the golden mile By Stephen House

back then it was called the golden mile and golden it certainly was / with night-life trappings from end to end in nothing could equal Oxford Street / i was told how globally unique it was by a foreign one-night fling / and i suppose we all knew that and travelled to get there if we didn’t reside in Sydney / nights would start at the famous corner pub situated across from Taylor Square / the hottest place in town to meet and see what happened from there / by midnight and several well-priced pints the chat of where we were heading bounced / and there was no lack of places to go along that road so we let it take us to where it would / it was a queer street without any doubt at all but also had a hetero-not-sure sway / and i suppose that gave it an edgy element of anything at all might present / across the road from the meet-up pub the drag shows ran non-stop / the queens all headed into the lights providing fabulous show-girl entertainment / so began the one mile trawl from bar to bar of lets-stop-here for a beer / until about 1am when the dance club line ups began stretching on forever / the cover charges and spirits were cheaper back then even when you look at the different time / it was definitely easier to party for many and the socio-economic mix added much / but the golden mile wasn’t all glitz and glamour with plenty of secret doorways / leading up stairways to hidden cruise clubs and back rooms where the flesh play was in full-swing / i guess one can always pretend that gold never tarnishes but any observer saw the darker sides / addiction and desperate loneliness on a street that could also be sad and wasted / and those wobbling alone at dawn-night-end without trick they were sure they’d find / until the after-parties and day-clubs emerged and a pill or two kept things rolling / one day could slide dangerously into the next on the golden mile of always a party / for gold will always glow longer than silver and bronze if someone is still there to adore it / that shine of what happened on that pumping mile will always live on in memories / and no-one can take a pure gold time away if it existed and was one’s reality //

    

Stephen House has won awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s been commissioned often, with 20 plays produced, many published by Australian Plays Transform, and produced nationally and internationally. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts to Canada and Ireland, and an Asialink residency to India. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His poetry is published often. He’s performed his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen's recently had a play run in Spain for 4 years.

White Horse Tavern By Terrence Sykes

….unattributed to Dylan Thomas

I died with the taste

of cheap whisky

upon my breath

and malty regret

upon my lips 

Terrence Sykes is a GASP Gay Alcoholic Southern Poet & was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia.     Although he is a far better cook &  gardener – his  poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in India, Mauritius,Scotland, Spain and the USA. ..Other interests include heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles .

Past Midnight Off Spencer By Scott Simmons

I see the empty road and think of her.

The static of the radio reminding me of distant memories shared between two tortured souls.

As I remember the chaos of her storm.

And every beautiful moment in between.

Along with the pain of letting it all go.

But cherish everything.

With only the stars as my remaining company.

Scott Simmons is a poet, humorist, and a shitty artist from Houston Texas. He is also the editor of the Dope Fiend Daily and usually enjoys reading your submissions as little as possible.

His work has been featured in places such as The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, HST, Daune's Poetree, It Takes All Kinds, Off The Coast Magazine, The Black Shamrock, The Anti-Heroin chic, and Under The Bleachers

Incineration Pajamas By Wendy Cartwright

A nightgown filled with banana peels and sharp cheddar

on my loveseat

burns the midnight oil

The trash truck made its rounds this morning

I guess I’ll let it smolder

Wendy Cartwright is a poet/author/reporter/columnist/weirdo out of Columbus, Indiana. Her travels have taken her as far as Mayan Ruins and as near as the filling station. Her undiscerning tastes allow her to find creative fodder regardless of location. She has been published in various print anthologies and been featured in online publications. With three self-published books, she has the most of anyone on her block.

Last Call By Jake St. John

Loneliness

ain't the greatest

drinking buddy

but sometimes

he's the only one

we got.

Jake St. John lives in the woods on the edge of the Salmon River. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Lips Leave Scars (with Jenn Knickerbocker, Whiskey City Press, 2023) Ring of Fog (Holy and Intoxicated Publications, 2022), Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). He is the editor of Elephant and is considered an original member of the New London School of poetry. His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world."

There Really is a Bottom By Don Robishaw

You’re on the road to tent city with our friend Fran.

  It’s the path to hard ground.

 Five minutes from tents remove wine from brown sack.

  Again fill skin to the brim.

 Four minutes from tents what can you do?

 What’s the word? 

  Thunderbird! 

 What’s the price?

  Thirty twice. 

 Tip back and squeeze.

What’s next?

 Stop one minute from tent city.

  Make love on hard ground, 

 under bridge over bottomless river.

  Fran refuses my fin, 

 later she cry. 

Christ Sakes man that vet ain’t no hoe.

 Rest on granite stone, 

  don’t look at each other,

 We shiver, 

  Who is Malcolm? 

 Fran asks as she touches ink on my arm.

  Sorry darlin’ never talk bout Malcolm.

 Turn to stare, 

  stare out at the muddy river. 

Willie you mean bottomless river.

  No bro there really is a bottom,

 and it looks like Fran and me.

Don Robishaw’s collection of five FF tales found in, ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the Grand Winner in Defenestrationism, 2020 Flash Fiction Suite Contest.

Don’s short story entitled,’Bad Paper Odyssey’ was a semi-finalist in Digging Through the Fat 2018 Chapbook Contest.

fuck By Chris Dean

It's 7am and I want to drink

I want to drown

I want to lose myself

in a haze of

fuck the world

fuck this shit

fuck my life

I want to drown

until I forgot my name

silence my mind

bury my soul at sea

until the booze tastes of tears

straight up, neat

until I'm as empty

as the bottle will be by noon

Chris Dean is a storyteller, spoken word artist and self-proclaimed Magpie Poet who writes from the heart of Indiana where they live with their husband, dog and too many cats to mention. 

Their work has been featured online, in multiple print anthologies and they are the author of two books of poetry, Tales From a Broken Girl and We're All Stories in the End, published by Storeylines Press.