiacs is what writing is all about .

Cuthulu enjoys over eating and destroying worlds and has been on a seven year quest to find his own dick.

His newest collection Cuthulu's poetry slash cook book is a collection of high cholesterol writes with pages that usally stick togather.

He has been published at a few magazines that usally fear him sitting on them.

And one that takes months to reply and largley sucks .

Petrolium Butt Piracy by Scott Simmons

Let's measure our shriveled hotdogs inside of a bathroom with a skylight.
We can also secretly set a course to the drunk star allegedly tinkling all over my face.

I'd probe Uranus anytime sailor even if you make me wear a mask like most people do.
Also why do you keep a vibrating wiretap in your head brain recording my thoughts?

Is it because you are actually an undersized alien from the 9th dimension of flaccid phalluses?
Or did you just fart on my hamster and then blamed it on the government?

Either way I'm always watching you through the hidden cameras in your underground grotto filled with supper sexy hand models that electromagnetically tell me the future in my wet dreams.

I'm onto you Big Bird!

Scott Simmons has been kicked out of many peoples attics after stalking them for months in between his day job at a sexual chorus line on the Vegas Strip that nobody attends anymore because he's too ugly for anyone to want to show up. Um not that Scott cares he's secure about himself despite how he cries alone in a pet carrier crate at night inside of his lead lined bunker. 

BALANCING THE BOOKS. By Bryn Fortey

Since I have no interest

In the +/- columns

Of the celestial ledger

I concern myself mainly

With the gradual disintegration

Of my physical well being

My sense of balance

Went flying through the window

Alongside my libido

Many moons ago

I stagger like a ten pint drunk

Jabbing my walking stick

To counter whichever direction

My faltering steps take me

When I do fall

I go down like an Olympic gymnast

And have so far

Avoided structural damage

Three fellow customers

Scored me ten out of ten

When I tumbled at my local Spar

The medical term

For this lack of equilibrium 

Is: Fucked Up

I couldn’t have put it better

Bryn Fortey is a veteran writer from Wales in the UK. Widely published

over the years, he has had two collections published by The Alchemy 

Press, both featuring a mix of short stories and poetry. He is grateful that

in old age he is still able to put pen to paper and finger to keyboard

A Complete Stranger by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

You got the stuff?

he asked.

And since I didn’t have the stuff

he turned away quickly

and walked off.

Looking back once

with a confused look

before he rounded the corner

and was gone.

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.

Punch Me In The Face by Scott Simmons

You ever wonder why the garden gnome Neo Nazi party is plotting against you?
Or wonder why your willie gets scared and retreats during cold weather?

Then again am I truly writing this or is just it being telepathically transmitted as verbal syphilis straight into your tight little eye sockets?

I do but that also might be because I was dropped on my head as a baby 2,008 times.
Or because I huffed glue everyday and only watched F.R.I.E.N.D.S until I was 43.

So let’s just get into our space ship and fly into the badlands of Kmart together before I cum all over the back seat of your Honda Civic that’s mocking me.

Scott Simmons is a professional douchebag taster living inside the deep sweaty ass crack of space and time. His work has been featured in Anal Fister 7 and The Rolling Boner. He spends most of his free time naked/high at Walmart Parking lots.

Percy's Game by Bruce Hodder

Percy Shelley apparently once snatched a baby
from her mum's arms on Magdalen Bridge in Oxford.
He was eighteen. Soon he'd be sent down from uni.
He had written a pamphlet that the dons didn’t like.
'What will it tell us of the life before birth?'
he asked his companion, that night on the bridge.
(‘It’ was the baby.) Then he handed her back.
Some say this shows us how crazy Perce was,
the free-spirited visionary anarchist poet.
I bet the child's mother didn't see it that way.
I bet she thought 'Spare us, another spoiled rich boy,'
and had already worked out where she would kick him
with exactly the right force to double him over.
It’s likely that Shelley had a lucky escape,
leaving Oxford with both of his bollocks.

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’.

The Point By Becky Summerland

I guess I missed it after reading your latest .

It was praised by many but  it just seemed like more of the same to me.

Garbage has been around forever and it still stinks.

Hope you got it.

Becky Summerland

Runs the Sorority and is the head cheerleader of the Frat her work has been published here at the at UTB .

She also enjoys drinks on a regular basis with Coyote .

Your Latest Local Music Darlings by Daniel W. Wright

Looking like second rate caricatures
in a fourth rate song
The band only wants
to keep the party going
Living stereotypes
long past their prime
Going through motions
like they go through women
who stay the same age
so they won't ever be smart enough
to see them as they are
because no woman their age
would deal with them.

They never tour
because they never want to sell out
and barely promote their shows
with promoters screaming at them
saying "Don't you know
Brian Epstein died for you!"
They'll always lose steam
after the first release
that first and only true burst
of creativity
Winning fixed polls
in whatever local music magazine
When you ask them their influences
they'll always say
Dylan or the Beatles
to show you
they mean business

Losing jobs and losing gigs
blaming everything on the scene
that already accepted them
Drink the money they made in a night
because it's never enough
though not their fault
Taking shit like sowing circle
about every other band
who they'll always support
and who they know
got their backs

Breaking up before breaking through
but just you wait,
the new projects of the main songwriters
THAT is gonna be the one
that'll make it big time.
Just you wait and see!

A poet of the no collar work force, Daniel W. Wright is a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him. A longtime writer of wild nights and whiskey tributes, Wright speaks for the lover in every loner. He is currently the author of five chapbooks of poetry, the most recent being The Death of the Ladies Man with Bad Jacket Press. His work has appeared in the Gasconade Review as well as underground zines Bad Jacket and Crappy Hour

evolution. by Rob Plath

opposable
thumbs
one
to
press
&
unlock
yr
iphone
&
another
to
stick
up
yr
asshole

rob plath is a writer from new york.  he is most known for

his monster collection  A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press 2009) .  

his newest collection is MY SOUL IS A BROKEN DOWN VALISE (epic rites press 2019). 

you can see more of his work at robplath.com

The Great Thing About Having a Little Brother. By Alex Z. Salinas

Succeed

and be the model

or

fail

and put the fire to his ass 

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poetry has appeared in the San Antonio Express-News, Shot Glass Journal, As It Ought To Be Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily,  Duane’s PoeTree, The Rye Whiskey Review, Black Coffee Review, Brave New Word Magazine, Yellow Mama Webzine, Venus in Scorpio Poetry Zine, and the San Antonio Review, where he serves as poetry editor.

Plague. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Imagine when the plague comes,

he said.

What plague?

I asked.

THE PLAGUE!

he bellowed.

YOU KNOW, THE PLAGUE!

His eyes so wide

they were straining.

I could see new worlds

as he itched his arms

in a panic.

You mean that plague that happened last month?

I asked.

He said he meant the big one,

the one that was coming.

Oh, that one,

I smiled.

That one,

he said.

Just then

some kid fell out of a tree

and started wailing.

My friend the plague

rushing over to

help.

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.

Who's Afraid . By John Patrick Robbins

He always spoke in riddles and largely wrote like shit.
Many like minded halfwits blew smoke up his ass and laughed behind his back.

He wrote me often I paid little to know attention.
He was more a puppy than a savage monster.

I gave him a break and he bit the hand that fed.


He still didn't have the balls to say shit to my face.

We spoke one evening at the the bar between drinks.

He was a puppet in a crowd of fools.

I published him out of pity never respect.
And my kindness truly bit me in the ass.

I threw a stick in front of a oncoming semi.

A fool often doesn't see the end coming.

He was squashed like a grape and I continued to drink like a fish.

Score one for the so called bad guy.

Sometimes a rejection is far from your worst problem.

             
John Patrick Robbins

Is the editor and chief warlord of the Frat .
He enjoys binge drinking constant work and being driven insane by fellow writers .

He also worships the devil and runs the legion of doom.

His publications include .

The Yellow Pages , Ariel Chart , Hustler Magazine, Guns And Ammo , The Serial Killer Qurterly , Ladies Home Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review.

His work is always unfiltered

SOCIAL MEDIA VERSUS THE REAL WORLD by Bruce Hodder

Instead of plunging into social media
when I got to the bus stop on Kettering Road,
I pocketed my phone and looked around me.
People were passing in their cars and vans,
some yawning, some upright staring forwards,
like automata. One man picked his nails.
One woman talked to a girl beside her.
Above them in the still-bare winter trees,
two pigeons were having frantic sex.
It was the world, the real, the present, pulsing world
that changed each moment and was born again.
And I was part of it. I belonged to life.
Thrilled to feel the current flowing through me,
I took my phone out, clumsy in my haste,
and I told all my friends on Facebook.

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’.

I USED TO BE THIN by John Tustin

I used to be thin
With that little indentation in my sternum and everything
But I never got a chance to enjoy it.
I hardly remember it.

Now I come from the shower
With this red bath towel around my middle
That now protrudes
Further than my chin.

The funny thing is
That I am less embarrassed to be naked now
Than I have ever been in my life.
It makes no sense.

Don’t get me wrong –
I don’t mind your belly, I just don’t like mine.
However, at this point I am beyond shame –
So, if you show me yours,

I’ll show you mine.

John Tustin is tired of trying to write third person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Personality Checklist by Scott Simmons

What I’m not:
1. Smart
2. Likable
3. A Good Person

What I am:
1. A professional Asshole

Scott Simmons was last seen passed out on your grandma's porch after he ran through a drive through naked in an attempt to order food for his imaginary friend who secretly thought that he was a douchebag and claimed that he only hung out with Scott "Because of the free shit". Scott has also been seen hiding in the back seat of several vans heading to Disneyland.

DEAD MOON CALLING MY NAME by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

The dead moon is calling my name.
I walk around on my hands and feet
howling like a wolf and growling.
I feel like a Mexican werewolf in
London, only in America.

I have a hunger and thirst for
something more tastier than blood.
Feed me tacos, give me beer, and
nobody will get hurt. I’ll put a
20 down, you can keep the change.

The dead moon is calling my name.
Maybe it is just the voices in my
head reminding me it’s time to eat.
I’ve got the midnight munchies.
Let the dead moon lead the way.

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health 

field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy,

Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.

SMALL MERCIES. By Bryn Fortey

“I’m grateful for small mercies,”

I said to Will Mayo

An American Facebook friend

I will never meet in person

“That’s what our lives are made of,”

He came back with

And he wasn’t wrong

Small mercies  

Tiny victories

Tiny losses

Will appears to lead

A solitary existence

With cat and books

Reading and writing

While trying to make sense

Of an unfathomable universe 

He seems quietly content

With this lifestyle

Whether forced or evolved

Accepting the limits

That human frailty

Places on us all

Entering now my eighth decade

Learning to cope

With failing bits and pieces

I laugh at both losses and victories

And gratefully accept small mercies

Friends and family help a lot

Bryn Fortey is a veteran writer from Wales in the UK. Widely published

over the years, he has had two collections published by The Alchemy 

Press, both featuring a mix of short stories and poetry. He is grateful that

in old age he is still able to put pen to paper and finger to keyboar

POETRY SUBMISSION COVER LETTER AFTER READING 100 STRAIGHT LITERARY JOURNAL GUIDELINES GIVING PREFERENCE TO DIVERSE VOICES by John Tustin

To the Cisgender Poetry Editor, The Deflated Flapjack,
I’m a non-binary biracial hermaphrodite unicorn who identifies as the third car of the Number 7 Train that runs from Flushing, Queens to Times Square Manhattan after midnight on weekends. I am in a polyamorous non-traditional relationship with a demisexual mermaid descended from Zulu royalty and a Mestizo kitchen table.
My greatest claim to fame besides my dual degrees in Gender Fluid Studies and Navajo Folk Dancing is that three letters and an area code are under consideration to be added to LGBTQQIP2SAA because of me!
Oh, I almost forgot - I am sending 3 poems for your consideration: Dead Candles, Leaky Pipes and The Beer Cans Keep Piling Up.

Thank you again for your consideration,
Mx. John Tustin

John Tustin is tired of trying to write third person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Yellow Tape. By Michael Estabrook

He knows all about roofs

23 years in the business he’s comfortable up there

but not complacent always pays attention to where the edges are

As a veteran he teaches the newbies the ropes:

how to slide the shingles, position the nail gun

Works up there with his brother

thought of starting their own company but it’s too complicated

Today they were finishing up a higher 2-story flat roof

needed to mark the edges with yellow tape

if OSHA comes by can levy a heavy fine

Does get hot up there have to stay hydrated keep your cap on

Three generations of roofers

my grandpa helped start the company

they still pay him even though he’s retired

For some reason we all like to gamble, smoke and drink beer

We like working Sundays

can make some good money working Sundays

But I don’t have any roofing stories so nothing

to contribute to the conversation

simply sit and listen wishing I were up on the roof now

so I could jump the hell off it

Michael Estabrook:

Retired now writing more poems and working more

outside just noticed two Cooper’s hawks

staked out in the yard or rather above it

which explains the nerve-wracked chipmunks.

The Poet’s Curse, A Miscellany (The Poetry Box, 2019)

is a recent collection.