Tuesday, January 31, 2023

Sacrifice by Daniel S. Irwin

The doc told him
That he needed to
Give up his nightly
Whiskey and soda
Or he was certainly
Going to die.
His poor kidneys had
Become like sponges.
Reluctantly, sadly,
He agreed and
Cut out the soda.

Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is).  Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.

Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films. 

Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded.  Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.

Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away. 

Saturday, January 28, 2023

Standard Issue Guy-Drinking-All- Alone-at-the-Bar Poem by Jason Ryberg

to God
I didn’t
mean to write one more
standard issue guy-drinking-all-
alone-at-the-bar poem but the Rolling Stones were
coming on the juke box with All Down the Line and that
     song just blows the goddamn doors
off, and the place actually had Stag, on tap, and
White Label Evan, and then it
was ZZ Top with
Just Got Paid
and I
me too,
and now look
what I’ve done. Oh well, 
maybe this one ends up with some 
girl’s number on it (only to be run through the wash). 


Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors.
He is currently an artist-in-residence at both
The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s
and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor
and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection
of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme
(co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and
Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time
in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red
and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere
in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also
many strange and wonderful woodland critters

Friday, January 27, 2023

Turned Down Service by Matt Amott

He noticed her
in the lobby
while checking in
to the hotel,
long red hair
and bright blues eyes.

He was a bit cocky
thinking he might be able
to get her into his room
but she turned him down
and added that
she was maid staff,
so the only time
she would ruffle his sheets
is after he checked out.

Matt Amott is a poet, musician and photographer who rambles around the Pacific Northwest. He is co-founder and co-editor of Six Ft. Swells Press and has been published in numerous collections as well as three books of his own, THE COAST IS CLEAR (Six Ft. Swells Press), GET WELL SOON and THE MEMORY OF HER (both by Epic Rites Press).  He can be reached at sixftswells@yahoo.com and purchases can be made at Amazon and www.sixftswellspress.com

Thursday, January 26, 2023

How to Run Work for Poets & Morons 101 by Scott Simmons

Today I read shitty submission after shitty submission.
After an hour or so passed I contemplated smashing my laptop.

Not because I cared about the clearly bleak future of literature.
Or any melodramatic horseshit like that.

But just because it's interrupting my cigarette break. 
For this “great” job that doesn’t pay me and that I waste all day on.

So, if I don’t get back to you then either the work probably sucked. 
Or I simply didn’t give a fuck and wrote this as a filler piece.

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

Wednesday, January 25, 2023

Unexpectedly by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

If I go unexpectedly,
share a little something about me
to those who knew me
who might not have known
I wrote a little poetry.

Let them know I wrote about stars,
moonlight, and birds. I do not
care to go anonymously.
Let those I knew that I
cared about them and often

wished them well and meant it.
Let them know I took photos
of the sun at different hours.
Tell them I always tried my best
to make others feel happy.

If I go unexpectedly,
tell those who knew me I wrote
a little something every day without fail.
Tell them I would write 
like if I was running out of time.

Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Ángeles. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Fearless, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Unlikely Stories.

Tuesday, January 24, 2023

we pray angels met you on the shore by Jason Baldinger

don’t know about your apocalypse
but I ‘m running out end times
shuddering down a dirt mountain road
in a new used car I paid cash
on the barrelhead for
dust cloud in the rear view
rises with morning mist 

keep alternating whiplash
juice gas then brake
that drop off
into the creek 
gives me the side eye

I’m sniffing out a trail head
trying to find a mountain
to dose space dust with

I hear it before I smell it
goddamn those old mother mountains
are whistling o danny boy 
evidently every damn word
etched in my dna
sing along, try not to get myself 
weepy eyed melancholy
then it dawns on me
that ain’t the fucking mountains
it’s an actual set of bagpipes
sweet and sour tone all over
this rushing morning stream

sun clears that side of the mountain
blind a moment
slow to realize
I am locking eyes
with a goddamn bagpipe playing bigfoot
in tartan kilt and full regale

I’ve watched the patterson-gimlin film
I’m in no way starstruck
this is another awkward moment 
in a lifetime of them
there’s nothing to see
only notes stuck in the dust
we pray that angels met you on the shore

Jason Baldinger is a poet and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA.  He’s penned fifteen books of poetry the newest of which include: The Afterlife is a Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) and A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery), and This Still Life (Kung Fu Treachery) with James Benger. His first book of photography, Lazarus, is forthcoming. His work has appeared across a wide variety of print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on lps by The Gotobeds and Theremonster. 

Monday, January 23, 2023

Me and My Motherfucking Dick: A Love Story by Jimmy Broccoli

So I’m standing at the urinal 

with my dick…

while the skinny boys cut the cocaine on top of the restroom sink

I piss - then zip up my pants (after I securely put my dick away)

and return to the area furthest from the dance floor (I don’t dance)

I’m at the after-hours club in the shady part of town…

the lights are colorful and neon…

and even the less attractive look like movie stars in the dimness…

I’m feeling the buzz of my fourth vodka cranberry

“Bartender, another”, I shout over the thumping music –

he knows I tip well and he gets my drinks quickly

As I stand at a solo table in the corner – 

“I’m too old for this shit”, I think to myself

A young guy in a shirt two sizes too small walks up to me

“Yo, I’m Damien”, “Yo (a word I never use) Damien, I’m Jimmy”, I respond…

He takes a nervous sip of his drink through a cocktail straw (a red one)

“I saw your dick while I was doin’ coke and I’m high as fuck. Nice dick, by the way”.

“Thanks”, I respond. 

There are drugged-out, drunk, and shirtless boys in all directions – 

among the celebration of pulsing, multi-colored, and fast-moving lights 

– it’s all a bit much, to tell you the truth…

The young guy has lost interest and has disappeared into the dimness and into the lingering cigarette smoke…

“This one is on the house”, the handsome bartender yells

as he approaches me with a fresh beverage –

“Thanks”, I tell him – and he grabs my dick (through my pants) 

for a few seconds longer than most do –

then he smiles broadly at me – and returns to the bar…

I think his name might be Scott - my alcoholic memory failing me again

I stay another hour and I’m fairly drunk at this point –

I return to the restroom and take my dick out at the urinal –

The skinny boys (different from the ones earlier) are at the sink cutting lines of cocaine –

The best-looking and (obviously) most fucked up of the group looks at me – and then stares at my dick –

I’ve finished, but keep it out several seconds longer because he continues to stare

“Hey Bro, I’m Zebulon”. With my dick still in my hand I say, “Hey Bro (I word I never use), I’m Jimmy – is your name really Zebulon?”, I ask

“It is tonight, handsome” he replies with a smirk only the conceited young guys can pull off convincingly

“Why don’t I get you a drink” Zeb states –

So I (carefully) put my dick away and zip up my pants –

Zeb and I exit the restroom together…

My generation still writes phone numbers on cocktail napkins…

so that is what I do

“Tomorrow night – my place?”, he asks

“Yeah, I’ll be there” I respond

“Bro, I’ll call you tomorrow to give you the address”.

“Alright Bro (that’s twice now), I’ll talk to you then”.

His smirk (as he looks at me kind of sideways) becomes a genuine smile and I suspect I’ll hear from him tomorrow…

“Nice fucking dick, by the way” he says before walking towards the exit sign

“Thanks”, I reply

It’s 3:30 in the morning and I’m a good deal messed up and sloppy –

My generation still hails a cab when one is available – 

and tonight one is…

“1612 Havenhurst Drive”, I slur – as stale incense fills the small space…

My pants are too tight and uncomfortable and it’s been a long night

I overtip the driver and stumble up the walkway to my apartment door –

“I’m too old for this shit” I repeat to myself as I remove my pants and lay drunkenly across my bed

And – at least at this moment – my dick agrees.

Jimmy Broccoli lives in Atlanta, Georgia, where he enjoys hiking, playing the washboard, and playing with puppies.

Sunday, January 22, 2023

Losing Nights by George Gad Economou

another night lost to

bad pace, to poor concentration. failing to

capture the essence of

the rhythm, again; once, I knew how

to work the

system, had an excellent rhythm innately

written in my drunken genes. now, it’s

gone, I’m fighting to

regain the lost paradise. sinful endeavors and

misdirected thoughts guide me away from

the glorious path and I’m sharpening my

blade, crying to the gods, wailing at

the flaming sparrows, ready to bring

the war back where it

belongs; home.

 Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and supports his writing by doing freelance jobs whenever he can get them. Has published a novella, Letters to S. (Storylandia) and a poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds (Adelaide Books). His drunken words have appeared in various literary magazines and outlets, such as Spillwords Press, Ariel Chart, Fixator Press, Piker’s Press, The Edge of Humanity Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and Modern Drunkard Magazine.

Saturday, January 21, 2023

Consent Forms by Tammy Smith

When I say I can’t remember,
it means I won’t tell you why I did it

Not in the middle of a crowded emergency room.
Not while you’re hugging a clipboard.
I refuse to fill out any of your forms.
Stop staring at my scars.
I haven’t given you consent to trespass on memories.

When I say I can't remember,
it means I don’t trust you.

Not in the middle of a crowded bar.
Not while you’re holding an empty glass.
I won’t fill your needs.
Stop staring at my full bosom.
I haven’t given you consent to suck from my bottle.

Why not isn’t the answer you're looking for,
but it’s fun to curl my lips around the tight t
at the end of the sentence and sneer.

Maybe we just want different shots.
You can’t sip from my cup and refuse to tip the bartender.
Never assume soft drinks are free.

When I say I can’t remember,
it means I feel uncomfortable sharing my story with you.
Admissions become part of discharges.

Seeking consent to release information is sacred work.
Did that even happen is the worst way you ask why.

Tammy Smith, a social worker from New Jersey, draws inspiration from her work in mental health. Her writing has been published in the Dewdrop, Ailment: Chronicles of Illness Narratives, Ariel Chart, the Esthetic Apostle, Unlimited Literature, and in io Literary Journal.

Friday, January 20, 2023

The Old Man and the Siesta by Renee Williams

Angel wing arching above the dune line
the mast of a 44-foot sailboat,
a beacon to all of a sailor in trouble.

The Graveyard of the Atlantic
poised to claim another victim
having just destroyed a fishing rig 
in Hatteras days before
three men saved by the Coast Guard,
spared from an eternal resting place at sea. 

Rudder ruined
vessel adrift
glancing the shallow shoals of Corolla, North Carolina,
bitter nor’easter winds of December howled
waves of white caps
ravaged the hull
the vessel tossed, pushed and taking on water.
The captain alone save for his first mate,
a four-year-old albino cat.

Morning brought endless skies of red and orange
laughing gulls abounded
dolphins breached occasionally, seeking warmer waters
ocean calmer, forgiving.

The Siesta, broken, partially submerged
high tide racing in
yet the 95-year-old mariner from Florida
salty, stalwart, indefatigable soul,
refused to abandon his ship.
A Good Samaritan,
one of the first rescuers asked,
Water, coffee, a blanket, anything?

Just a bourbon, the captain said,
Now let’s find that darned cat.

Renee Williams is a retired English professor, who has written for Guitar Digest, Alien Buddha Press and the New Verse News.




Thursday, January 19, 2023

At Least I'm Laughing by Ian Lewis Copestick

I wake at
2:30 a.m.
My T.V. is
playing old

I fell asleep
before turning
it off.
Radio ones
I've never
heard before.

I don't really
want to be
awake half way
through the night.

But at least
I'm laughing.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 49 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

Wednesday, January 18, 2023

Far From Alone by Taylor Dibbert

He’s writing,
From the edge,
Of the bar,
And everything,
Turns out,
It’s way,
More crowded,
Than he could’ve,
Ever imagined.

Taylor Dibbert is a widely published writer and journalist. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and is seeking representation for his first novel.

Tuesday, January 17, 2023

A Time Before by David Painter

My father sitting with the evening sun;
his eyes looking past the children at play;
past the couples hurrying to some romantic place.
He looks past the millions of city lights and
rushing cars
He looks past to a time when he was young
when white tee shirts
with cigarette packs rolled in the sleeves
were cool
when his hair was black and slicked back.

Men were coming home
wearing silk jackets with the map of Korea on the back
He had been there
fighting that war.

Now chopped mercury’s with 4 on the floor
Cruising looking to score

Bobby socked girls looking for the same
Cherry cokes, soda jerks, Car hops
this summer was made
for B bop

The fifties were overrun by the sixties
The jacket now frayed, hair streaked with grey.
soon Vietnam was all the rage.
Tour, just one tour, the army said sure.
A different kind of war
just a piece of jungle on the map
A lot of boys went and didn’t come back.
My father sits on a park bench most days.
I hold his hand and don’t know what to say.

I am a International published poet, I am a member of Inner circle writers' group and Penned in the city,.my works have been published in Sweetycat press.Piker press, Rye Whiskey Review, Clarendon House. Spillwords Press, The Writer’s Club, and Dyst Literary Journal.

Monday, January 16, 2023

trash removal by Ben Newell

As dishwasher
I am tasked with trash removal,
a duty I perform twice daily
and this morning
after hurling the big black sack
into the dumpster 
I hear a faint mumbling/scuffling
which turns out to be
a homeless man
hiding behind the steel bin;
scavenging for scraps
I imagine
or seeking shelter from 
the stabbing wind
as I return to the dish pit,
a little less pissed
about my lot in life,
a little less angry
about my shitty job.

Ben Newell recently turned 50. He dropped out of the Bennington Writing Seminars during his first semester, eventually resuming his studies at Spalding University where he earned an MFA. He taught high school English for one day.

Sunday, January 15, 2023

Songs Sung to a False God by Ann Christine Tabaka

where are the voices that used to sing, as 
dawn first lifted her eyes? the darkness of
a thousand clouds now suture morning lips. 
time passes through my fingers, day into 

night, and night into day. where have the
song larks gone? the pond is dry. the grass 
is brown. did I leave the door open again?
i listen with my heart, but hear no music.

standing beside the willow tree, I touch
your memory. I once worshiped you as
men do now, but you left when winter
came. cold hearts bleeding for redemption,

they sacrificed their children, one by one. 
following blindly, praying for crumbs. once 
vibrant voices, now silenced by pain. the 
whiteness of winter blooms into spring, 

as you return once more. you hold out your 
hands, waiting for love. no gifts fill your 
coffers. no songs fill your ears. truth
has opened my eyes. the false god is dead.

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 15 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking.  Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sparks of Calliope; The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore.
*(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

Saturday, January 14, 2023

Birdsong by Lauren Scharhag

My mother hung a bird feeder 
from the white sugarplum tree.
Now they would come year-round,
even after they’d eaten all its fruit,
robin and tufted titmouse, 
crow and mourning dove, 
woodpecker, noisy blue jay.

It’s mostly the males who sing, though some, 
like the Carolina wren, sing duets. 
In some species, they achieve such harmony,
that two voices become one. 
How they are able to coordinate such virtuoso performances 
is a mystery to man.

Birds collided with the garden window. 
I remember the first time we noticed,
a sound like stones pinging off the glass 
where they struck, beak-first. 
We found them stunned on the grass beneath,
toes-up, trying to understand how their beloved air 
could have failed them. 

Some birds are born with their songs, 
some learn them in the nest,
while still others mimic—
other species, cats, frogs, even car alarms, 
auditory magpies hoarding sonic treasures. 
Mockingbirds know up to 200 songs,
brown thrashers, 2,000. 
In a tenth of a second, cardinals can sweep 
through more notes than there are piano keys, 
and birds of the Bay Area speak with a different accent
than their relatives in Virginia or Colorado.

We painted the window with soap, 
smeared peanut butter on pinecones.
When the snows came, how they gorged themselves, 
sparrows with their feathers fluffed, 
swollen to the size of softballs.

Syrinx, from the Greek, meaning “shepherd’s pipe,”
for the shape of so many songbirds’ vocal apparatus,
though the Greeks couldn’t have guessed at the variety: 
tubes, trees, Popoids, ridged, curved, forked, 
each branch individually controlled, 
respiratory switch-hitters, 
able to sing both rising and falling notes at the same time. 

We kept the birdbaths filled, and in flood season,
we wept over the hatchlings, worm-pink, eyes unopened, 
washed from their nests.
We buried them in backyard graves sprinkled with violets.  

It’s hard, with our limited range of breath and tone, 
to believe that something so tiny can produce such sound,
until you hear the chorus from their sheltering places.
It’s hard, in the depths of February, 
to believe that spring has not forsaken us,
and Vivaldi can only suggest a goldfinch,
and Prokofiev’s oboe makes for a poor duck.
It’s no wonder the first-ever radio broadcast featured a nightingale, 
or that we offered the universe birdsong on the Voyager Golden Record.

Since the Nixon era, almost 3 billion birds 
have vanished from North America, 
forests, grasslands, powerlines, 
our backyards growing quieter, billions of songs lost, 

It’s thought that birds vocalize for practical purposes, 
for mates and territory, 
but it just might be for the fun of it. 

We bell the cat, cut the plastic rings from soda cans,
plant seed-bearing daisies and marigolds, viburnum and aster, 
inviting the hollow-boned music-of-the-spheres conveyors, 
and we don’t actually know why it is they sing at dawn. 
Some say it’s because the mornings are so still, so dry and cool, 
their songs to carry better, 
and some say it’s so the male birds can display their full-throated vigor, 
or, for the already mated, 
to signal that they’ve made it through another night, 
Don’t worry, darling, I am still here. I have survived. 
Another day, another tune, another flight.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 100 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, two Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com

Friday, January 13, 2023

They Say by B. Lynne Zika

They say Jim Doley was horny enough
to root a pig, in fact, tried once
but couldn’t mount quite right
That was the year of white Keds
no laces, when Stephanie Gurgen
had her boobs pushed in
by a doctor on account of
not getting her period.
Pregnancy agreed with Mama
who paid for a record party
low lights & Lipton’s
onion dip unsupervised
as if she’d decided
youth needed a break.
We poured lemon juice on our heads
& rolled our hair in beer cans
to catch the boys in GTOs
so we wouldn’t be girls
with “out-of-town” boyfriends.
Doley said French ticklers
drove women wild
& spat Coke on the patio door
from the shock of seeing
a man’s hand up Mother’s blouse
He’s feeling her up!
He’s goddamn feeling her up!
& we all yelled  Shut up, Jim.
They’re married
for Christ’s sake
but we weren’t scared 
about the pigs anymore
& ate bacon
three Sundays in a row.


B. Lynne Zika’s photography, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in numerous literary and consumer publications. 2022 publications include Delta Poetry Review, Backchannels, Poesy, Suburban Witchcraft, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. In addition to editing poetry and nonfiction, she worked as a closed-captioning editor for the deaf and hard-of-hearing. Awards include: Pacificus Foundation Literary Award in short fiction, Little Sister Award and Moon Prize in poetry, and Viewbug 2020 and 2021Top Creator Awards in photography. Website: https://artsawry.com/.

Thursday, January 12, 2023

The Bear by Keith Pearson

It was late in season for the first snow. He sat on his usual stool and watched the fat flakes drift lazily past the dirty glass. The window looked out over the rear parking lot and beyond that the wrecking yard next door. They were removing the older junks and sometimes the crane would lift a real gem, a Studebaker or maybe a Desoto, up high enough above the fence where he could see it before it was dropped into the crusher. It had been a junkyard a long time. The TV was turned up loud and it almost muted the screech and thud of the old cars being flattened but not quite. The bartender was watching a game show and there were people in costumes jumping up and down. It was too early in the day for anyone to play the jukebox, even the old folks who played Sinatra and Dean Martin songs and daydreamed of dancing. He was never much of a dancer. He held his glass up to the dim light. It was half full and held one two three ice cubes. The bar light gave the water the brown look of whiskey. He turned his wrist and the ice twirled in the glass. He liked the motion and the sound the ice made. That was dancing. The bartender saw him hold up the glass and motioned to the tap. He shook his head. He liked to finish a drink, all the way to the bottom. To hear the ice chink together. Outside the crane came to a rest and the crusher ground to a stop. The snow fell heavier now. He drained the last of the water and stared at the ice in the glass a long time. He hated winter, hated the snow. In the distance there was a whirl of machinery and the car crusher came to life. Somewhere in a deep cave a sleeping bear stirred. He motioned to the bartender and pointed with the glass to a bottle behind the bar. He tipped the glass to his mouth, slid the ice between his teeth, began to chew. The bear awoken.

Keith Pearson
I live in southern New Hampshire and works with special ed students at a local high school.

Wednesday, January 11, 2023

Vaguely Human by Kevin M. Hibshman

If you only knew how I lie awake at night conjuring your essence.
Your limbs contorted.
Your face twisted in the agony of a pleasure so sharp and dangerous.

I am a vessel longing to be filled.
A glowing heat bouncing off the walls blue-hot.
Our flesh entwined as we go spinning off the edge of the world.

Hold tight as we shift positions.
Our shadows melt as I pull you in.
The depths of these waters remain uncharted. 
Sink with me under the sinuous waves.
Our heaving shape vaguely human.

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).

His current book Just Another Small Town Story from Whiskey City Press is currently available on Amazon. 

Tuesday, January 10, 2023

Angelic autopsy by Mike Zone

(Lady on a Wire#20)

Folded beneath suicidal dreams within the droning echoes of flesh-machines otherworldly features carved into the faces protruding from the ancient gallery

fading embers bouncing off chrome airships conducting angelic autopsies inside

heaven sent

heaven dead

what is humanity but a series of misinformed angels and demons?

the nightbird’s executioner’s song rings hollow

across death-rattle conversions droning echoes within the body electric

painting with words

esoteric dreams

seekers of divine mysteries

fictionalize, trivialize

labyrinth extinction agenda prophecies

the faith-based system of the world stomped with the many in gods we trust shudders

everything snaps

but the wire we’re on

flying saucers from distant lands molded in a Hollywood garage zap stop-motion red skulls with trickle-down thought adaptations, bulbs burning slightly below the canopy

we’ve exposed lies in the sky

the sets are burning

from severed angel wings drenched in whiskey and gasoline in this ritualistic sin of apocalyptic revelation

choking on cosmic dust

let’s you and I

halt the engine of the world

setting eternity aflame

As always man, take care.

Mike Zone is the Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, the author of Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, Outlaw Poetry and Cult Culture magazine.

Monday, January 9, 2023

Most Poems By Michael Lee Johnson

Most poems are pounded out
in emotional flesh, sometimes
physical skin scalped feelings.
It’s a Jesus hanging on a cross
a Mary kneeling at the bottom
not knotted in love but roped,
a blade of a bowie knife
I look for the kicker line
the close at the bottom
seek a public poetry forum
to cheer my aspirations on.
I hear those faraway voices
carrying my life away-
a retreat into insanity.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 272 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 5 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 443 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/

Sunday, January 8, 2023

Great Consideration by Randall Rogers

Generations till the end
hang breathlessly
as embedded flesh

a way through 
the slings and arrows

Vishnu destroys
and creates

on the way to the pub.

He is Randall Rogers, visionary poet of the prairie. A cowboy, yea, a beatnik; a Beatnik Cowboy. He is an old young, sorry. Here he exhibits new work. More flashes in the pan. I hope the world, nay, you editor, approveth of seeth/something here. (Currently reading "Pilgrim's Progress") Adios! I kind of reworked these to work in booze but they are total virgins (never put out).

You Can Run By Alec Solomita

The blues quotes Joe Louis as I take a hit of weed. The blues says to me, “You can run but you can’t hide.” Been running pretty well until t...