Vulnerable Narcissist By Kevin M. Hibshman

I have not yet taken my celebrated break from reality.

Dogs are sniffing.

Evidence keeps shifting as it depends on my memory.

Could I borrow a small portion of your illicit fortune?

Have you come to finally bury me?

I am resisting temptation, sad that it has become my only chance at therapy.

Cats are howling.

Something I must turn my overwrought attention to.

People are waiting on me for a decision.

I don't know what to do.

I have nothing to feed them and so they become angry.

Collapsible houses and unzipped trousers.

I have nothing to confess.

Walking in a half sleep.

Water only skin deep.

Who do we blame for all this mess?

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).

Cease To Destroy from Whiskey City Press.

His current book is Lost Within The Garden Of Heathens also from Whiskey City Press and currently available through Amazon.

https://a.co/d/aIBcNvy

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Well That Was Disappointing By Ashley Karlsson

He phoned me up to say it was over.

No remorse just the persona most envisioned him to be.

The heartless mirage I knew better but didn't protest.

For I was portraying the cold-hearted bitch I was cast into by default.

There was a long silence.

"So, see you Wednesday night?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Sounds good, don't forget to stop by the liquor store sugar."

"I thought you quit drinking."

He cracked up at that one.

"Yeah, bad habits are hard to break."

I laughed at that one myself as I reached for my keys.

Cause without our vices and momentary trysts people may begin to question.

Was it something more?

Old habits are at times, a fondly reflected upon mistake.

Ashley Karlsson, is a North Carolina based writer who's work has been published in.

The Dope Fiend Daily, Off The Coast, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Outer Banks Quarterly.

Grocery List By John Drudge

He tightened the chair leg 

Until the wobble stopped 

He didn't have a reason 

Worth saying 

His drink didn’t spill  

On the table anymore 

That was enough

You can’t turn it off 

All at once anyway

It leaks in through the walls 

The windows 

The cracks in your head

In a coat pocket 

He found a folded grocery list 

With a few words 

Of a poem 

Scribbled on it

He smoothed it 

Folded it again 

And put it where receipts go 

To be forgotten

He put on his coat 

And left the house 

With the back door 

Unlatched

John is a social worker in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of eight books of poetry — March (2019), The Seasons of Us (2019), New Days (2020), Fragments (2021), A Long Walk (2023), A Curious Art (2024), Sojourns (2024), and Too Close to the Shore (2025). His work, often rooted in the quiet truths of the natural world, explores the interplay between human experience and the landscapes that shape it. Widely published in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally, John has been nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He lives in Caledon, Ontario, Canada, where the forests, fields, and changing seasons are constant companions and an enduring source of inspiration.

 

Contractions By Susan Isla Tepper

If you are the one

To bury me

Do it in contractions

I don’t want it dragged out

Hour by hour

Suffering as my mother did

To get me here

Pick an even numbered day

The sun phasing in and out

Behind clouds

Turning white to gray

A little rain, say 50 pct

Then the sun

Let my final day

continue in this way.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com

Abstinence. By Dennis Moriarty

No pills today, no wine, no beer, just the soft

Fizz in my mouth of carbonated water.

No reading today, my books are all closed,

The words like petals

Pressed between pages bound in leather

On a dusty shelf.

The clock ticks but tells no time, the radio

Crackles and hisses,

The dial set adrift between channels, the white

Noise of abstinence is loud.

No surfing the internet searching for quotes

By Charles Bukowski,

No trying to write like Dylan Thomas or sing

Like Johnny Cash.

Just me and the overwhelming sound of abstinence,

Sipping carbonated water

From a plastic bottle wishing it was wine. Where 

Is Jesus when I need him most?

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.

Papa's Cuba By John Patrick Robbins

I am that which I once feared the most.

The once bountiful fisherman.

Now just the sad old fool, who casts his lines to seemingly empty waters.

Others keep their distance, as if bad luck and creative drought were catching.

I no longer have my vices to blame. 

I only have the truth of my situation to scar my thoughts and saltwater to embrace my eyes.

Nothing is forever, especially a dreamer’s imagination. 

One day you awake and it's all fucking over.

I been wide awake for so long, I welcome Death like an old friend.

I believe when he arrives, I will pour one last drink and sit silent. 

You cannot beat the house or cheat that prick who will one day visit us all.

I acknowledge the Reaper. 

Just like I accept my words have escaped like a worn-out net that's no longer effective. 

So it sits amongst the clutter of things that sentimental fools often hold onto for no good reason aside from the fact it once was effective. 

We all have seen better days.

I don't want to watch the sunsets anymore, wishing only for that which we can never possess to return.

I don't want to be here, I just accept the fact I am.

I listen to the ocean’s waves crashing upon the shore. 

I recall memories that have become dreams that continuously remind me.

Nothing lasts forever.

Including those ill-fated dreams.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer his work has been published in.

Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Piker Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.