around the wrong thing yet again by J.J. Campbell

a spider coming down

from the ceiling at three

in the morning and all

the reasons why you

should have stopped

drinking gin years ago

ruby lips wrapped around 

the wrong thing yet again

she swears she loves you

and all you can imagine

is being penniless, pissing

into a bottle, scribbling

madness on concrete

with your own feces

crack open a bottle of 

brandy just north of 

chicago and watch it 

snow on a balcony ten 

floors from forever

if i was a better man

i would have jumped

her porn star eyes haunt 

me on these kind of nights

sirens blasting

tornadoes revolving

two out rallies in the

bottom of the ninth

remember when your

father gave you a beer

when you were six

he didn’t want to be

the only one with a

disease

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves and is currently trapped in suburbia. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Synchronized Chaos. His latest chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press in July 2018. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

http://soundcloud.com/j-j-campbell

http://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

Excuse by Dan Provost

“He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

--Samuel Johnson

 

Hence, the problem.

 

I used this quote to justify every

bender I’ve been on.

 

Reasoning to find escape, at

least

for

a while.

 

My living carcass spend many, many

many hours in the gin mills.

 

Drinking what was put in

front of me…

 

Places like the Red Baron, Milligan’s

Pub, the Main Street Inn--

 

Countless other dives.

 

Have

made a fortune off my paltry salary…

 

Shit-faced, I would try to

find something sacred within

the empty bottles and shot glasses.

 

Led to the philosophical gibberish

flow into ears of other boozers…

 

Who had their own reasons to sit

on creaky barstools, waiting for

their guardian angel to bring another

beer.

 

A myriad of fivers were spent in

the juke—where music was at

parallel play with the booze…

 

Trying to bring that bad rhythm man

down.

 

Maybe a Roger Waters lyric, or a Stevie Ray

guitar lick…could help find my

way to some temporary, template

understanding.

 

Enamored Enlightenment.

 

A new therapy within

an old game.  My drunk

was unique…I was on a different

plane…

 

Within debauch—facilities fading, equilibrium

failing while trying not to fall off my perch

of pathetic.

 

Kept pounding the alcohol

until my soggy brain stumbled

down Wasted Avenue.

 

Awakening the next day—head in

a vice, stomach begging for greasy

McDonald’s fries

to regurgitate later.

 

That “man” was still there

Mr. Johnson…

 

Still in pain.

Ready to draw the drapes on

another day forgotten.

 

The “beast” sitting beside me.  Laughing

at all the misery I put myself

through in his/its name.

 

My five hours of hating manhood,

just retraces the steps of another calendar month.

 

Year 59 of my existence—many days

drenched in intoxication…

 

Failing to forget

I was still here,

 

doing absolutely nothing

of concrete

worth.

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.  He has two books coming out in 2020.  Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.

 

haiku for Chris at the Exchange #2 by Tohm Bakelas

I drank four beers and
the bartender charged me two—
I left a twenty

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 12 chapbooks. He runs Between Shadows Press.

My “Disease” by Brian Rihlmann

In 2016 I quit drinking 

for seven months

went back on the meds

started seeing a shrink

all to cope with a gym job 

I was no longer suited for

stuck there behind the front desk 

interacting with people 

who had once been friends 

when I was just a member

but who now saw the opportunity 

to harass me in various ways 

because I had become an employee 

and couldn’t fight back

I became hostile 

more and more silent

I killed them

with my silence

when they teased me

about my crankiness 

my moodiness 

or any number of personality quirks 

I got to hate their faces

more and more

I’d awaken at three a.m.

look in the mirror 

and the voices in my head

would whisper

about the indignities 

I was sure to endure

that day

one day a member

interrupted my daydreams 

to ask for the key to the cooler

with all the protein shakes

and I threw it at him

he said that was

uncalled for 

and walked out 

and I thought

What the fuck

is wrong with me?

I sought help...

the help didn’t help

eventually I realized—

I’ve just got to

get outta here

it felt too much like junior high

in whatever town you grew up in—

a big, extended, toxic 

dysfunctional family 

a hundred or so

brothers and sisters 

you really can’t stand 

most of these assholes

but you’re stuck with them

and the adults are always telling you

how you don’t REALLY 

hate so-and-so

and to “be nice”

and pretty soon

you don’t know any better

except you do

Brian Rihlmann lives in Reno, Nevada. His work has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, The American Journal Of Poetry, and New York Quarterly. He has authored three collections of poetry, most recently “A Screaming Place,” (2021) by Cajun Mutt Press.

To a Goth Princess by Tony Pena

All dolled up
in decadent black
from mascara coal
to leather corset
to fishnet nylons,
but the glimmer
in green eyes betrays
danger and dimples
on your cheeks assure me
authenticity and a bawdy
sense of humor reign
deep in your soul
even in the darkest
hours after midnight.

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

His Church of No Church by C.L. Liedekev

My friend Buck

had hairy fists,

a sausage of fingers, a bottle

that dangles like prey in talon.

A desperate grasp,

as winter invades the room,

presses its change

into everything it touches.

Uniform in its weight,

its breath as screed. It was

the leather jacket of his life.

He always pushed

shots and liquid acid, black outline

charcoals of cityscapes

and anger, crux of Frank Miller

as reference point, as the

horizon, constant escape.

Sometimes night-time slips

its harness pushes headlong

into an open plot point,

into the crescendo of lust,

of laughing and destination

as the broken tip of the knife.

He did not know he was a church,

a church of no church, a choir

of voices stapled open in gravel

and grave light. A fading baseline

settled along his teeth, placed

a note on each word, as he would

preach of anarchy and riot, of

confrontation as the art form,

of the moment the booze slips

its bonds, down his throat,

and opens my tiny life to possibilities.

C.L. Liedekev is a writer/propagandist who lives in Conshohocken, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, Open Skies Quarterly, River Heron Review, Vita Brevis, amongst others. His real goal is to make the great Hoboken poet/exterminator Jack Wiler proud. So far, so good.

a difference of priorities by Keith Pearson

he goes out on a lark 
one day
and discovers
there are clocks 
everywhere.
she is down on
her knees praying
at the toilet bowl.
she is begging him
to call down lightning
or at least fetch her up
a clean towel.
he is more interested
in this new thing 
called time
and cannot see
that her hair is 
on fire.

Keith Pearson

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