Saturday, February 22, 2020

John Dodges a Silver Bullet. By John Doyle


Grace lived in a state of grace
from roughly June 1989 until Spring 1993
when glam-metal had truly died its death three-times over
to be replaced by scraggly college-kids 
in drive-thru burger-joints
spitting on customers' hot-dogs.
She was our white-lace, white-pumps peroxide Hypate
sitting dangle-legged side-stage, 
while that kid who looked like Yngwie Malmsteen
tuned his imitation Stratocaster.
I worked with Grace's brother washing cars on Saturdays
so I could keep Neil Peart's dreams alive
in distant universal outposts of rebellion Neil wrote about
for 7:99 a shot on CDs I'd plan to serenade 
in my first car that I'd afford -
when I stop buying Rush CDs and started saving for my first car.
I saw Grace maybe three weeks ago, in the bank 
when I was squeezing a last 50 from my 27 years of savings.
I thought I'd ask her to join me 
for one of those hot dogs -
looks like Grace's been through one or four more than me 

in those intervening years. 




John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch. 

Monday, February 17, 2020

Five Foot Nine. By Ian Lewis Copestick


When I was 16 years old and
first got arrested by the police.
They measured me, and I
was 5' 11 3/4 ". I was slightly
disappointed to be under
six feet. My dad was 6' 2", and
I wanted to be at least as tall
as him.
Yesterday, I had to go to the
hospital
for a scan. As the guy weighed and
measured me, he said " Five foot
nine, that's about right." I was
insulted.
I know it's stupid, and doesn't mean
a thing.
But I don't want to have nearly 3 inches
knocked off any part of my body.
Except, maybe my waist.




Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 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.

Friday, February 14, 2020

Dos Putas Be Trippin. By El Bastardo


I find the solace in stroking my chimichanga to public pictures of my facebook amigos.
But I am stopped in my tracks when gazing upon beautiful backyardico of beautiful co editor.
Bastardo have feeling like never before.

Bastardo quickly downloaded all dis senoritas pics so we could share some quality moments.
Dis senorita has captured bastardos' heart and now I have captured her images .

Dis truly win win situation ole!






El Bastardo,  is the true Lucha poet and Mexican wrestling legend.
He is a man of mystery who lives out in the open and often makes public appearances.

His work has been published in Horror Sleaze Trash , Under The Bleachers and here at the Dope Fiend Daily .

His first book will be published soon by the Dope Fiend Daily Press.



Thursday, February 13, 2020

Titanic. By Gwil James Thomas


Some 
people 
board 
the ship 
purely 
to
stand 
on deck 
and gleefully 
watch 
as it 
inevitably 
hits 
the iceberg - 
so 
that they 
can say 
that 
they got 
wet once
many years 
ago - 
their 
hearts 
already 
stone 
cold. 






Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. His written work has been featured in 3 Poets, Low Light Magazine, 3AM, GOB, Mythos Zine, Bold Monkey, Cephalo Press, North of Oxford, Drinkers Only, Outlaw Poetry, The Beatnik Cowboy and also here. His sixth poetry chapbook Cocoon Transitions is available for preorder at Analog Submission Press. He is currently laying low somewhere in Northern Spain.

Saturday, February 8, 2020

temporary restraining order. By jck hnry


i bumped into my past / recently / a friend / from high school
she looked at me / confused / after i said  hello / as if we'd never met
as if we never fucked / in the back / of her daddy's Camaro / in 1981
recognition came slow / memory incomplete / we made small talk
she seemed / nervous / as if someone / might catch her / talking
to a stranger /
it's been 37 years / since we connected / in the Camaro / before church
and sometimes after
i asked about family / kids / and related / seems she has a son / and three daughters
the boy is 36 / that gave me pause
two weeks later / a TRO is presented / she doesn't want me coming around / as if
i knew where she lived / or cared





jck hnry is a neo-modernist, post-apocalyptic writer, living in the hard scrub of a californian desert.  after a 10 year hiatus hnry is back at it.  recent publications include:

includes publication in Horror Sleaze Trash, Bold Monkey, Red Fez, dope fiend daily and a bunch of other noble zines and journals.  Chapbooks/Books: “Snow in Summer and the Playground is Closed,” “Empty Houses-Kendra Steiner Editions,” “the Downtown Cafe (Erbacce Press),” “With the Patience of Monuments (neoPoesis) ,” “Crunked, (Epic Rites)” and “the Righthand Curve of a Continuous Circle. (Blunt Trauma Press).”  hnry is also editor and publisher of "Heroin Love Songs, V2.0, 7thEd" available now. for more go to jackhenry.wordpress.com.

Thursday, February 6, 2020

Close the Book. By Ahmad Al-Khatat


It’s the time to close
the book of negativity
Stop flipping over the
pages of wasted years
and stand in front of
-waves of confidence
It’s the time to close
the book of remorse
Start creating a place
for satisfaction above
-some dark thoughts
of attempting suicides
It’s the time to close
the book of long isolation
I want to feel like I am loved
to my country, back to my life
Smile again without wearing an
emotional smile that lasts forever




Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, Roofs of Dreams, and The Grey Revolution. He lives in Montreal, Canada.




Friday, January 24, 2020

Mike Webster by Dan Provost

You would think
the NFL would initiate
a holiday for old
piano arms…

Pulling on a screen pass…

Taking out pursuit by
leading with his head.

Knocking down
potential tacklers

As Franco or Rocky
scooted into the endzone.

Triceps bulging as he went back
to the huddle…
Ready for some more
helmet to helmet
contact…

It is just unfortunate
that he was slowly
dying while doing his
job…

A scrambled noggin
back in the day was
seen as a badge
of courage
for lineman…

Could care less that
too many times, your
brain would slosh to the other
side of your skull…

During the millions
of collisions that
took place

during practice
and games…

But god damn it,
Bless Mike Webster…

He gave so much to
the Steelers dynasty…

Play after play, year
after year…

Not knowing
while in the process.

He gave the ultimate
sacrifice.




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.

John Dodges a Silver Bullet. By John Doyle

Grace lived in a state of grace from roughly June 1989 until Spring 1993 when glam-metal had truly died its death three-times over ...