Wednesday, November 20, 2024

Bad Decisions By Ian Lewis Copestick

 

As I sit here 

getting older 

and older.

Smoking joint after 

joint.

As I look back 

upon my life 

I see bad decision

after bad decision.

Leading me to 

addiction and ill

health.

But, I ask myself 

Would I have been 

happier being straight 

and clean.

Getting a good job 

earning good money ?

No, I don't think so, 

I'm happy now.

that's enough for me.






Ian Lewis Copestick is a 49 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.


Monday, November 18, 2024

The Virginal Brides by Alex S. Johnson


In his crimson-lined cape, 


Bela's resplendent. A cruel matinee idol, a


walking corpse. Widow's peak, hypnotic eyes,


white zombie seducer. He pulls the 


strings, strung out himself on junk. The


virginal brides file past the womb-tomb, 


long white fingers splayed out before them.


In an orgy of bloodlust they feast on a child


delivered to their waiting beaks, jaws foaming,


lathered crimson. Bela's shadow stretches 


through the window as he folds the rest of 


himself into a pair of black wings, signifying


the end game. He flies through the air, arriving


at her window. The poet raises her head 


thinking of Sleepytime Bears, frowsy bed-hair.


She reaches for the pipe and tucks in with the


gut-soother, opium. Now she and Bela fly


together, their souls knit together. 


The virginal brides descend 


endlessly down the


spiral staircase 


performing a 


Moebius striptease 


operation.


Life as we know it has


reached


critical black


mass.


The endgame approaches.


Aurelia De Quincey, vampire poet,


sleek as the dreams of obsidian with


ten times the glamor


Rocks back and forth through the


penning of a new verse. She places her


writing instrument, a Mont Blanc fountain pen


given her by the Arab millionaire, on the


zinc oxide bartop. Lifts the FDR/HST cigarette


holder to lips that haunt many 


dreams. Blows a perfect smoke


circle into the following


century.





Alex S. Johnson is the author of many books, including most recently THUNDERSTRUCK, a dark poetry collection written in collaboration with Sandy DeLuca and Alea Celeste Williams, and the critically-acclaimed THE FLOWERS OF DOOM. Recently his books THE DOOM HIPPIES and SKULL VINYL were acquired by the Widener Library at Harvard University for their cultural significance. Johnson's work has appeared in poeticdiversity, Misfits, Horror Sleaze Trash, Dark Angel, HWA POETRY SHOWCASE III, HYDROPHOBIA, 13 Mynah Birds, Bizarro Central, Bloodsongs magazine, Cthulhu Sex and much more. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family where he runs Nocturnicorn Books and the SMOL BEAR N' PICKLES Youtube interview show, with guests that include that acclaimed dark fiction authors Seb Doubinsky and Kathe Koja as well as bestselling author and entrepreneur Lyric Rivera, aka Neurodivergent Rebel. 


Saturday, November 16, 2024

Strung Out By Michael E. Duckwall

I gotta get my fix. Earn some money so I can pay my rent.

I gotta find a job that's legit. I GOT BILLS TO PAY! 


No more hustling in the streets, no more slinging dope.

No more good kush stink, trading time for smoke.


I GOT BILLS TO PAY! I gotta drug test to take

you know what I mean. I need that 401k, I gotta take care of me.


I gotta try to be the American dream. I GOT BILLS TO PAY!

I gotta get my fix, before the bottom drops out of all of this.


Before this paper money ain't worth a shit.

You know it scratches my ass when I wipe with it.


I GOT BILLS TO PAY! That's why I sacrifice my dreams

for this all mighty dollar. Can you hear me holler? 


I GOT BILLS TO PAY! Because in America

none of us are free.We're all slaves to the grind, slaves to the greed.


I GOT BILLS TO PAY! I gotta find a job real quick, with insurance 

vacation, all that good shit. I GOT BILLS TO PAY!


The landlord keeps banging on my door, he wants his rent. 

But all of my money is already spent. God almighty 


I GOT BILLS TO PAY! I gotta find a job that's legit

so I can get my fix. Because I'm jonesing for those


dirty dollar banknotes. They ain't real money, they're a fucking joke.

WE ALL GOT BILLS TO PAY! Living day by day


strung out in the U.S. of A.






Michael E. Duckwall was born and raised in the Ohio Valley. A featured poet at the 10th and final Gonzofest in Louisville Ky. Michael’s poetry, artwork and photography have been in a handful of magazines and anthologies, along with numerous online features. He has a couple of chapbooks in publication and one limited edition co-authored chapbook you may have missed out on.





Wednesday, October 30, 2024

The Great Masturbator By Manny Grimaldi

 

I am the very model of a modern major radio star.

I’ve information. I am a Pooh Bear. I puff Gauloises

and my poesies are on demand 

with a much venerated mustache to boot.


I topple high society reaching dizzying Olympus Mons.

I think I bring war’s hammer to the world 

with every word from my silky, sensual honeyed lips,

my slips and heels and lipstick too.


But my tease does not serve you.


I could stand atop a bar waving my hairy hips

over your bourbon and Coors Light,

and flavor your beverage with such delight—

that you’d reject me.


Instead I cling to a stripper’s pole, descend,

whirring a hole to China where the rice is warm,

and the birds are cold.

They will watch me make changes divine.


I am rose of May. I am MacBeth. I am most anyone

to impress.

Strip this artifice what do you find?

Leave with your questions, close the curtains, 


none of this is mine.




manny grimaldi is a kentucky poet and editor now celebrating the release of his first poetry book RIDING SHOTGUN WITH THE MOTHMAN, available on Amazon.  he is managing editor at YEARLING poetry journal in its 4th year of publication.  he lives in an uncharted area of the ghetto with two insane birds named PETEY and CORNPOP that wake at 4:45 a.m. and sing melodiously to the tunes of LANA DEL REY and MY MORNING JACKET.  the dishes are never done. 



Friday, October 25, 2024

Last In Line By Daniel S. Irwin


Yeah, ain't nuttin' new.

I always been kinda slow.

Now here I am, again,

Just last in line as usual.

My daddy always said

That I needed to get

My lazy ass in gear.

Weird situation here.

All us dudes lined up

Total butt ass naked.

It seems to kinda creep

Along but with these

Hot babes movin' up

And down the row,

Big tits and sweet ass

Rubbin' up against us,

Every one of us bozos

Got rock hard salamis.

This ain't so bad, but

I could use some relief.

Okay, finally, I'm next up

After this guy in front of

Me. What the heck is

That choppin' sound?

Satan with a meat clever

And..! Whoa, Nelly! How

Do I get outta this line?






Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is).  Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.

Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films. 

Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded.  Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.

Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away. 










Wednesday, September 25, 2024

Bacchanalia By Manny Grimaldi


after reading William S. Burroughs


When you arrive, my soul hears your heart ringing- 

tangled the canopy amidst spiders and butterflies to rest 

our minds, bells to carry mourning doves peaceful 

fish and amphibians swimming 

in ponds under the ever-ancient moon adrift of freshet Earth, 

who is said was pummeled by comet trails. 

Now everything, everywhere is satellite rubble,

and my spirit explodes, the light the dark, the dark the light


with old Ron, earnest and praying for his woman infirm,

with Ron who crumples—a laundry heap to wake 

with a start again—in his ram shack, lit by oil lamp, lifting 

off a circus floor. Horses hover. Clowns by letters learn them use 

defibrillators—but it’s late. It’s over. Everyone’s arthritic.

So forgo CPR and let Ron die in peace.


The doctor arrives drunk, complains 

that someone cut his Propofol with non-fat dairy vanilla 

creamer at the clinic.“What do I know?” he grumbles. 

He’d rather be dead, and it pisses him off. 

We stare in shock, he rants, “Can someone explain 

the world we live in, when Cadillac highs are sought 

at rock bottom prices?” and he cuts adrift of freshet Earth,

explodes in clouds and tumults of light in dark in dark in light.







Manny Grimaldi is an editor and writer and musician from Kentucky.  He manages Yearling, a Poetry Journal for Working Writers.  Publications credits include Moss Puppy and Disturb the Universe Magazines, Pegasus, and Jerry Jazz Musician.  He has a forthcoming poetry collection with Whiskey City Press in the near future.



Wednesday, July 3, 2024

Hooker on Fifth and Hennepin asks me for a handout by Alex Stolis

Her eyebrows are painted on, slightly angled
in a Catwoman cartoon kind of way, fishnets 
torn straight across her thigh, she's holding an 
unlit Pall Mall, skinny purse banging her hip. 
I’m Dylan with his hands jammed in pockets 
shoulders hunched, both of us seriously under
dressed for winter, her hair dyed black chopped 
short but still hiding her eyes she catches my
attention with a wink, asks for a light, I tell her 
I quit smoking, gave it up for Lent, she nods 
says babes I only need your fire, she’s sincere 
in that real as shit street life worn down but not
out kind of way. I ask to bum one from her, she 
hands it to me, nails a chipped champagne pink, 
I give her a five, brace for the incoming rain.





Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Jasper's Folly Poetry Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife, was released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024. http://www.louisianaliterature.org/2024/04/11/new-release-announcement-alex-stolis/ RIP Winston Smith is forthcoming from Allen Buddha Press. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize. 

Bad Decisions By Ian Lewis Copestick

  As I sit here  getting older  and older. Smoking joint after  joint. As I look back  upon my life  I see bad decision after bad decision. ...