Tears in my Wine by George Gad Economou

with some much needed peace of mind, staring out at the 

sea—the same sea ancient Athenians sailed on to conquer

and understand the world.

a carafe of cheap white wine on the table, a cigarette dangles

from my lips. a deep drag—a good gulp. the soft breeze

blows and the tears in my wine are not for a woman, for a change.

I look to my left, then to my right. uninspired faces, dull

conversations. sitting alone and I’ve learned no friends are needed.

no company but of those that once were, that once knew and felt

the same things. 

the tears are for the great drunks of antiquity, the brilliant writers

that we hardly know of. Timocreon’s drinking ballads, 

the plays that won prizes and we don’t even know their names,

nor their playwrights. imagine the knowledge lost; who decided

who to survive history? was Euripides truly tragedy’s master

or a cunning bastard that eviscerated his rivals’ memory for 

posthumous fame? 

we’ll never know.

the wine withholds no true answers; it’s only for a moment 

I feel part of a symposium. the air whispers, nuggets of true wisdom 

are carried in the particles, traversing time and space.

then, they’re drowned by insipid real-time discussions all around me.

the ancient drunks had to weaken their wine with water; if they had

our variations, they’d drink us under the table without missing a beat 

in their world-changing philosophizing. Socrates was said to be

a hardcore drunkard, going batshit crazy on occasion—it’s to him,

and Plato, 

we owe what we have. we just prefer to ignore that without 

ancient hard wine Socrates might have been

nothing but

a farmer in Athens’ outskirts.

with wine (that made Thunderbird seem like Chardonnay)

Aristophanes wrote some of the most brilliant pieces of satire. and,

who knows,

there might have been comics even better than him, lost in history and in time.

I order another carafe—and fire up another rolled-up cigarette.

nothing else makes sense; we’ve lost it all. we’ve lost

philosophy,

literature,

our fucking minds.

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.

Old Flame by Alec Solomita

It draws the tender lamps of night,

laves the tongue in a splash of flame --

Kentucky dark, Irish gold, Scotch bright.

Even when the last girl’s name has

guttered out,

forever amber — slash of yellow light.

Alec Solomita is a writer working in the Boston (USA) area. His fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry has appeared in Poetica, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Driftwood Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Galway Review, and elsewhere, including several anthologies. His poetry chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was just released by Kelsay Books.

That Particular Sunday Ennui by Kevin M. Hibshman

Another week gone by.

I move through the motions of a rote existence.

What is the sky trying to tell me?

I am frightened.

It seems to read loneliness.

I remember younger days.

There was always somebody around to laugh or cry with.

That was when time didn't feel like a threat.

My brother on an island.

My sister only miles away but I might as well be on Mars.

I picture Mom in her kitchen.

Dad asleep in his recliner.

My room as it once was.

The only haven I knew, stuffed with books and records.

I cannot listen to anything when this hits.

I need another cigarette.

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. 

Embers and ash by Dennis Moriarty

Hand rolled and glued to my lips I smoke

this room like a spliff

thick earthy autumnal smoke, windfall fruit

in the orchard,

my lungs a flaming grate of apple wood.

I am listening to the night

the elemental grunt, groan and gasp of copulation,

the rain naked and responsive

to the thrusting wind, a frenzied coupling, octaves

of please in the chimney breast.

I am listening to the voice of despair, harrowing

chants of tawny,

an owl lost in the loneliness of longing, searching

for a soul mate,

the back and forth of advance and repel, the serve

and return of unrequited love,

ping pong balls of moon in the star lit wood.

I draw on the spliff,

my lungs hot and heaving, trying to decipher the

dialects of darkness

until the owl lapses into a silence of acceptance,

and pricked by a branch,

the moon deflates and the stars ebb on the incoming

tide of dawn,

the rain comes in a final climatic squall and the wind

slips into post coital slumber.

I close my eyes and smoke this room to it’s inevitable

conclusion, a dull glowing tip of embers and ash.

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.

I remember Smileys' by Dotty LeMieux

I remember Smileys’ bar where I met all my best boyfriends and a few of my worst, my lost loves, and one-night stands, and everyone knew everyone else. It was our living room. It was where I went to tell Ronda my puppy killed her kitten; it didn’t mean to, the kittens were all so small; she forgave me, one less mouth to feed.

It’s where you went to look for someone you couldn’t find anywhere else, and sometimes you found their car, but not them, and then you’d say—I see you spent the night at Smiley’s again.  And sometimes you’d spend the night at Smiley’s too.

It’s where I met husband number one and husband number two and in between Pool Playing Michael and poets whose names I can’t mention although they are dead, but then they were married and their wives would be in the bar too. It’s where I had late night drinks with Jerka from Hungary who was just passing through. It was where I danced, we all danced to the tinny jukebox, we bugalooed around the pool table and got angry looks when we knocked a player’s elbow; where we bought a six pack of Bud to go at last call and then we sat in the corner and drank it until Sue, the owner, threw us out.

Then we’d go across the street, 2 am hushed beach town quiet, walk down behind the grocery store to Dorinda’s house and get naked in the hot tub and gossip and flirt ‘til dawn. 

Dotty LeMieux is the author of four chapbooks, Five Angels, Five Trees Press; Let Us Not Blame Foolish Women, Tombouctou Books; The Land, Smithereens Press, and Henceforth I Ask Not Good Fortune, Finishing Line Press. A fifth is forthcoming from Main Street Rag in 2023. Her work has appeared in numerous print and online journals, and anthologies.  Dotty lives in Northern California, with her husband and two aging dogs, where she helps elect progressive candidates to office.  

Heaven is a Dive Bar in Hell Serving Only Shirley Temples by Chris Butler

Drink until your blood turns into a fine wine.

Eat until your flesh turns into tasteless waifers. 

Smoke until the burning bush's ash rises like a phoenix.

Inject until all of your veins cave-in under the skin.

Once you detox for three days,

escaping the cave with a boulder door,

you will never ressurect your erection again.

Anti-Chris Butler is an illiterate poet. His last chapbook, DOOMER, is available through Ethel. He is also the co-editor of The Beatnik Cowboy literary journal. 

New York memoir by Stephen House

when i was forty i lived in New York for two months, after a funded playwright residency at banff in canada, (that i’d received through the australian arts department). it was an exciting time of travelling around and writing. 

i found a cheap room in an old character building in harlem. this part of my travel was self-funded, i wasn’t flash with cash, but the room was fine, low budget was how i was existing, and there were interesting and unusual people living there.

in the mornings i’d do yoga in my room (as i do everywhere), grab some fruit and bagels from a mini mart for breakfast, and head to my local café to work on my new play, drink coffee and chat to a few other artists i’d met there.

every day i’d take the subway downtown to hang out in washington square with a poet and musician i’d met, smoke weed with them and other stoners they knew, and watch New Yorkers with their dogs in the dog park nearby. from there, i’d see exhibitions, and often line up in times square for cheap theatre rush tickets. 

towards sunset i’d head to an old un-used hudson river pier and hang out. it was a cruising spot, peppered with lone seeking guys, near the notorious meatworks district i’d read about in novels by some of my queer literary heroes, so it felt cool to be in that area.

after eating either chinese or mexican, i’d usually go to christopher street and play pool in a leather gay bar and drink beer, meeting different guys of all races and leanings. it was a laid-back place and i made a few local mates there. other nights i’d go to see theatre (on and off broadway), if i’d scored a ticket earlier in the day.

every night i went to the same nightclub. lined up with others at midnight for my after-dark New York hit. it was a mixed race, sexuality, and age place, and that’s my thing. some locals called it rough. i liked the downmarket vibe. i remember meeting a latino taxi driver and a black actor from jersey city; both, nice guys.

my last night there a drag-queen named, “ima bitch”, gave me lines of coke in the toilet and we danced together until sunrise, and had coffee before i rode the subway up town to my room to sleep and pack to leave New York. 

that was twenty-three years ago. i’ve never returned. the nightclub is still there i found when i searched online. i may go back to New York one day: see theatre, wander around and write, though i’ll pass on the weed, the club every night, and the snorting coke. we change with age. fortunately, memories usually remain with us.  

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright and actor, including two Awgie Awards from The Australian Writer’s Guild, Rhonda Jancovic Poetry Award for Social Justice, and The Goolwa Poetry Cup, and nominations including, a Greenroom Best Actor Award, Tom Collins Poetry Prize, Patrick White Playwright Award and Queensland Premier’s Drama Award. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts and an Asia-link India residency. His chapbooks “real and unreal” and “The Ajoona Guest House” are published by ICOE Press. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.