How Do You Spell Writer ? , D.I.C.K. By Janet Robbins

Writers are assholes wanna know why?

Cause their dicks are always in their hands and their brains are in sky .

                                Janet Robbins

Is retired and doesn't care to do shit but party and post cute animal vids on Facebook she did not pay to be published or pull a gun on anyone and I am not currently being held hostage to write her bio.

Janet enjoys a good drink and even better music and largely thinks here editor son is a pain in the ass .

So with that said let's party!

Sex Tape with a Woman in a Vegetative State. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

He borrowed an old Hi-8 camera from a friend

and set it on the ledge of the bathroom vanity overlooking

his parent’s soaker tub

and he raided the refrigerator of all its vegetables

and built the likeness of a woman out of them,

then he took off all his clothes and pressed play

and got on top of the vegetable woman in the soaker tub

and pumped away until he finished.

   

And he talked dirty the whole time

into her ears of corn.

Sucking on her baby carrot nipples

until his lips were orange.

Then he uploaded the 7 minute video to YouTube

under the title: Sex Tape with a Woman in a Vegetative State.

To his surprise, it had more than a million hits in under 24 hours

before it was taken down.

When he was done with the vegetables he put them back in the fridge.

His mother’s weekly book club stir-fries never tasting so good.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

I Hop by Mavis Mathers

Hot Coffee and sticky syrup upon the table.
Open 24 hours.

Much like my mind.
I never want to close my thoughts out to be single minded either.

The world is round not flat.
Get real.

Power to the people.

Mavis Mathers is a spiritual guru and poetry legend from Baltimore Maryland who has the ferocity of a thousand stars in his gaze and the gentle hands of a healer. He does not ask for money but you can pay him 20,000 dollars on Pateron  if the universe makes you wish to do so.

Ass Kissing Convention by Scott Simmons

The men approached each other in an alley with a nervous look.
One said “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

The other obliged and he whipped it out right then and there.
It was a poem poorly scribbled on notebook paper.

His anonymous friend pretended to read it and gave him fake praise.
Both were too smart to know that it wasn’t true.

But having their heads shoved up their ass was still far less shitty than their work.

Scott Simmons Weiner has never been caught on film except for some magical movies he made in his basement for weirdos on the internet for 5 dollars and it is presumed to live in Costa Rica with Buddy Holly and Aquaman in a transatlantic Orgy. If you have an idea where it is hiding then please call the number 832-802-9430 but make sure your wearing something sexy.

THERE WAS NO NEED by Brian Rihlmann

he’d grown
into a bitter old bastard
so i threw a bit of meanness
back at him
and he winced, said
“didn’t anyone ever teach you
to respect your elders boy?”

i reminded him
“this is America...
we don’t give a shit
about our elders here.”

i could’ve reminded him
how he warehoused
his own mother
in a sterile white place
never visited her
and then stuck her
unceremoniously
in the family plot
with the rest
of their orphaned bones

but from the look
on his face
i could see
there was no need

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse, much of it on the so-called "grittier" side.  Folk poetry...for folks.  He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

The Traps by John D Robinson

I set the traps myself and
then try and avoid them:
of course, I know what and
where the traps are and
how to avoid them but I
begin to create excuses,
reasons and justifications
for falling into the traps
and taking a little more
codeine, a little more of
diazepam and rolling too
many fat ones and too
many glasses of wine and
then I curse myself for
doing it, again, everyday
I plan and fail without
fail:
we all do the same I guess,
in one way of a kind, seek
things that offer comfort, a
temporary peace, a refuge
from the political, social,
theological, cultural,
artistic demands that keep
us bonded to this unmerciful
relentless machine that will
claim even our dust.

John D Robinson is a UK poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared in small press zines and online literary journals His published solo chapbooks are

‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Press 2016)   scars.tv/

‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016   sold out)

‘An Outlaw In The Making’  (Scars Publications 2017)

‘Hitting Home’  (Iron Lung Press 2018  2nd edition)   ironlungpress.bigcartel.com/about-iron–lung–press

‘In Pursuit Of  Shadows’  (Analog Submission Press 2018  sold out)  www.analogsubmission.com

‘Echoes Of Diablo’  (Concrete Meat Press 2018)  adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress

Too Many Drinks Ago’  (Paper & Ink Zine Publications) http://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/PaperAndInkZine

Pushing Away The Hours    2018   www.lulu.com/.../john-d-robinson/pushing-away-the-hours/.../product-23872337.html 

‎ ‘Hang In There’      (Uncollected Press  2019    USA)  therawartreview.com

Scion of Suburbia by John Grochalski

when I was a kid
we were far from rich

 but we had a tight, little duplex house
and a tight, little duplex garage

 a tight, little yard
where I played all the sports
with all of the kids in the neighborhood

even though I wasn’t sure
that I liked sports

or all of the kids in the neighborhood
or tight, little yards
or tight, little duplex garages
or tight, little duplex houses

I guess I never fit in
being the scion of suburbia

I get off on letting America down

maybe that’s why I’m sitting here now
sitting here for years like this

sweating my ass off before the sun comes up
sweat smelling of vodka and wine

trying to write poems
when it’s too hot in this room to think

watching
a tight, little cockroach
climb up the wall

up toward the tight, little water damaged ceiling

that looks about ready
to call it a life
and burst its rusty water

all over this tight, little wooden floor.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.