Thursday, May 30, 2019

Hinky Corn! Handsome Boy Shows Up! by G.P. DeSalvo

Hinky corn!  I open the door and there he is, looking like a blow-fried stray.  What does he have on his mind?  It’s just inner debris slamming inside his forehead sloshed down to chum by medications last gleamings.

You don’t really want to know what goes on behind those bedroom eyes anyway: a lot like a shaky pornographic blur pulped into something less palatable.  He hides his mania as best he can, but the more perceptive back away.

'I just wanted to look pretty for you.'  He says things like this.  His beauty is effortless.  He's got the advantage of hormones.  He's still shitting yellow.
He’s a magnet for hungry ghosts, thirsty bitches and other dullards hoping to improve their shine by passing through his reflection.  In one side and out the other.  He takes it all in stride.  But, he's only 18.  There’s more where that came from, because he’ll live forever.  He lives in every hot mistake he makes.  His DNA spreads far and why.  He lives in the eyes and mouths of all the old pederasts in his home town, if only in their Viagrated dreams.  They’d slit their turkey gobblers for an hour of his time.  To lick his feet.  To snuffle up his gus.  He'd pick them clean, if that were his proclivity.  But it’s not.  At least not the majority of the time.  He's a good egg.  He's got great eggs.  He's probably headed down a really bad path and I don't seem to care.  I don't think there are any good paths left for kids anymore, anyway.  So why not just have fun?  Why not burn out before you get to my age?  Seems nobler, more glorious somehow.  Seems almost ecological.

He’s here for the apache, to filter the screaming feedback arcing his brain.  He’s pushed it, in his short life, but the dismaying impulses grow wilder every year.  The apache won't help... or maybe it will depends on how you hold your glasses.

He stands here and even though he's sweating, he smells really good today.  Freshly scrubbed, his face flushed, totally suckable. He appears to be 'tweaking', as they say in the vernacular.  He turns out his pockets with a cartoonish frown… the little tart.

Yet--- he needs.  By golly, he’s desperate for relief.
I have needs too…  I need some relief!
And THIS ONE needs to learn the value of hard work.

Life’s too easy for the beautiful, I think as I measure out a quantity.  I was never even cute with my bullfrog look, my drooped udder.  Every time I see him I want to steal it all from him.  Not really... I'd settle for keeping him forever.  He is a musician, given to the nomadic and unpredictable lifestyle.  I could facilitate that!  I could--- you know it's true.  I wouldn't be so cruel as to cage him.  But... how I'd love to control his body. I want to see with his eyes. Those eyes that can remove thoughts, hopes, money and clothing with just a glance.

But what I really want is to tell him none of it’s worth it.  I take a toot of my own stuff, from the bullet.  A bullet that hits the frozen center of my brain.  Thoughts circulate faster than I can calculate.   I don't usually tune myself up in front of 'customers', but there's something about him that makes the top of my head want to fire off.  Not sure blow was the right answer to calm these impulses.

By crackie!  After my brain freezes, I look at him and I'm looking into him.  He can fuck up and still be saved.  I can fuck him up and save him, if I'm lucky.  Thoughts.  Thoughts like, I want to kill him with my bitterness; wipe out his vitality, youth and beauty.  Eradicate the promise, that I once had but no longer exists for me.  I want him to know how it feels.  WIPE HIM OUT!

Thoughts.  My hands are a little shaky so I turn away so he can't see.  I really want him to squeeze me until I pass out.  To hold me as I fade further and further into a blinding distance.

By God, he should just cut to the chase and kill me with his strength, endurance and resilience, his boundless youth.  He crushes my insecurity, my failing body and my flagging reserves every time he brushes against me.  I want him to take his smooth hands and wrap them around my scarred, hanging throat.  Maybe just rip it out.  Cosmetic surgery for the spiritually impoverished.  The terminally lonesome/loathsome.  I want to feel him on top of me crushing out the last of my deluded fantasies.  Pushing it in.  Just the tip.  And then thrusting, 'balls deep' as they say in the vernacular, right as my heart attacks me.  The last thing I hear is the conjoined sighs of this rape.
“So--- what do you need from me to square up?  I mean, I'm still paying off my court fines...”
“Shhhhhh.'  I say.  “I wouldn't worry too much.  I'm positive you're good for it.  Besides... I've got an idea.”

I place the powder in a glittery baggy, shake it in front of him, like it's a cat toy.  He swipes at it, just like a cat.  I hide it behind my back.  I think we both know what's about to go down.  His eyes reveal the truth of this.  Somehow.  To my delight.  Cat and mouse for real.  The look in my eyes responds in counterpoint.  He smirks.  Even in submission the little shit's smug.  He leaps at me knocking me into the recliner and we tumble backward.  His smell and the weight of him on top of me makes spots pop in my field of vision and I realize that I better take it slow, savor these moments... this is my shot and I really don't want to die now.  Something like this never happened before and never will again.  The most beautiful notch in my handful of conquests.  It doesn't even matter that it's not real.

God bless drugs.





About G.P. DeSalvo:

G.P. DeSalvo writes and makes visual art from his monastery in Columbus, Ohio.  His various works have been featured on Soft Cartel, Horror Sleaze Trash, Burning House and Terror House.  He can be found lurking on Twitter https://twitter.com/durbanmoffer





Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Well Shit… by Daniel W. Wright

Somebody committed suicide today
so I didn’t have to
and somebody else got close
but chickened out at the last second
For most people
the closer you get to death
the more you appreciate life
Maybe more politicians
need a healthy dose
of near death

I hope I can find the person who chickened out
and buy them a beer or a hamburger
I’ll try to make them laugh
and then we can toast
to the one
who did die today





About Daniel W. Wright:

Daniel W. Wright is a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him. A poet of the no collar work force, Wright’s work has appeared in the Gasconade Review, Bad Jacket, Acid Kat, Crappy Hour, Eleven, and The Rye Whiskey Review. His previous works include Rodeo of the Soul, The Death of the Ladies Man, Small Town Blues: Early Lyrics and Poems, Portrait, Murder City Special, and Working Bohemian’s Blues. Wright currently lives in St. Louis, where you can usually find him in a bar or a bookstore.





Sunday, May 26, 2019

CRUELLA by Bruce Hodder

Some thought the care home must be cursed.
Nothing good had ever happened there.
One story said the home was built
on the ploughed-in bodies of a witches' coven.

I remember a day when it was really quiet,
like in the moments after a bomb goes off,
just before the screaming and the running start.

Knowing what was missing, my friend Al asked,
'Where’s Cruella? Is she not in today?'

Cruella was the boss. She was always shouting,
always stomping up and down the corridors
in her big brown boots, demanding things were done
her way, and straight away, or there’d be hell.
Her voice was like the shriek of a dentist's drill.

I said, ‘I bet she's in her attic, mate,
hanging from the rafters upside-down
being fed baby rabbits by her husband Burt.'

You would need to have been close to feel the chill
of the cold black midnight of her undead heart.
Then you'd know how plausible my answer was,
and not sexist in the least bit, like it seemed.





Bruce Hodder lives with his wife Michelle in Northampton, England, the most statistically average town in the UK. He has been published in many magazines and online, most recently in ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’, ‘Under the Bleachers’ and ‘The Rye Whiskey Review’.





Friday, May 24, 2019

The Happy Ending Meal by John Patrick Robbins

Mornings were always hell and the dismal view a little more bearable when waking up next to a good looking woman.
Or as my luck had been going lately any woman for that matter.

I didn't have a clue as to her name and honestly I didn't care I just did my best not to wake her as I slid out of bed and made my way to the restroom.

For my daily morning prayer to the porcelain God session.

And later as Frank sat there in the living room he had to question why the hell he felt the urge to put every part of his anatomy through hell or into someone else.

"God I feel like death warmed over."

Frank's newest house guest said as she sat beside him on the couch.

"Morning sweetheart."

She was far from a vision but she did appear as a temporary paradise.

"Jesus Christ how much did we drink last night?"

Frank laughed.

"Well sugar clearly enough to have misplace our clothes and have to swap fluids to somehow make it through the long cold night."

"You keep it like a fucking tomb in here."

His nameless house guest replied.

And although she had her charms he was already eager to see her departure.

Frank poured another shot into his coffee.

"A little hair of the dog sweetheart?"

"Its seven in the morning don't you think it's a bit early?"


"For pointless conversation, yes indeed I do sweetheart so again a little something to soothe the demons?"

Frank's newest part time friend took his mug.
Taking a sip making a face like she just tasted death itself.

"This is almost all whiskey how the fuck can you drink this shit?"

Frank looked around the room.

"Umm my darling did you not realize this is the lair of a alcoholic writer or did you mistake it for a very demented daycare facility?"

"You hate kids."

"Indeed I do so I repeat why wouldn't I be drinking in the morning, unless you have a better suggestion for something A bit more productive we could be doing."

Frank said as he placed his hand upon her thigh.

His new friend laughed.

"Yeah okay Romeo but maybe we should pay up your current tab first before adding to your debt."

Frank wasn't shocked he had taken shelter with a escort because in all truth in being a writer he had sold his ass most his existence for little to nothing.

And rented pleasures were far more honest than shared delusions.

And as he looked through his wallet he realized this party would not be having a encore.

"Well sweetheart I have to say it was fun but unless you have a atm crammed up your ass I believe this is where we will have to bid farewell."

"Aww tired of me already?"

"More like no more paper sweetheart again I repeat unless you take plastic."

Frank laughed as he replied for cleary this little dirty blonde train wreck had not heard him the first time.

"Hey that's not a problem."

This working girl replied as she pulled a little white contraption from purse.
As she promptly it plugged into her phone.

And while not even batting an eye.

Taking his card and looking to him asking.

"Okay so what you up for a Hand Job, Blowjob or the full package?"

Modern convenience and on the go technology had saved the day and when you can order Pussy easier than McDonalds you know the world's truly going to hell.

Frank decided to cast his fates to the wind cause you only live once he thought to himself.

If only you could purchase a new liver and a few spare brain cells then what a wonderful world this would be.


Cheers.









About John Patrick Robbins:

    John Patrick Robbins 

Is the author of Sex , Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press .

He is also the editor of The Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers. 

His publications include , Ariel Chart , The San Pedro River Review , The Mojave River Review , Piker Press , Punk Noir Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy , Fixator Press, Blognostics and here at the Dope Fiend Daily .

His work is always unfiltered. 

Wednesday, May 22, 2019

EIGHT ELECTRIFYING MINUTES by K.W. Peery

In the
late night
HBO glow
of our
19 inch
Chromacolor
Zenith

I watched
Marvelous
Marvin Hagler
defend his
undisputed
middleweight titles
against Thomas
The Hitman
Hearns

It was
eight of
the most
electrifying
minutes
an eleven
year old
country boy
could possibly
witness

N'
how in
the hell
did a fight
so short
have such
a lasting
impact
on me
for more than
thirty-three
years
I guess
it's the
relentless
intensity
I witnessed
that night
in April of
Eighty-Five

When
two men
went to war
with one another
knowin' full well
no ringside bell
could save
them




About K.W. Peery:

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of eight poetry collections: 
Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; 
Bootlegger’s Bluff; Cockpit Chronicles. 


His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower, 
The Cosmic Lost and Found: An Anthology of Missouri Poets (Spartan Press), Best of Mad Swirl Anthology 2018 
and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III. 


Peery’s work has been published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, 
Big Hammer, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Veterans Voices Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, 
Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, Culture Cult Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only Magazine, 
Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir Magazine, Ariel Chart and Apache Poetry. 

Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than twenty studio albums over the past decade.

Website: www.kwpeery.com



Monday, May 20, 2019

Read My Wounds by Ahmad Al-Khatat:


I don't deserve to live in this world
mainly, because my dreams are hidden
from me as my bare feet are chained
Maybe my time should have ended as
every night, my eyes begin to cry,
she disappeared from my cigarette
smoke and was harder to drink just water
My hopes are the graffiti on the walls
after the fire, nothing stays but my ashes.
keep my story away from your loving ones
just remember that you have read my wounds
Make peace with love from the body
of someone you trust, to share more than a
lips kiss, as my mistakes are my everyday lies
to hide my death on my last birthday




About Ahmad Al-Khatat:

Ahmad Al-Khatat, was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated in several languages. He has published two poetry books “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” which are available on Amazon. Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook. 


Sunday, May 19, 2019

Poetry Reading For The Deaf by Ron Murphy


She slapped me across the face when I asked her how much for a good time.

Clearly this woman didn't know how to take a compliment.
I wasn't really even into her to begin with.

But she told me she was a single mother so I figured I would throw her bone.
I mean how else was a woman to make living if not being a secretary or selling her body?

And from the complete show of disrespect I could tell one thing was clear.

That this woman must be on her period.

Often people ask me Ron.

How do you seem to perfectly understand the lesser mind of the opposite sex?

Well my friends this is very simple much like the thought process of women or Canadians.

For when I attended university for broadcast  communication I also minored in psychology.

This has taught me many things about the woman's thought process.

Like woman love cooking and cleaning up after men.

They also enjoy watching silly romance films and listening terrible music for which they never know artist that performs these ear rape pieces.

And now after years of study I would like to announce from Balls Deep Press my new book .

Ron Murphy's Guide To Understanding Women.

Yes men toil no longer trying to understand what that moody bitch you live with  problem truly is anymore.

Simply grab yourself a copy of my newest book and question no longer.

With a whole chapter on what they really mean when they ask a question like.

"Do these pants make my ass look fat?"

To which the perfect response is.

"Sweetheart it's not the pants that make your ass look fat, its the seven chins and beer gut that make your ass look fat Shamu. "


Yes with this great book of knowledge you will be a true success in dealing with the opposite sex.

Order your copy of, Ron Murphy's Guide To Understanding Women Today.

Now available through Amazon or paypal me triple the price and I will sign it in the blood of one of the hookers I kill when we can't  agree on a fair price.

Yes no need to thank me gentleman just order the book now.

And as always.

You're Welcome.





            Ron Murphy 
Is a voice over legend and recording icon in the Philippines. 
His vocal talents have been featured in over two million commercials .

He is always avoiding authority's and dodging one of his many ex wives .
He is currently working on his memoirs. 

He is also a philosopher and man of peace love and good cocaine and hookers .

He is also the voice of UTB. 

And is currently on virtual  tour with the rest of the gang .

So join the cult and lighten the fuck up cause you only live once .

You're Welcome!!!




Saturday, May 18, 2019

Rehab by Hugh Blanton

They wake up in tears - crying uncontrollably.

They'll never do it again - they swear.

No more drink - no more dope - no more smoke.

They've had enough and they want help -

a hand to reach down from the heavens

and save their sorry asses.


The drug/alcohol counselor greets them

and tells them everything will be okay.


With more streaming tears they plead for help.

'Please help me! I want to stop!'

They relay an admixture of fact and fiction

to dramatize their plight.

'I been living in a canyon!'

'I been sleeping in the alley behind 7/11!'

'I got beat/robbed 2,826 times!'

The counselor sits there listening with sympathy

as if she hasn't heard it all a hundred times before.


Of course it's all bullshit.


As soon as the hangover ends - so does the rehab.

'Meh - fuck this rehab shit' they say

and stop off at the liquor store on their way to the dope dealer.

But they'll be back.

Rehab becomes a perpetual motion machine

of crashing and backsliding.


The only time rehab is seen through to completion

is at the initiation of a court order.





About Hugh Blanton:

Hugh Blanton lives in San Diego, California and combs poems out of his hair during those moments he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey.






Wednesday, May 15, 2019

On the Recreational Drug Use of Dolphins by Ryan Quinn Flanagan


Puffer fish are usually lethal, but not for dolphins.
When a dolphin grabs a puffer fish it releases a toxin.
Not only is the dolphin unharmed, but it gets high.
The effects of the toxin are similar to a psychedelic drug.
And the pod of dolphins take turns getting high.
They pass the puffer fish around so everyone gets a toke.
Until the entire pod is stoned.
Then they release the puffer fish unharmed.
And swim upside down near the surface of the water.
Watching their own reflection with great amazement.
For an inordinate amount of time.






About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan guards the Northern Wall for The Frat with his army of horny unicorns and 4/5ths of the Village People.  His private jet is a tax write-off and most of his first edition moose dulaps as well.  He is Scott's Simmons' father and wants Scott to know that he has been a very naughty boy and to get the spanking paddle out of the closet.


Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Gulf Coast by Wayne F. Burke

Fierce waves thrashing
shoreward
like armies of the Great Khan
butt against the sandy sea wall
which always gives
but never falls;
the bucking steeds retreat
and another line plunges
and wastes itself
in foamy splatter
as I walk past
the beach empty
I feel like Caliban
the first man
or maybe just best known
after Adam—
I sit where Robinson Crusoe sat
with his man, Friday
a big help,
covered the jungle at
Crusoe’s back—
Sunday was same as Monday for them
Tuesday not so hot,
always waves flopping
and mad gods in the sky
a horizon full of shark
‘snivilization and savage,
how Crusoe know he no go
into Friday’s pot?
An 18th century bromance
or soul-mance
or Rimbaudian farce;
did Crusoe forget what girls looked like?
A left-handed wife,
Rosey Palm and her five sisters
for diversion,
for fun,
if you can call it that
(I can’t).





About Wayne F. Burke:

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length volumes of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019).
A link to the book:


Sunday, May 12, 2019

Brief Encounter in a Public Loo by Bruce Hodder


He was Irish and bladdered at 11 a.m.
in the next cubicle along from me
in the bus station. I could hear him breathing,
and I saw two security watching him
as I paid my twenty pence and rushed inside.
'By Christ that shook the plaster, lad,'
he said, when I let out a giant fart.
'Mate, what's your name?' he asked me
through the thin wall that divided us.
It was like we'd met on barstools at the pub.
I didn't ask his name. I’d come in for a piss,
not to make a paralytic toilet buddy.
'Fucking hell, that stinks,' he marvelled.
'Not being funny, you can't help your bowels.'
'Maybe I'll change my appetite,' I said.
'No, you can't help your bowels,' he laughed.
'Hey mate, it's funny, yours is coming out,
I'm sticking something up mine. Droll as fuck.'
'You're doing what?' I was in stitches now.
I'd never laughed inside a cubicle
when sober, not that I remembered.
'The station's full of cops,' he said. ‘I’ve got
shit on me. Have to hide it somewhere!'
I laughed again as I reached down and flushed.
'Okay, my friend. I hope your eyes don't water.'
'Nice talking to you. Have a blinding day,'
said the Irishman. He was staying in.
He sounded perfectly contented there,
and besides, he hadn't finished packing shit.






About Bruce Hodder:

Bruce Hodder lives with his wife Michelle in Northampton, England, the most statistically average town in the UK. He has been published in many magazines and online, most recently in ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’, ‘Under the Bleachers’ and ‘The Rye Whiskey Review’.





Friday, May 10, 2019

WHAT I BROUGHT HOME TO MAMA by Brian Rihlmann

After about a month
I brought her to dinner
at Mom’s house,
spaghetti and meatballs,
I think...
and over dinner she said
how wonderful I was,
and my mom laughed
and said,
“No he isn't!”

Shortly after
we had a tiff
and she decided
I'd be no fun
and told me so
by text message
the day before Valentine's Day.

Class.
It gets better...

I, of course,
couldn't let it slide
because she was
such a hot piece of tail,
and I am so goddamn irresistible,
so I put on my detective’s hat,
and began scouring social media,
to learn that she'd grown tired
of the 9 to 5
and started dancing again,
shaking her tits and ass
at the same strip joint
as her 19 year old daughter.

And soon after,
in search of a bigger payday,
the two of them
started hooking,
and their advertised special
on the escort site
was mother daughter tag team.

You can’t make this shit up.

A female friend I told
studied my face
until she was sure
I wasn’t joking,
and then said,
“Dude, I think your picker is broken.”

It’s been years now,
since all this,
but I still drop by her page
sometimes.

Seems they went straight.
A recent photo showed
a baby boy,
looking mildly disgusted
with mom and gramma’s lips
pressed to either side
of his little bald head.

Kid must be fuckin’ psychic.







About Brian Rihlmann:

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Under The Bleachers, Cajun Mutt Press, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Aging by Dan Provost

Enthralled
in nothing—

Death in
mid-sentence.

We all had time
to cut the cord

As years slowly
bury us…

Always mindful

of some god-damn
lonely love…




About Dan Provost: 

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura--and their Bichon Frisce...Bella.

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Communication Breakdown by Tony Pena

Thoughts and prayers
dry up like the sand
on them drought days
graying on that neglected
beach by woebegone
lake where they found
that dead girl broken
like porcelain shrapnel,
all cut up and violated.
Townies swear
to the high heavens
on highlighted bibles
that they’ve a laser
like focus on finding
the truth , the killer,
yet waste precious
time pointing fingers
at scapegoats meeting
a profile 180 degrees
opposite their own.



About Tony Pena: 

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.   His publication credits include   "Dogzplot,"   "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” “Misfit Magazine,” "Red Fez," “Rye Whiskey Review,”  "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee,"  and others as well as a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."
Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Monday, May 6, 2019

SWEET DREAMS by K.W. Peery

I used to
carry a
kneecappin'
billy club
dubbed
'Sweet Dreams'
between
the console
n' driver's seat
in my
Ninety-Three
Eldorado

It was
handcrafted
out of
hickory
by a
good friend
of mine
and I
only had
to use it
a dozen
times
over a
decade
stretch

Until
it was
no longer
safe to
assume
'Sweet Dreams'
could save me
and I started
carryin' this
J-frame
Chief's Special
instead






About K.W. Peery:

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of eight poetry collections: 
Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; 
Bootlegger’s Bluff; Cockpit Chronicles. 


His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower, 
The Cosmic Lost and Found: An Anthology of Missouri Poets (Spartan Press), Best of Mad Swirl Anthology 2018 
and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III. 


Peery’s work has been published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, 
Big Hammer, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Veterans Voices Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, 
Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, Culture Cult Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only Magazine, 
Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir Magazine, Ariel Chart and Apache Poetry. 

Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than twenty studio albums over the past decade.

Website: www.kwpeery.com






Sunday, May 5, 2019

Stars Are Numbered Like Pool Balls and Ghosts Rub Chalk On Their Cues (For John Grochalski) by John Doyle

Infinity is a fat-ass kid;

that is,

with nothingness surrounding it

more nothingness comes to fill it; hollow - yet everything, empty - yet all-consuming -

it’s quite a simple process,

 and all you do afterwards kid is send our souls the bill.

I think of Gods, and Devils,

folklore tales of wicked demons who look like deformed beasts - the bent-beaked crow,

the sow with the twisted head and bulging eyes,

and the purest hero who rode in to save the princess from their clutches,

I wept for them this morning, it beats the usual water-cooler talk,

hero, princess,

deformed and wicked beast,

like junk floating side by side in space,

waiting for another clump of nothingness to push them further and further away.


Shooting pool with Barry, it’s my last day here, I haven’t got the heart to tell him -

you see, he’s a working man just like me, splinters, emphysema, the usual shit.

Well, anyways, Barry’s trick-shots today sent the Earth spinning out of orbit,

his adjutant McRory

(a snake who rats on me to senior management over emails at lunch

while I sit right beside her) fills up spaces eternity sometimes leases out

when Gods and Devils and fat-kids look the other way - though from behind her desk

she doesn’t flinch when she’s sees Gods and Devils scowling. Fancy that.


I believe in all honesty she’s some kind of witch,

I believe different shades of darkness are at work this time,

as the fat-kid checks out

and his mom and pop send a cadillac to collect him,

and Barry sinks another galaxy, and McRory turns to me

and smiles, it’s the first she’s called me by my name,

but she has no eyes, no face, there’s nothing there, just a 1990s grunge shirt sticking out,

some Caterpillar boots and traces of scowl in the crooked cuts of bone -

the cobweb face of looming death.

I note this - my final diary entry - with a possible explanation -



she may be just another devil muscling-in from the west-side,

I know they’re expanding their operations, filling darkness with itself,

until even the cue-ball turns itself black,

McRory will soon consume Barry, mating first -

then a  ritual feast - (I note further) and his pool cue will make that hollow clinking noise hitting

the floor with nothing holding it. This time it really will be nothing,

so come feast, ye Gods and Devils. I’ll switch off the lights and leave the doors un-locked





About John Doyle:
John Doyle is at present watching Rocky V and wondering why he could have been at such a loose-end to be reduced to this, I mean, seriously... 
He accepts all major credit cards, but will start dancing a whole lot sooner if you just point a gun at his feet and fire at will.




Thursday, May 2, 2019

Book by Ashely Cooke

I want to wrap the words
From your favorite book
Around my tongue
So you can feel at home
When I speak to you
The way you dreamed of
Comforted in familiarity
Bringing art to life
From my lips to yours.




About Ashley Cooke: 

Ashley Cooke is a creative writing major attending Long Beach City College. She is from Long Beach, CA. She is currently working on her first poetry collection

Don't Eat Paint Chips Or Become A Poet By JPR

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