More than Words By Brenton Booth

When I

told him

I was a

writer, he

immediately

responded,

the only

writer he

knew of

was Fyodor

Dostoyevsky.

"Dostoyevsky

was the

finest of

us all!"

I replied

with a

smile

bright as

a dozen

wayward

suns:

optimistic

for the

first time

in years.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.  

Can You Spare The Parts Along With Me? By John Patrick Robbins

I woke up alone as often I do.

I woke up in spite of the fact I truly did not give a fuck to see

the light of the day.

There were no cocktails for breakfast, no false pleasure, but at

least that narrative beat false hope any day of the week.

The older you get, the more you must sacrifice simply to keep 

moving along.

You may shed weight, addictions,  lovers, and friends, and 

eventually, for that last part of the track, you may ultimately 

abandon your memories along with your mind.

Just to find your final destination, spent alone in some old folks 

home.

Crazy as a shit house rat lost to everyone, including yourself.

Life definitely is not for the faint of heart or the most rational of 

mind.

Good thing I abandoned that organ long ago.

But I still keep an eye out upon this road to see if someone

has abandoned a perfectly good liver.

So if we ever we were to spend the night together only for you

to awake in an ice bath you'll have to forgive my manners in

not asking first.

We all got to do whatever it takes just to keep us going along

the way.

I'm held together by super glue and duct tape with some lost

hopes thrown in for good measure.

I'm still here even though I don't have a fucking clue why.

John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer.

His work has been published in Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Cold Rambler, Piker Press and here at the Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Watching the gods cry__after By Merritt Waldon

for mayakovsky

A long drawn out sigh

Divinity finger in irritated eye

Watch the soul vibrate

Hear the drone of fate

Against the backbone whistle

Brain matter pistol 

A long drawn out sigh

Watching the gods cry

Merritt Waldon is Southern Indiana poet who has been published in Road Dawgz, Sun Poetic Times,

The Brooklyn Rail, Be About It Zine, River Dog #1, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Americans & others anthology fourth edition, Crisis Chronicles, Cajun Mutt Press, Thye Rye Whiskey Review, and Fearless!.

At midnight Christmas night 2020, cajun mutt press released Oracles from a Strange Fire by Ron Whitehead & Merritt. He lives in Austin, Indiana.

Translating the Media Reaction to the Assassination of Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson By Garret Schuelke

WHAT THE FUCKING

FUCK IS WRONG 

WITH YOU SERFS?!

THIS IS NOT 

HOW YOU'RE SUPPOSED

TO REACT TO 

THE MURDER OF 

ONE OF YOUR

SUPERIORS!

BRIAN THOMPSON IS

SOMEONE YOU'RE SUPPOSED 

TO DREAM ABOUT 

BEING!

BRIAN THOMPSON IS

SOMEONE YOU'RE SUPPOSED 

TO ASPIRE TO 

BECOME A DOLLAR 

STORE VERSION OF!

UBERMENSCH LIKE HIM

HAVE EXACTLY WHAT

YOU'RE SUPPOSED 

TO WANT—MILLIONS

OF DOLLARS IN

VARIOUS BANKS,

HOUSES AND SWATHS 

OF PROPERTY THAT 

YOU'VE GROWN UP 

SEEING ON CELEBRITY 

REALITY TV SHOWS,

FAMILY, FRIENDS, ASSOCIATES, 

AND PARTNERS THAT 

YOU CAN JUST 

TOSS ASIDE LIKE 

COMMON TRASH IF 

THEY GET IN 

YOUR WAY, AND 

THE SECURITY OF 

KNOWING THAT THE 

GOVERNMENT IS ALWAYS 

ON YOUR SIDE!

BUT INSTEAD, YOU

PEONS NOW WANT TO

TO CHEER FOR 

SOME BUSHY BROW,

BACK-SHOOTING,

PASTA-LOVING ASSHOLE 

WHO JUST HAPPENS 

TO HAVE THE 

SAME NAME AS 

SUPER MARIO'S TALLER, 

LENNIE-ISH BROTHER?!

ARE YOU FUCKING 

JOSHING ME RIGHT 

NOW?!

LISTEN, OUR CLASS

HAS ALREADY DEALT 

WITH THESE TYPES

OF SITUATIONS BEFORE.

REMEMBER SACCO AND

VANZETTI?

NO?

WELP, PULL UP 

THEIR ENTRY ON

WIKIPEDIA, BUDDY, THEN

YOU'LL SEE WHAT

WE DO TO

ATTRACTIVE ITALIAN MEN

WHO FUCK WITH 

US!

WE GOT ENOUGH 

JUDGE WEBSTER THAYER-

TYPES OUT THERE 

THAT WILL ENSURE 

THAT THIS MOTHERFUCKER

WILL FRY ONE

WAY OR ANOTHER!

(AND DON’T EVEN

GET US STARTED

ON ALEXANDER

BERKMAN!)

IN THIS SYSTEM,

YOU'RE EITHER A

PEASANT OR A

PARASITE!

PARASITES GET A

BAD REP—THEY 

ARE, IN FACT,

THE SUPERIOR BEINGS,

BECAUSE THEY KNOW

HOW TO MAKE

A LIVING OFF

OF YOU MORONS!

YOU BELIEVE YOU'RE 

LIVING AS YOU

SHOULD BY "WORKING",

HAVING "MORALS" AND

"IDEALS", OR ENGAGING

IN ARTS, ENTERTAINMENT,

AND RELATIONSHIPS, BUT

WE KNOW IT'S

ALL ABOUT 

MONEY,

CONTROL,

AND

INFLUENCE!

JESUS, WHY ARE

WE EVEN BOTHERING 

TRYING TO LECTURE 

YOU DULLARDS?!

YOU LOSERS WILL 

NEVER GET ON 

OUR LEVEL!

SO GO DO 

THE USUAL 

DUMB SHIT YOU 

DO TO COPE 

WITH NOT BEING 

PART OF THE 

RULING CLASS:

GET INTO INANE

ONLINE POLITICAL ARGUMENTS,

WITH SOMEONE WHO’S

LIKELY A BOT,

OR MILKING YOU

FOR CONTENT!

VOTE TO DEFUND 

YOUR PUBLIC SERVICES 

AND STRUCTURES WHILE 

GIVING MORE TAX 

MONEY TO THE 

COPS AND MILITARY!

JOIN THE PROUD

BOYS, PATRIOT FRONT,

OR SOME OTHER

MILITIA OF WHITE

TRASH MORONS, AND

PRETEND YOU'RE TOUGH!

BAN BOOKS, AND

THREATEN LIBRARIES THAT

HOST DRAG QUEEN

STORY HOURS!

OBSESS OVER WOKENESS, 

DEI, OR SOME

OTHER BUZZWORD WE'RE

PROPAGATING THIS WEEK!

WATCH TIM ALLEN'S 

NEWEST SHOW, WHICH 

IS BASICALLY ANOTHER 

REMAKE OF HOME 

IMPROVEMENT!

BLAST TOM MCDONALD'S

LATEST VIRAL HIT

WHILE EXPLAINING HOW

YOU "USUALLY HATE 

RAP, BUT..."!

CLENCH YOUR FISTS

AS YOU IMAGINE

BLM AND ANTIFA

INVADING YOUR HOA

NEIGHBORHOOD OR METH-

RIDDEN COUNTRY BURB!

BLAME UNIONS, IMMIGRANTS, 

AND YOUNG PEOPLE 

INSTEAD OF THE 

GREED PIGS WHO 

LORD OVER YOU 

FOR LOSING YOUR 

DAY JOB!

KEEP LIKING, SHARING

AND SUBSCRIBING TO

EVERY FASCIST GRIFTER 

THAT POPS UP 

ON YOUR SOCIAL 

MEDIA FEEDS!

DO NOT GOOGLE

“PROPAGANDA OF THE DEED”!

AND IF YOU 

REALLY WANT TO 

KILL SOMEONE, THEN 

GO BECOME THE 

NEXT KYLE SHITTENHOUSE,

OR SHOOT UP

A SCHOOL, STORE,

FESTIVAL, OR SOME

OTHER PLACE WHERE 

LARGE GATHERINGS OF

PEOPLE OCCUR!

STICK TO KILLING 

YOUR OWN CLASS, 

STUPID!

YOU'LL HAVE OUR

THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS!

etc.

GARRET SCHUELKE is a writer, podcaster, and musician that currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), Anamakee (Riot Forge Studios, 2016), Whup Jamboree: Stories (Elmblad Media Group, 2017), and three ebooks. He is also the host of The Garret Schuelke Podcast, The Cheeseburger Blues: An Exploration into Dad Blues Rock, and A Riot of My Own. He makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory.

To learn more, visit Garret Schuelke’s official website: garretschuelke.tumblr.com

Adam Heart Mother By Kevin M. Hibshman

Poking with a stick. 

Looking for the crevice that started everything.

A vague meandering led to the science of destruction.

Big budget nightmares for everyone.

Let's do something they cannot erase.

In this tattle-tale age of surveillance, let's be sneaky.

I'm messed up about the past.

Let's put on some acid jazz.

Come to the cabin in Summer.

It's a bit of a fixer-upper.

Hey, bring whatever you can, man.

The stars are great here.

So are the fireflies.

I'll let you in on a secret.

These people are weird.

These people are missing something.

That certain component that makes you human.

Half of their brains are missing.

They are oddly compliant, pleasantly lobotomized.

They never listened to folk songs from the 60's.

I just want to feel wild like nobody's child.

Will you help me defy them?

Don't fret about having destroyed your liver.

Come down here.

We'll find a river.

I have enough to get by.

We'll take a stroll through the old campsite.

Sorry to digress.

Its no longer about protest.

It's all entwined in feeling.

I got a connection.

Maintain your reflexes.

Stay fast and funky man.

Get as loose as you can and we'll go swimming.

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://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0DKHRDQD5/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Charged By April Ridge

How do you ground the notion of love?

First

you connect two to three hearts

with battery wires,

ensuring they are fastened

tight enough to

zap and zing

one another

hard as thousand year old lightning,

dark as lost-for-eons canyons,

deep as a new lover’s eyes

surprised at midnight,

sleeping over for the first time

when you invite them

as they’re saying their goodbyes.

After time,

love either grounds itself

or wasn’t truly love to begin with.

The notion of love

is sometimes taken

to the precipice of

a cliff you can’t afford to climb up to

or dangle precariously from

while awaiting the magic to overcome.

Sometimes you cannot

obtain that love.

Sometimes,

if you’re lucky,

it simply comes

and you just have to work

to keep that spark charged.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom. 

The Revolution by Night by Alex S. Johnson

The leaves scuttle, are singed

and the meat is pink if you 

Stab it just a bit

it oozes blood

Like your tender

astronomy

A side of sidereal, cosmicomic

Laughter bursts from the veins, the

green tracery of being netted in a colossal shipwreck of forms

Desire gives way to a blossom of death to time

Where opiate pallor dabs at your cheeks

And you reach for an cigarette jammed

Smartly in its FDR cylinder, the Princess of Pirate Girls with an eyepatch and a hip flask of

Rum-drummer tattoos, watercolors of

rose and leviathan sinking slowly beneath the waves of 

The sun.

Alex S. Johnson was dubbed "The Baudelaire of our time" by John Shirley, screenwriter with David J. Schow of the 1994 cult classic horror film The Crow starring Brandon Lee in his final performance, and has been trying to live up to that beautiful comparison ever since. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family.