Monday, January 21, 2019

Closed Railway Station : Lucan North by John Doyle

Mid-West agriculture brown as lungs

tethered soul, cobwebbed soil, moist, prowling;

and breathing to a round of thunderclapped applause

Clark Kent leaves a vapor trail behind him

and the jocks spellbound

in their open top rockabilly jukebox car.

I’ve opened my eyes, the 12;44 clutches bends like the mist

seduces letter box, the padded flap of correspondence, mist-cold floor.

There are sprigs of mountain -

a surviving telegraph pole brown as Mid-West lung

jutting its way through the trailing thunder, the letters read of siblings, Canada Dry, Pepsi Cola

rockabilly jukebox car, gifted boys leave dust as footballs land 5 days later

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.

Sunday, January 20, 2019

Bukowski Drank Here by Scot Young

Everybody thinks they’re a goddamned poet. So whatta you write?

Bits and pieces of my life, I said.

Haikus? he belched , swirling the wine in his glass.

Yeah, sometimes, I said

Get off that shit, real poets don’t write that crap. Hell, Kerouac couldn’t even pull it off.

He gave the high sign to the bartender.

Set the kid up too, he said

From the book jackets I’d seen, he looked like Chinaski. Same slicked back hair. Same pock marked face. He toasted, clicking his glass to mine, downing it like a shot, then nodding to the bartender for another. We stared straight ahead at the rows of liquor bottles, repeating this ritual through the remainder of the Frolic Room’s happy hour.

Fuck a haiku, he said, suddenly breaking his silence.

You know, every time some sonofabitch writes a poem about me, I end up in a bar. Hell, I didn’t drink in bars—too damned expensive. Tell them to leave me the fuck alone. I’m worn out bar hoppin’—fuckin’ poets

He spun around on his stool, stood up, cigarette hanging from his lip, adjusted himself and walked out into the Hollywood night.

The bartender, walked over from the other end of the room , placed the tab beside my glass and said,

Hey bud, that’ll be $ 83.50

Scot Young herds goats with the woman of his dreams on a ridge top  farm in the Missouri Ozarks.He is widely published online and in numerous print anthologies with recent publications in  This is Poetry, and Gasconade Review 2 and 3. His first chap Brautigan Meets Bukowski is out of print with a copy archived in the Brautiagn Library. His new book, All Around Cowboy will be published by Spartan Press. He is the editor of the Rusty Truck and the publisher at Rusty Truck Press.  

Saturday, January 19, 2019

The Bar. J. Barrett Wolf

The bar I can't go back to
is on California Street
at the end of the cable car line.

Old-school dark wood,
a huge back mirror,
all the bottles lined up
like a firing squad
locked and loaded
for the sad, happy denizens
of downtown San Francisco.
It's been thirty-four years
since I stepped in between
two drunks, ordered them
to take it outside,
because I'd be damned
if they were going to fight
in my home away from home,
where we played quarters
and celebrated my graduation
from the police academy
and my father looked at me
like I was an adult for the first time.

Where we'd slip outside
to smoke joints in the red brick alley
or buy a drink
for the slim, black-haired girl
who took me home
and went completely wild,
scaring the hell out of me
in the best possible way.

I can't go back because
these are memories.
I walk down California Street,
from Polk,
but the bar, the drunks, the girl,
and the thinner man who wore my face
are gone.

J. Barrett Wolf lives and writes in Binghamton, NY, where he has hosted monthly poetry open mikes for ten years, currently at The Bundy Museum in Binghamton.

He has won numerous awards including first prize in the 1993 Stamford Festival of the Arts Poetry Contest, for his poem “Old North Field,” and First Place from the Performance Poetry Association of Long Island for his poem “Antschel.” The Broome Country Library commissioned him to create a commemorative poem for their tenth anniversary.
He produced the reading series “Here & There: Poets from Near and Far” with funding from the Broome County Arts Council and has performed venues as diverse as Colorscape Chenango, The Broome County Library, The Limestone Dust Poetry Festival in Huntsville, Alabama, Mariposa Coffee House in Washington, DC and a number of lovely little pubs on the Isle of Arran in, Scotland.

Wolf has  studied at The Irish Writers center and travels annually to Scotland to workshop with poets from the British Isles.

His first volume of poetry, “Stark Raving Calm,” was published in June of 2011 by Boone's Dock Press.

You can find out more at:

Time Is Me by Devika Mathur

Needles in my mouth, poking the sustenance of time
with a swab of cotton dipped in grey pause
A pause from the rigorous living and the dead,
beyond the veil, a harmony exists, a topology of Stardust
covering my naked breast.
A musical building devouring me with lust
sprinkling some on the nape of my neck,
Beyond this, precision exists forming clouds,
resembling my black locks elongating the path,
to travel the unfathomable soil,
the color is not Auburn, it burns
it burns on my arms, it burns on my wet tongue,
twisting in forward steps,
each moment time moves, I stay here to glean the patterns,
to play hide and seek with the mirage, a shadow.
I draw curtains, performing segments to watch
the porcelain body of time's shadow,
drawing paintings on the cerulean sky and I see,
a fragile moment of reflection
swallowing the colossal truth of me
Time is Me

Devika Mathur is a published poetess from the country of love, India. She writes for her own blog
Her work has been published in Madswirl, Visual Verse, Subterranean blue poetry, two drops of ink among various others.

Friday, January 18, 2019

A T.V. Life by Ian Copestick

When you start to measure
Out your life, by which T.V.
Shows you watch, then you
Know that you're in trouble.
' It's 2:15 so it's Father Brown,'
Or, ' It's 4'O"Clock, it's time for
Friends.' This should tell you
That you really need to be
Doing more with your time.

Life is short, although at times
It doesn't feel it, and planning
Your days by the T.V Times,
Really isn't how you should be
Spending it.
Get outside, take a look at the
Sky, the trees and all of the
Other cool things. Breathe the
Fresh air, while it's still there.
Because the way things are
Going, that stuff won't be
There much longer. On the
News the other day, it said that
In London, the pollution's so
Toxic it killed a little girl.
But, if it wasn't for T.V., I never
Would've known that, and
Tomorrow they're showing
Reruns of Quincy.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 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.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Wearing Wounds Well. by Scott Thomas Outlar

I prefer a shirt
that has been through
some wars
over some
sanitized, fresh-pressed, sell-out version
from a plastic package
bearing a sweat shop
corporate label –

The shirts I wear
wore out
all name brand tags
ages ago …
I’ve got the holes
around my neck
to prove the point –

I prefer a shirt
with some character …
a little hint of blood
a little sweaty sex
a little ash and mud
a little dust and grime
a little spill of wine
a little sentimental press against my flesh

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His fifth collection of poetry, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press. 


Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Ladies In Waiting. by Peter V. Dugan

Outside the bar
sixteen and seventeen
year-old princesses
dress in tank tops,
tie-dyed tee-shirts,
cut denim shorts,
and Indian skirts,
smoking cigarettes
and drinking
from wine sacks
and bottles of Jack.

They moon-dance under
the neon lights
and dream of bankers
and brokers
driving white  
to carry them away,
but tonight they settle
for black leather
bikers on Harleys.

They are the wild flowers
that fills empty spaces.

Peter V. Dugan is the current Nassau County Poet Laureate, NY (2017-19).  He has published six collections of poetry and co-edited Long Island Sounds 2015 and Writing Outside the Lines poetry anthologies. He has received Honorable Mention from the American Academy of Poetry, LI Bards Poet Mentor Award by the Bards Initiative and he has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Poetry Prize. Mr. Dugan also hosts a reading series, Celebrate Poetry at the Oceanside Library, Oceanside NY, an open mic for teens and college student, It’s poetry, baby! at Sip This CafĂ© in Valley Stream NY and a reading series, Paumanok Pirate Poets, at Starbuck’s Long Beach NY.

Closed Railway Station : Lucan North by John Doyle

Mid-West agriculture brown as lungs tethered soul, cobwebbed soil, moist, prowling; and breathing to a round of thunderclapped applause...