Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Beef Curtains (2) By Ryan Quinn Flanagan


Saw this thing on social media
where some woman claimed to have
sent a picture of her vagina to some guy
who wrote back that he loved to eat 
at Arby’s as well.

It was probably a joke, but you can never tell.
The world is changing clothes all the time.

I noticed that only men were laughing.
Which happens a lot nowadays.

It gave me a good laugh as well.
And why not.





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.

Saturday, February 22, 2020

FEETZ. By John Tustin



Show me the arches
Show me the toes
I hate the shoes
But I do love the hoes!

The underside wrinkles
The furrowed sweet soles
Give me the tingles
Deep down in my soul

Show me your feetz
Press them against me
Just be discreet
Don’t dare charge a fee

Show me the ankles
Show me the calves
Instead of the Have-nots
We can be Haves

Show me the tiddies
Show me the butt
I might like chubby toes

But I do love a slut!







John Tustin might like pix of women's feet sent to his Facebook inbox but he hates to
write third-person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Cover Charge. By Linda Kleinbub


 Broken souls gather
buy the two-drink minimum,
look for romantic remedies.

Your advice was
Don’t write about life
write about art.

I say, Paint me black
splatter your pigment
on my wedding dress.

You’re a beer-soaked barroom,
I’m an engagement ring
lost on the floor.

We Fred Astaire tap dance
in the curb’s holy water.
Your kisses were jewels,
dope bought on the Lower East Side.

We crawl out of abandoned squats,
you say you speak fiction-
your heart is exposed,
I tell true stories,
you are forewarned.





Photo by Arthur Kaye

Linda Kleinbub is the host of the monthly Fahrenheit Open Mic, the founder of Pen Pal Poets and the curator of a summer reading series at 6BC Community Garden. She received her MFA from The New School. Some of her work has appeared in The New York Observer, The Brooklyn Rail, The Best American Poetry Blog, Yahoo! Beauty, First Literary Review-East, and multiple anthologies. Her first full-length book of poetry is forthcoming from A Gathering of Tribes Press / A Fly by Night Press. 

Thursday, February 13, 2020

Reflections From The Gutter by Ron Murphy

Once upon a time  there was a man with a perfect voice.
He wasn't like those others, that spoke in riddles or allowed a woman to choose were they were going to eat for the evening.

He stood tall and kept those others in their place.
He was a true man, he cut his grass and cussed his dog for pooping in the hot tub.

Once this man had a home.
Until his cold hearted bitch if an ex blackmailed him with some pictures of him with her sister and grandmother.

Fuck you Kodak.

My life has been hell ever since.





Ron Murphy: Is the voice over legend of poetry and often judged and seldom impersonated by crybabies who can't take a joke yet sure can copy and steal.

His work has been published in.

Hustler, Esquire, Water World Qaurtely , The Bathroom Wall, The Dope Fiend Daily,  Sex On The Beach And Sand Up Your Crack Review, And The Crayon Anthology Series.

He is currently in the witness protection program.


You're Welcome.




Monday, February 10, 2020

Another Dream. By Puma Perl


Someone asked me
what kind of audience
my shows attract.
Recently released
mental patients and people
who are obsessed with me,
I replied.
Life imitates dreams.







Puma Perl is a poet and writer, with five solo collections in print. The most recent is Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books, 2019.) She is the producer/creator of Puma’s  Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll, and she performs regularly with her band Puma Perl and Friends. She’s received three New York Press Association awards in recognition of her journalism, and is the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing.

Photo, Dina Regine


Wednesday, February 5, 2020

Ode to Judge Judy. By Vicki Iorio


Every afternoon, mom, the cat and I watch
Judge Judy. Mom is 98. Guppy the cat,
in dog years is not too far behind.

Each has a basket of meds on the kitchen counter.
Their medicines are the same: heart medication,
blood pressure pills, miracles for constipation.

I administer the afternoon doses before we watch the Judge.
Today Judy has a new hairstyle. It looks like a George 
Washington pony tail. The diamond studs in her earlobes

are almost as big as her head.  We know these rocks are real and try
to calculate their value. Her bailiff is buff and sexy. His name is Byrd.
I thought it was Burt before I googled. If he were a bird, he would be a

condor. We love Byrd, he looks up prices of old cars in the Kelley Blue Book
and helps Judy with math. When the defendant and the plaintiff
are there because of an altercation, Judge Judy calls this a kerfuffle.

Mom smiles and says that’s a Yiddish word. The internet disagrees
and says kerfuffle is of Celtic origin. I don’t want to have a kerfuffle with mom,
let her have her moment. After Judy, I make mom a light supper of eggs

and matzah, I give the cat a fresh can of cat food, and go to my room
with a chardonnay and the penal code.




Vicki Iorio is the author of Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press and the chapbooks Send Me a Letter, dancinggirlpress and Something Fishy, Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in numerous print and on-line journals including The Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, poets respond on line, The Fem Lit Magazine, and The American Journal of Poetry.

Saturday, February 1, 2020

Gaming At A Friend's. By Alyssa Trivett


When it comes down to it,
I'm truly only good at
lottery scratching for the
winning number of 7 and
settling for a stern 6 in the boxes,
but my Nintendo controller and
arcade drone tendencies from '93
suddenly show up at the door
and sink back in, finally.
My character trots and
plays charades in the form of
my shaky espresso hands
trying to find my You Are Here
on the screen.
I huff and puff from running amuck.
I've got guitar player blisters
on my fingers
from joystick bliss and
my fading red target
might as well be
lost in a difficulty level of expert
but my high score mistakingly
ran up as a thermometer
under hot water and the
enjoyment aspect was
far greater than I imagined,
last evening.





Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places, but most recently at Ex Ex Lit, and Duane's PoeTree site.

Bar Food is Always Questionable. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan


I tap her on the shoulder 
and she gives me the once over,
smiles and leans in, 
trying to give me her number
as I tell her I just want by.

Pointing towards the bar at the back
from a busy dance floor.

Embarrassed in front of her friends.
All those ladies that drink for free.
Bar food is always questionable
and the music very loud.

She gives me the finger 
so that I think about how those many
white wedding photos will look.

What a lucky man he will be 
on that day before the full scope of the nightmare 
finally becomes apparent.




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.

Oscar Wilde Knows What Stupidity and Misfortune Are. By John Doyle


 Oscar Wilde knows what misfortune and stupidity are,
this is the second gas-station gig
I've dragged myself into.

Steph appointed herself supervisor - the manager -
a guy from Cork who looks half-Viking, half plain-stupid
says nothing. So every-time Steph is finished her shift

she tells me which of the two bathrooms I should clean,
writes notes in the diary about the dirty weekend she'll have,
a little pencil caricature of herself beside vague details

of aforementioned dirty weekend. 
There's a kind soul here who should be called Cletus.
Him and me wonder what Steph means by dirty weekend, 

I shout a few suggestions from the bathroom 
as I clean it and he guffaws like a hyena. Customers look around,
remaining silent - I should probably care.

The final ever Evening Press arrives.
Cletus has a good laugh, a good wholegrain mustard laugh,
plays W.A.S.P. tapes on his car 

which draws the ire of the queen of sophistication Steph -
back from her dirty weekend 
which consisted of looking at Prêt-à-Porter.

This escapes our manager from Cork,
who instead uses his Oxbridge days and silk-smooth tongue
to tell me what will happen to my career

if I leave the can with skidmarks in it again.
Oscar Wilde knows what stupidity and misfortune are,
can he do a Nostradamus too?

See this hulking slab of lard with Albert Trotter’s beard in 25 years
recovering from his third nervous breakdown,
Steph running mindfulness clinics 

for couples with sons called Jude?
I hope not. It's far too frightening: 
those poor lost and helpless shits, 

the two of them.
I look for Cletus on Facebook.

Still nothing.





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.

A Guide To Truck Stop Dharma by Scott Simmons


Drunken Texas asshole is a state of mind achieved only by proper mayonnaise saturation.
This involves coating body in the stinky white goo of Billy Ray Cyrus.

Then you must rub it in, rub it deeply in until you see a unicorn's golden shower.
As soon as it is in your sights you must attack with all of your ever lasting virginity.

Also I don't know why daddy doesn't love me anymore but I'm still pretty damn it!
Not that I'm desperate but will you please tell me I'm pretty?

Oh anyways yeah just drink the golden shower or whatever and get into a toaster oven
with a two bedrooms or something else that I quit giving a shit about like 5 minutes ago.

All I'm saying is that,
I'M STILL FUCKING SEXY DESPITE WHAT YOU TOLD ME YOU FUCKING BITCH!

SO "RUB THAT ONE IN" YOU FUCKING COUNTRY ASSHOLE!




Scott Simmons is an aspiring dental floss basket weaver/samurai cowboy located in Compton New Jersey with a severe masturbation addiction and a dick that is too small to find with a electron microscope. He is also available for rentals as a truffle hunting gimp that has discovered the magic of friendship and duct tape/rope if interested please contact Issac Newton at sexysciencebitch69#lickdeeznuts@yahoo.com 

EMPTY INBOX SATURDAY NIGHT. By John Tustin


 He made a Facebook post
He sent out a Tweet
It said, “Show me your tits,
Let’s see your feet.”

His penis was limp
His inbox was bare
It was a ghost town
Nobody was there

He thought to himself
He thought long and deep
Could I be so lonely
Because I’m a creep?

He dismissed the idea
No way that was why
So he remained thirsty
His inbox stayed dry

“I won’t ask again,
I’ll just go to bed.”
He closed social media

And jerked off instead.





John Tustin might like pix of women's feet sent to his Facebook inbox but he hates to
write third-person bios. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

BLACKBALLED by Cindy Rosmus

1979 “You see that?” I asked my roommate, Juanita. “Or am I crazy?” As Juanita peered around the dining hall, Katie got closer.   “’Ju...