Angel’s Lament by Tony Pena

Wings dragging
on the angel
of death watching
over the landscape
for the assigned prey.
A worry line creasing
the forehead wishing
she was more Nurse
Cratchit than Mother
Teresa as these kills
fuck with her halo
of conscience
like a gust of hot
air from a Santa Ana
wind blowing off
steam with just a few
degrees separating
heaven and hell
outside a sun
blanched cafe where
god don’t serve drinks
strong enough to cope.

Tony Pena was selected as 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

A new volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available now at Amazon.  He also has a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."  His publication credits include “Chronogram,” "Dogzplot,"  "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” "Red Fez," "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee,"  and others. 

Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

that water’ll get to ya. By Tom Pescatore

The birthplace of the atomic bomb

a can of lifeless Arizona ice tea

the mushroom cloud of hydrogen gas

burning the retina of the atmosphere

rising at slow motion detection

the native fungi of the america continent

national lifeform of the cause

a marshmallow Armageddon

released in the breaking of a tab

Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He claims authorship of a novel the Boxcar Bop (RunAmok Books, 2018) and the poetry travel journal Go On, Breathe Freely! (Chatter House Press, 2016).  

THE BLUES. By Bryn Fortey

the first Blues I knowingly heard

was Frankie Laine’s West End Blues

which he recorded in 1947

if memory serves me right

it was paired with

I Can’t Believe That You’re In Love With Me

on an easily broken 78rpm record

I’m not sure when it gained a UK release

or exactly when I bought it

I liked Mr Rhythm, as Frankie was known

buying many of his singles

but there was something different

about West End Blues

not that I knew what, at that young age

nor did I know anything of its musical form

Francesco Paulo LoVecchio

to use his real name

had a strong liking for Jazz and Blues

but his big-voiced ballads sold so well

they were what he mostly recorded

all I knew back then was that I experienced

a sort of tingle when I played that song

and it became a favourite record

later I started to investigate further

discovering a branch of music

that has remained part of my

regular listening patterns ever since

so thank you Frankie Laine

your version of West End Blues might not

have been the best ever recorded

but it was enough to set me on a lifelong 

love affair with the music

and I can still listen to it today

with gratitude and enjoyment

Bryn Fortey is a veteran writer from Wales in the UK. Widely published

over the years, he has had two collections published by The Alchemy 

Press, both featuring a mix of short stories and poetry. He is grateful that

in old age he is still able to put pen to paper and finger to keyboard

mexican barmaid. By jck hnry

she’s a student at ASU

studies post-modern American poetry

why?, i wonder

but keep it to myself

her smile genuine and anxious

i tell her i write 

a bit

here and there

my first mistake

at the end of her shift

she shows me pages

and pages

of brilliance

i order a shot patron

to kill the pang of jealousy

when she reads to me 

in a confident voice

i ask for the bottle

we tumble through the night

wandering from point to point

there’s a light on a corner café

in the old part of town

she reads from the stage

to the delight of all

images of longing and hope

escape from poverty

freedom from false persecution

they get her

i take a turn in my semi-sober state

the words fuzzy on the page

images of whores and transvestites

fucking in alleyways

desperation and the sickness of being

the horror of war

death and dying

and beauty lost

no one notices 

except for my Mexican barmaid

we take a cab back to her apartment

and i leave her at the door

there’s too much sadness in fucking

so i leave it alone

jck hnry is a neo-modernist, post-apocalyptic writer, living in the hard scrub of a californian desert.  after a 10 year hiatus hnry is back at it.  recent publications include:

includes publication in Horror Sleaze Trash, Bold Monkey, Red Fez, dope fiend daily and a bunch of other noble zines and journals.  Chapbooks/Books: “Snow in Summer and the Playground is Closed,” “Empty Houses-Kendra Steiner Editions,” “the Downtown Cafe (Erbacce Press),” “With the Patience of Monuments (neoPoesis) ,” “Crunked, (Epic Rites)” and “the Righthand Curve of a Continuous Circle. (Blunt Trauma Press).”  hnry is also editor and publisher of "Heroin Love Songs, V2.0, 7thEd" available now. for more go to jackhenry.wordpress.com.

Fingerprints by Jonathan Butcher

The sparks flew as your wing mirror
scraped the parked cars we passed,
your face blank, too focused on destination.
The heat seemed slightly oppressive,
like a breeze from a broken oven, as you
retained that speed with gracefully sways.

That Saturday evening, slowly compartmentalized
by both journey and arrival, the crowded dance-
floor and the shallow bar we propped up. The dust
settling on our open palms, allowing no chance of
fingerprints, only smudges.

The drinks settled slowly, the ice defrosting as
quickly as our interest in this repeated back drop.
Those lights threatened to exaggerate like weekends
previous, our lips now so repeatedly dry and only
remain for muttered insults. We then leave, via the
rusted fire exit, knowing our return is unlikely.

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work appear in various print and online publications including: Popshot, Ex-Ex Literature, The Transnational, Sick-Lit, Drunk Monkeys, The Morning Star, Mad Swirl and others. He edits the online poetry journal 'Fixator Press', through which his third chapbook, 'Corroded Gardens' was published.  

Figures by Ben Nardolilli

The seated woman,
The riding woman,
The walking woman,
The running woman,
The leaning woman,
The kneeling woman,
The dressing woman,
The eating woman,
The reaching woman,
The drinking woman,
The crying woman,
The sleeping woman,
Instant sculpture
In every blink of the eye

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.

Petty by J.C. O'Neil

Hey, Tom,
I know this may sound petty, but
you have to stay out of my speakers for a while.

You see, there was this American girl
who had me runnin’ down a dream,
free fallin’ everytime we got in the car.
She turned me on to you
and I can’t get her image out of my head.
That picture of her in those cut offs and white tank top,
her head tilted back, letting her hair drape down the back of the se—

Damn it, Tom! There you go again.

You wreck me. Stop draggin’ my heart around,
please.
You’ve got me feeling like a refugee
and I need to know where to find serenity.

Can’t you have a change of heart?
and just let me be?

Don’t do me like that, man.
You don’t know how it feels
when a girl like that,
has a thing about you
and will listen to her heart.

And even the losers like me
won’t back down.
I know it’s time to move on
from this angel dream,
and believe me, Tom,
I’m trying to move on
before I have another breakdown


because an asshole like me,
badly damaged by love,
isn’t built to last.

So I’m counting on you,
depending on you,
don’t bring me down.
I don’t want to fight,
just don’t come around here no more
and I’ll feel a whole lot better.

J.C. O'Neil is a writer living in Cheswick, PA. He studied English Writing at the University of Pittsburgh in Greensburg. Between balancing work life, writing life, and family life (a beautiful wife, a sassy three year old, and fearless one year old) he's managed to have his poetry published by the Mad Poets Society and his stories in the Authors' Tale Anthology series.