Saturday, October 31, 2020

Smartass Bullshit by Scott Simmons

If you ever call me the smartest person you’ve met

It means one of two things.


You are either highly delusional or you have literally never met anyone else.


Seriously both of those things are very fucked up on your part,

but then again I guess so is my hearing.






Scott Simmons hair has caused the disappearance of 40 different species within the last decades and it also currently contains the decent season of Lost before Sonic the hedgehog ruined the series with his crystal meth addiction. If you would like to send your pee in the mail to him then send it over Ryan's house in a leaky bucket. 



New Shoes Opinion Of Older Ones by John Patrick Robbins

Often the overpriced ones hate last year's.
Yet hold respect for vintage jeans.
Mustard stains provided by Tommy Hilfiger are far more desirable, than those applied by Earle who works the gas station down in Evansville Indiana 
The runway is a distant cousin to the treadmill. 
Who although related, never acknowledge one another.
The Jack boot never Jack's off.
For it's to respected in its sinister desire.
A death march beats a peace rally.
The pizza is truly just a sloppy cheeseburger.
With more toppings but I'm more into the buns myself.
We're all naked inside,  with a ton of stinky parts.
Shoes only need feet.
Unlike humans with empty souls.






              John Patrick Robbins 

Currently resides on the Death Star and enjoys destroying planets and long nights spent alone binge drinking and crying himself to sleep.

He also collects ceramic cats and fine wines .

He runs the legion of doom in his free time.
And yes he did target you in one of his many misspelled writes.

He has published in. Tiger Beat Magazine, The Illuminati Quarterly , Esquire, The Ryan Quinn Flanagan Quarterly, The Paranoid Fuckers Review and the Justin Bieber Anthology Series.

He has also been nominated for a Grammy for his duet with Roy Rogers.

Please drink responsibly and allow your dog to park the car.




Night Of The Dwarfs by Rathnar

Tonight the mighty Rathnar keeps the fires burning, awaiting the little demon dwarfs 

Raiding my village demanding treats.

I have sharpened my battle axe.
And drank much mead and feasted upon mushrooms of the magic stew.

I will bathe in their blood and claim many heads to take place upon the pike to please Odin in the morning.

The great serpents minions shall not defeat Rathnar.
Tonight I do battle and will chase these odd mini demons back to abyss where they belong.

Then return to rape the near by villages to restore order.
Thor, guide my axe and let not the evil monsters bring this Viking down.

Tonight I fight and raise my drinking horn to my brothers.

See you in Vallhala  where we shall feast and kill for eternity.

All hail the mighty Rathnar.





Rathnar Kilbane, is the poet laureate of Iceland.
He enjoys raiding villages and pillaging.
His scrolls have been published many places, such as.

The New Yorker, The Old Red Dragon Review, Esquire Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Ryan Quinn Flanagan Quarterly, and The Modern Viking Spring Catalog.

He was recently nominated for a Pulitzer for his soon to be published scroll from High Times Magazine.




Testimonials by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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Why Were The Knives Not Kept Hidden? by Kevin Hibshman

Poor boy.

Born poor.

He listens in to voices that promise him more than

the seedy life of loss he has known.


He has suffered at the hands of others after bending himself to their will.

He wanders blithely if anything can yet be discovered among the empty days he 

struggles to fill.


They tried to reason with him when they thought his demons were asleep.

They offered plans, gave him more pills and made promises they could never 

hope to keep.


His anger raged, a pure white flame, one afternoon when the thin line snapped.

The cops broke down the door and quickly took aim when they realized he held

a knife behind his back.

“He stabbed me once,” his mother shrieked.

“He will surely stab again.”

As they carried out his lifeless form, one officer asked: 

“Why weren't the knives kept hidden?”






Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide. In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).






All That by Susan Tepper

After we hid the large bills in her sweater bin under the bed, we stuffed the twenties, tens and fives in her teapot collection.  Annie didn’t want the money.  Especially not in her favorite pot.  Large and yellow, it was made to look like a lemon.  We bought that one in Italy when we were still getting along.  After we had spaghetti carbonara in a little cafĂ© off the beaten track.  It was dusky when we finished, and the side streets had thinned out.  She saw it in a shop window that hadn’t shuttered yet for the night.  The one she used to use to make iced tea.  Before I cheated. Before the cousins.  Before the money in spaghetti boxes.  When she still trusted me.  When she trusted the water was safe for drinking.  When she believed organic lemon peel was legit. When she lifted the tea kettle without a pot holder.  When she thought she was lovely.  All that.   




Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most current titles are CONFESS (poetry published by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a funky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019) that was shortlisted at American Book Fest.  Tepper has received eighteen Pushcart Prize Nominations, and other awards and honors.  She's a native New Yorker.  www.susantepper.com


 

October 27th by Alyssa Trivett

A few days before Halloween,
I putt putt my boxcar to work
before the vampires are up.
Boulevard reeks of
a restaurant smoking section
from '94 mixed in with
unwashed cut-off jeans.
As the day begins, 
we lift our coffee cups
up to the Van Gogh yellow sunrise.
I count sweating clock ticks until I can leave.
Before I know it, I'll be heading home,
pulling into the winner's circle driveway.
My neighbor's prop skeletons 
always seem to greet me;
swaying back and forth, 
snapping like a broken slingshot
in the middle of study hall boredom.
We envy the sun 
and evening suddenly switches on.



'


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.




Saturday, October 17, 2020

Your Sheets Don’t Smell Good by Susan Tepper

For starters, I had to climb a shaky wooden ladder to his loft ‘bedroom’. If you could call it that. A mattress squeezed into an area where the ceiling sloped sharply.

He was pretty tall, over six foot. I’m 5’4 and couldn’t sit up on that mattress without bashing my head on the ceiling. Looking at each other, we both sort of scrunched up there.

The loft stank. He hadn’t the decency to change the sheets from his prior shags. It was that kind of odor. I told him: “Your sheets don’t smell good.”

“I’ll have to change them,” he said before climbing on top of me.

What was sexy about him clothed became disturbingly unsexy up in that loft. He had way too much body hair everywhere. His back reminded me of a mossy knoll where you might picnic. He moved like a half-dead animal. Like his body had gone into early rigor mortis.

The whole thing rather stunned me. I had expected a James Bond-style love-making scenario and instead got The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I couldn’t blast that image from my brain.

His kisses were good on my lips and perfunctory on my body.

When he started to sweat, The Hunchback became a slithery sea creature moving slowly across a stationary landmass (me). I couldn’t do a goddamn thing. Not one fake moan found its way into my throat.

When ‘it’ was over, I gave the pee excuse and made my way down the unsteady loft ladder. His landline phone began ringing. “Do you want me to answer your phone?” I called up to him.

“No don’t answer it,” he said.

Hmm…

In his bathroom was a small, white standing floor cabinet, which I’d seen at Pottery Barn.  It held his collection of watches in a neat row across the top. I stood there counting them. Eleven. Some had names I’d never heard of.  But others, like a vintage Cartier, caught my interest. I picked up the black-banded Cartier, so perfectly round and trimmed in silver that was undoubtedly platinum.  Being a Cartier and all.  I strapped it to my wrist. Too large for my thin wrist but gorgeous nevertheless. I looked around his bathroom for somewhere to stash it temporarily. Then decided it was time to go home.

“I have to get up early,” I called up to him.

“Did you flush? I didn’t hear the flush,” he yelled down.

“Whoopsy! Forgot to flush.” I went back in the bathroom and made two good flushes so he’d be sure and hear.

Then I put on my clothes and stuffed his vintage Cartier into my bra.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” I called up to him. He was already snoring.





Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry published by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and the road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019). Tepper has received many honors and awards. She’s a native ) New Yorker. www.susantepper.com





Sunday, October 11, 2020

Pissing In The Wind by Ian Lewis Copestick

I'm pissing In the wind,
farting into a thunderstorm.
I feel like Sisyphus heaving rock.
I'm nearly 50,
and I'm fucked.
Why, oh why does it always
have to be so difficult ?
Just when it feels like things
are running smoothly, God or
some other spoilsport has
to throw a big fucking spanner
right into my works.
Or is it me, subconsciously ?
It's strange how often these
things always happen to me.
But, no I'm not a masochist,
and the thought that I might
be causing myself so much
pain is enough to make my
head spin.
No, it's just my rotten luck.
If I fell into a barrel of tits,
I'd come out sucking my
thumb.
It's the way it's always been,
and I suppose it always will.
If it wasn't for bad luck,
I'd have no luck at all.



Ian Lewis Copestick is a 48 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.

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...