Thursday, March 7, 2024

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

"Hey, is your mag open to submissions?"

I run a daily unless the voices tell me not to because they want to party.

"The mag is only open to cuddling and long walks on the beach and quickies behind the dumpster behind Wal-Mart at the moment and donations to my charity: Tip The Strippers Handsomely In Hopes To Get Free Pole Dancing Lessons....”

The lost little writer learned the Mad Editor title was far from just a title.

Then instantly regretted attaching their phone number with their submission. Which is borderline stupid when dealing with someone who hasn't slept in six years.

Crossing my fingers to set the Guinness record.

Sometimes I wish I had followed my dreams and become a serial killer, instead, or a bus driver for invisible people.

JPR is the greatest human residing on his personal island off the coast of Jupiter, Spain. It is a real place in his nonexistent heart.

He likes drawing tits on random sleeping persons' foreheads and calling in bomb threats to Taco Bell.

He once was a roadie for Willie Nelson, so of course he was swimming in the pussy…

He uses humor to mask the fact he hates humanity but likes for people who fear he will want to meet them someday.

He once painted by number. Now, he paints outside the box which has earned him a lifetime ban from Michael’s art supply franchise because they do not support his genius.  Much like you reading this.

He hosts an open mic at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean every Saturday night.

He also collects drugs to keep the streets safe where there are no sidewalks.

I like you, I don't care what your friends say about you. You're kinda okay.

Wednesday, February 14, 2024

guillermo By John Grochalski


sits outside

on a bench


with his hard on

and his whiskey


talking to twelve-year-old girls

nursing an injured pigeon


don’t touch that thing,

guillermo says


pigeons have diseases

pigeons are nothing but flying rats


guillermo drinks his whiskey

and pulls on his crotch


he smiles at the twelve-year-old girls


he wishes he was as beautiful

as something like a flying rat.

John Grochalski is the author of the poetry collections, The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and The Philosopher’s Ship (Alien Buddha Press, 2018). He is also the author of the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

Tuesday, October 3, 2023

The Lord Knows Not A Fly by JPR

But the pain knows not an intrusion of verse.
Strangled is the falsehood our lives unmasked perverse.

Its deadline’s communion I guess I ultimately must face alone.
I abandoned all hope, a reward of my ego's facade.

Addiction is a serpent's strength in its promise to strike you down.
I've closed myself off enough, now I can't open my thoughts to anyone.

Help muted being consumed in every drink.
I am eroding as quickly as the shore’s embrace to the tide.

I am alone forever, not even within my final lost soul’s confession may I confide.

None has its  grace to confession foreseen me.
Forever extinguished, the lights glimmer.
For some there truly never was a chance.

I create art, not explain it.

Wednesday, August 23, 2023

The Sunny Side Of The Lobotomy by JPR


Tied down, trapped within.
The instruments surround; the compassion can not exist within the ever-sterile environment.

The demon's external promise of hope and science is a bastard's promise soaked with good intentions and doused with kerosene.

All the pretty flowers painted upon the wall behind barred windows cries of a voiceless soul.

Let us play on the lesser children of society's unwanted trash.

No straight jacket needed or padded room's protection.
We are free to make our own choices as long as they don't question the constraints of a society's majority rule.

The hammers strike the skull's fracture.
No demons torment the empty spaces, for those helpful, studied hands have locked them all within.

A once thriving river of confused souls’ imagination is now locked within a nightmare’s perpetual labyrinth.

As the sheep of a higher learning all clamor eager to one day practice destruction under the guise of healing.

No need to trouble yourself, a bullet’s beauty seems a far lesser evil.
Bind your thoughts with your tongue.

Madness is within; let's play God to serve the ego and silence the truths buried in a fact.
There is no answer to all mysteries eternal.

Silence your thoughts and please do throw away this perpetual miseries key.

JPR is a southern gothic writer.

His work has been published in Svartedauden Zine, Piker Press, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, Fixator Press, Spill The Words Press, Sava Press, Fearless Poetry Zine and here at The Dope Fiend Daily.

Friday, August 11, 2023

You May Press The Reset Button Now by Wayne Russell

Time gallops away in rebuttal, 
the ocean is something of a 
sledge hammer in my dreams.

Youth down by the pulsating 
riverside, oceans undertow,
snarling jaws or wilderness?

Take your pick

My parents didn't want me,
my siblings I never knew, I 
was a toddler when the the
Sunshine State gave me a
brand new home in the lost
and found.

Time is a thief, and I am the 
candle, worthless; burning at 
both ends. 

Death awaits us all, just 
around the corner; a dilapidated
crescendo circus, a pantomime;
a joke.

Mad times running along with
her mascara, and smudged red 
lipstick, thin and trickling from
dead eyes, draining from mouth
agape, into the drainage of
opium paradise.  

We are all the fools wandering,
translucent, luminous ghost behold,
shanty town broken necklaces.

We are stains composed from shattered
whiskey bottles and shredded time,
wasted, wasted, and lobbed on down
the ghetto into the next generation;
press the reset button now.  

Wayne Russell has been published in many zines, magazines, anthologies, both online and in print. In his spare time he likes to practice his guitar, sing, creative writing, and photography. Waynes first full length poetry book Where Angels Fear can be purchased on Amazon. 

Wednesday, August 9, 2023

Bowl of Black Petunias by Michael Lee Johnson

If you must leave me, please

leave me for something special,

like a beautiful bowl of black petunias

for when the memories leak

and cracks appear

and old memories fade,

flowers rebuff bloom,

sidewalks fester weeds

and we both lie down

separately from each other 

for the very last time.

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 284 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society:

Sunday, August 6, 2023

The 3000 Pound Poetess by Toni Parisi

Fell yesterday and it created a small typhoon in Japan.
This alerted Godzilla who upon taking one look at the source of this commotion told the Japanese government.

Fuck this job! I quit!

Toni Parisi is from Alexandria Virginia she does not consider herself a writer more so a hot-mess that tries to write.

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

"Hey, is your mag open to submissions?" I run a daily unless the voices tell me not to because they want to party. "The mag i...