Monday, May 17, 2021

Dunfermline Queen Margaret by John Doyle

A man wracked with sobriety
leaves his own funeral, 
drifts in beside me as I wake,
 
he steals my sleep
and I read his soul in act of vengeance
like a river impatient with its stones;
 
he is hollow,
like skin fitting him
because his mother told it so, and dying therefore fakes his headline acts -
 
they're in it together, there's little I can do except mock, 
feel a little spite.
Nuances like these are notable in wood 
 
more so than stiffs escaping funerals, 
the wood must be reliable, 
of course,
 
ordered from companies who say 
"So and So and Sons - Est. 1864"
on their doors; having sons is a great deal in a trade like this
 
and protects eternity from the bony-fingers of oblivion 
- if -
these sons stay clear of booze and women faster on the draw.
 
Several bars in town order stocks from such companies,
their counter-wood has a ring like a church-bell on Sunday,
a bright Protestant hope, an urge for Mondays,
 
tea and sandwiches for Max Weber, as he waits outside, 
door-bell singing.
December's fields are weighted-down like apologies in snow,
 
as my friend tilts on a passing bend,
dead people usually don't apologise. 
I expect less from him, 
 
Heaven and Hell does their bidding for them
no later than December, however,
a month for dreams that turn
 
to water and to air, guilt and salvation 
lagging right behind an ore-bound siding
near Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
 
When I died and went to Heaven
first thing I noticed was all my friends were roasting in Hell, 
I wept for days, then in despair pulled a flick knife on St. Peter

 
hoping for expulsion - so went the ticket collector's story 
leaving Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
I was hiding in the toilets before he arrived,
 
the ghosts around me could deal with him.
So they did -
So I thank them in this song,
 
pray like a good Christian should
for their beautiful
sacred souls.



 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.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.


Saturday, May 15, 2021

Glory by Wayne F. Burke

It was all for glory--
chasing down the ball-carrier
slamming my helmeted-head into
a gut, running over the
catcher because Coach told me to:
I never knew
then 
the glory was his, not mine, though
won with my blood,
my guts, and
all for nothing but
to make him look good, and
for some shits' profits,
and for the prestige of the
school, that
spit some of us out each year
into the factories and
fields, where our fathers ,uncles, and
brothers--who had also worn the
red & white uniform, labored
for what they too
never knew.



Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He has published six full-length poetry collections, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019). He lives in the Pine Tree State.

Thursday, May 13, 2021

Regarding the Previous Follow-up Email by Ben Nardolilli

I recently sent you information! Fuck you
For not getting back to me about it.
What? You think you’re so great
You can afford to pass up the opportunity
To read this great author’s equally fucking
Great book even though it’s free for you?
 
Yeah, it’ll take up time, time I’m sure
You’ll fill with wonderful things
Like feeding orphans and winning
Nobel Prizes for literature and peace! No,
You’re just a jackoff plain and simple,
Who needs to learn to reply to our emails
 
Come on, take it! Take this novel! Read it,
Cry over it, and then write a review,
Don’t worry, we’ll rip one sentence out
For a blurb on the paperback edition,
Before wiping our asses with the rest of it,
A boon for an unpublished writer like you





Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.



Wednesday, May 12, 2021

Micro Dose Monologue by Kevin M. Hibshman

“Is it getting warm in here?”

“Holy shit, Elon Musk's little launch rockets come back down to earth, man!”
“They fucking land on tiny pads in the middle of the ocean that wait out there for them!”

“Wow, that new's lady's face just did something really strange.”
“How did she do that?”

“Turn up the music.”
“I'm only hearing out of one ear.”

“Dig this, Space-X put a freaking car in orbit, forever playing David Bowie.”
“NASA would never have considered that.”




Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems, reviews and collages published in numerous publications world wide. Most recently, his work has been published by Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only, The Crossroads and 1870. In addition to editing his own poetry e-zine, FEARLESS, he has authored sixteen chapbooks including: Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011) and Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000).



Monday, May 3, 2021

The Devil's Dance by John Patrick Robbins

She said.

"I believe there is something oddly beautiful in suicide."

For in return, Frank simply remained silent.
As stupid seldom needs an encore.
Which is a statement largely wasted upon the ignorant.

As they sat upon the floor sharing drinks and little to nothing else.

She was a delusional fool, for which youth often grants that privilege in spades.
And her looks had clearly allowed her to skate by even the most venomous thinkers such as Frank.

Something in her statement enraged him so no matter it's effects.
He had to allow this airhead to know the side everyone thought was his truth.

"So my dear, death intrigues you? Ever been close to it?"

"No, but I write about it a lot in my poems."

"Yes and from what I have read you clearly believe it to be a fashion label but at least you wear it well sweetheart."

Frank, replied taking a ship from his drink.

"Hey! Why are you being such an asshole to me?"
Tabitha snapped back.

"Sorry my dear it's just my nature. Refill sweetheart."

"You know, you don't have to act around me. I mean we are close.
I mean I just like sucked your dick a minute ago."

"Yeah and clearly it's the smartest thing to come out of your mouth in a awhile sugar."

"Fuck you asshole!"

Tabitha shouted as she stood up and stomped out the room.
Frank could have made nice and chased after her.
But in all truth this was far more honest of an exchange.

They both had a momentary thirst and that said thirst had been quenched.

People always want to see the devil to simply know he exists.
Have a dance, maybe even a night's embrace to say you simply have been to the gates of hell.

Was it a trophy or a souvenir?
Frank hadn't a clue.
Tabitha wasn't stupid just simply delusional.

It's strange how people believe getting close to something that clearly isn't there to begin with.

Will somehow turn out differently for them, where it all turned to shit for everyone else.

Frank poured another and sat there basking in the silence and afterglow of a moment's release.

Before airhead's idiotic verbal intrusion.
For Tabitha, believed to be an artist, you must be deep and walk a razor's edge.

When in truth Frank, like any other lived his life not as a fashion statement.
It was simply the only life he knew.

As the pages now collect dust but a reputation is a both a curse and odd blessing.

As fools believed when you were silent. You were off creating some great art not just simply drinking your ass off.

And so are the trappings of ego and success.
Tabitha wanted to be what you simply could not become with filters and horn dog social media followers.

And somewhere along the way she came to the crossroads and met the devil himself.

She stomped off slamming the door as she left.
Calling rejection pain, when in truth it's the one common ground all true writers share.

The drinks flowed in her absence as life dragged on unfortunately.

Happy endings were only good in fairy tales and bedtime stories.
As for kids and delusional fools alike.

Frank would not be leaving the light on or the welcome mat out.

There were no vacancies in hell tonight.




John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and The Black Shamrock Magazine.

And author of The Still Night Sessions from Whiskey City Press.
His work has been published here at the Dope Fiend Daily as well as  Fearless Poetry Zine, Lothorian Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Piker Press, Medusa's Kitchen, San Antonio Review,  San Pedro River Review. 

His work is always unfiltered.  


Wednesday, April 7, 2021

Ronald by Kevin R. Farrell,


 

Kevin R. Farrell, Jr. is a New York based artist, poet, and educator whose work has been published in BONED – Every Which Way, Burning House Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Adroit Journal, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Foxhole Magazine, Yo-NEWYORK! and others.
In 2021 Farrell released Best of the Worst which consists of 20 poems that have risen to the top of the trash heap that is his constant documentation of a life spent toeing the line between spiritual bliss and emotional upheaval. As a recovering addict each day can be a struggle when dealing with the dumpster fire that is modern day existence. Sometimes Farrell attempts to put out the fire, on other days he warms his hands by the flames.

Saturday, April 3, 2021

Plastic Letters by Glen Armstrong

Thunder gathers above the punk
rock club.
 
The sky’s mascara runs.
It’s a Moe and Curly world.
 
I love the song
about a kidnapper but worry
 
that what’s funny
in New York City might be 
 
triggering elsewhere.
I love Debbie’s 
 
shiny red boots but worry 
about the weather.
 
The rain falls down 
like hammer claws.
 
I poke my shoe in the eye.




Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three current books of poems: Invisible Histories, The New Vaudeville, and Midsummer. 


 

Dunfermline Queen Margaret by John Doyle

A man wracked with sobriety leaves his own funeral,  drifts in beside me as I wake,   he steals my sleep and I read his soul in act of venge...