Polar Bears Are Real Bad Motherfuckers By Catfish McDaris

Unexpectedly, Quick invited me to a concert at the North Pole. He said he’d won some free tickets with transportation included. The Reston, VA, based Molson Brewing Co. planned to send about 250 people for a four-day trip that included cruising the Arctic Sea from Resolute Bay aboard an icebreaker. The Red Hot Chili Peppers would entertain the group while aboard the icebreaker. A dude in the band named Flea raised sheer hell on bass guitar. The temperature was warm for the concert featuring Metallica, Hole, Moist, Cake, and Veruca Salt. We saw huge bears eating seals, Polar and Kodiak. The concert was in Tuktoyaktuk, a village on the Beaufort Sea. The winners along with about 400 townspeople gathered in a heated tent for the show. Quick and I partied with some funky ladies from Hole and some Eskimo babes. The stars were pulsing hypnotic blue diamonds. The wind was moaning on the tundra. Quick decided to wrestle a bear, I guess he just got tired of living. The Polar bear hit him once with his massive claws and his head went flying, the bear picked up his body and strolled away. I went over and looked at Quick’s head, he was still smiling.

About Catfish McDaris:

Catfish McDaris’ most infamous chapbook is Prying with Jack Micheline and Charles Bukowski. He’s from Albuquerque and Milwaukee.

All Of My Drug Dealers Are In Prison By Ian Copestick

All of my drug dealers are in prison

I don't know what I'm going to do

It's a good job that I haven't got a bad habit

Or I'd be in bed with "the flu "

I don't know how I'm going to cope

I don't know where I'm​ going to go

After 25 years somebody has

Finally stopped the flow

I guess that I will have to become straight

Although it will be hard

After 25 years of heroin

I guess you could say that I am scarred

About Ian Copestick: 

I am 45 years old and live in Stoke On Trent, England.

I'm currently unemployed and surviving on £70 per week. This means that my lifestyle isn't particularly healthy, but it gives me plenty of time to think, read and write.

I started writing poetry 15 years ago after discovering Bukowski and being hit by the revelation that working class people CAN be poets.

This had literally never occurred to me before.

I also write prose and maybe some of it will appear in Dope ...

Always Pass The Buck By John Patrick Robbins

It was a poetry reading.
Well more a weird sort of get together of poets and kids.

Once is the last place you would ever expect to find me.
I somehow got looped into speaking before a class of young writers.

It was early I was hungover there were two other poets there.
Both had their so called shit together neither were fans.

And for that I was grateful.
They brought their books and came to read.

The first was a editor of some Mag I never heard of.
He spoke to the class about workshops and other things I could truly give a damn about.

He was really a miserable long winded prick.
Then he read for us all and we truly understood why.

The next poet was a kid from the class he was a arrogant bastard.
He had looks and clearly held the young girls attention.

I watched as a tall what I assumed was a outcast like myself listened to his classmate read.

He looked disgusted.

The kid read and concentrated on his girlfriend she was enamored with his work.

I believe she was the only one that was.
Hopefully he was a better fuck than poet.

Then it was my turn.

The teacher announced me.

“Class I would like you to welcome a very colorful poet and a personal friend of mine please make him feel welcome.”

I stood at the podium the class looked at me like all young kids view what they consider to be a old fart.


“First I would like to thank my opening acts and Miss Roberts may I say you look incredible today.”

One kid snickered.
Why give a reading when you can give a show.
They thought I was a joke to begin with so why not tell a few and get this party rolling.

I began to read a new one.
All about my ex and a trip we had taken back home a few years back.

Most thought it was shit.
The kid in the back got the humor.

The young poet looked disgusted as my other fellow poet.
And my friend Miss Roberts just shook her head.

And shot me look like you better keep it clean you asshole.

I read a few more about drinking and all the shit I was known for.
I kept it toned down as possible.

And it was over as quickly as it began.

Afterwards the class was welcome to ask questions I didn't hang around for that shit.

I had no answers for myself let alone someone else.

Outside the school that misfit in the back caught up with me as I headed to my car.


“Hey man I really liked your stuff.”


“Thanks kid I appreciate it.”


We spoke for a while we talked writers and all the typical bullshit you do when have a love for that page.


“Man why they let Tommy up there to read with you guys is beyond me man.”

“He's writing for pussy once is one reason you never write kid.”

He laughed.



“Yeah he's a jerk but everyone thinks he is deep.”


“Well truth be told kid a writer just writes cause its part of who they are it's just that simple.”


The kid asked me if he could read me his work.

Standing there in the hot sun I was in need of a drink.
Not a poetry reading.

But I listened anyways.

It was what I expected your always shit when you think your good.

But it had promise.

It just needed some years was all.

I told him I liked them and to keep at it.

I would have told him about anything to get rid of him.

He asked me for a autograph and a email so he could send me some more work.

I signed a blank piece of paper.
And upon this paper is what it said.

Listen to yourself and read all you can.
Avoid people who have a answer for everything drink to much and chase the wrong kind of women.

And remember much like the days of the wild west.
Riding bareback is a thing of the past.
So wrap that rascal.

Sincerely,

Ryan Quinn Flanagan.


About John Patrick Robbins:

John Patrick Robbins

Is a outlaw poet whose life would be far more interesting than anything he could ever create on this page.

He can often be found at his bar in which he also lives in.

He craves a good time wild women and fine whiskey.

His work has been published with.

Horror Sleaze Trash ,Romingos Porch , Red Fez, Spill The Words, Piker Press, Outlaw Poetry Network, Blue Pepper, And more than a few bathroom walls.

His work is always unfiltered.

Bad Batch By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

17 junkies died last week

in the city

of an overdose,

a bad batch of heroin

which happens now

and again,

same thing happened

to Janis Joplin

and a number of others

over a single weekend

back in 1970 Los Angeles,

they were there and then

they were not,

needles hanging from their arms

like new skin.

I hate needles.

I’ve had to have allergy shots

most my life.

And booster shots and blood drawn

and a plethora of other

spikings.

I might snort heroin,

but I would never shoot it.

Plus there is a natural reluctance   

to put anything in your system

that has been smuggled up

someone’s ass.

And cut with more toxins

than the whole of the raw sewage lobby

combined.

About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Its Five O'clock Somewhere By Jason Baldinger

I got a iron city can
in one hand
a white label promo l.p.
Ginsberg's Kaddish
in the other
minor chords from 1955
stream off the stereo
Donald Woods "Death of an Angel"
its five o clock somewhere

About Jason Baldinger:

Jason Baldinger is a poet hailing from Pittsburgh. He’s the author of several books the most recent of which, the chaplet, Fumbles Revelations (Grackle and Crow) is available now, and the collection Fragments of a Rainy Season (Six Gallery Press) which is coming spring 2018. Recent publications include the Low Ghost Anthology Unconditional Surrender, Uppagus, Lilliput Review, Rusty Truck, Dirtbag Review, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Winedrunk Sidewalk, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nerve Cowboy Concrete Meat Press, Zombie Logic Press, Ramingo’s Porch, Blue Mountain Review, Red Fez and Heartland! Poetry of Love, Solidarity and Resistance. You can hear Jason read some poems on recent and forthcoming releases by Theremonster and Sub Pop Recording artist The Gotobeds as well as at jasonbaldinger.bandcamp.com

Enough By Rodney Gardner

Face down in the dark

Only to reconnect

After the smashing sounds

I am alone, but protected

Yet I begin to recognize

There is never enough silence

The longing right in front of me

Unable to touch it

How much longer I wonder

Come back soon

I need this

About Rodney Gardner:

Rodney Gardner was born in California in 1975.  In 2005 he was ripped away from his home on the west coast to finally become a real adult somewhere in Texas. He enjoys things enigmatic and dark, and seeks catharsis through the creation of music and poetry."

Artwork By Marcel Herms

Keep Playing That Rockin' Roll

Untitled 

Untitled 

About Marcel Herms:

Marcel Herms is a Dutch self taught artist. His work is about freedom in the first place. There’s a strong link with music. Just like music his art is about autonomy, licentiousness, passion, colour and rhythm.

He works in different sizes: from very small to real big and he doesn’t limit himself to one medium. He draws, paints, makes 3-dimensional objects and artist books. And he even made audio art. Most of it released on his label Anima Mal Nata (see Facebook).

Broken Records By Smokey Dodge

He acted like a child over losing his favorite toy.

Nobody paid him the attention his paranoia led him to believe.

Some called it a mid-life crisis. 

But he was always insane to begin with.

The wheel just kept rolling.

About Smokey Dodge:

Smokey Dodge

Is a poet , Musician , Teacher and drifter of this world.

We may never meet more than today.

But just Incase this is goodbye.

I got nothing but love to share.

The Fugitive By Mike Zone

The fugitive put down his hat

he sat on the crate

vintage discarded Unity Produce Company

“I’d like to explain a few things” he said

brushing off his yellow fedora

slicking back what remained

once raven, now gun metal gray

sprouting from crisped scalp

a purge by fire, baptism by acid

liquid gold by sweat of men’s hands

blood bound for the land

via the formulation of brotherly bonds

soul in the dark dwelling of human bondage

men of dust and ashes unto flesh

he sighed

that was all that needed to be said

in unknown intimacy

at once confession and proclamation

the visitor got up to leave

carefully parted the blinds

through slits and slivers of moon

the necropolis of exiles

shined on

awaiting daybreak air-sirens

and manic tragedy

About Mike Zone:

Mike Zone is the author of Void Beneath the Skin, Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations
& Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays.  He is the co-writer of the graphic novel series
American Anti-hero from Alien Buddha Press. His poetry and stories have been featured in: Beatnik Cowboy,
Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl, Rasputin Poetry, Synchronized Chaos,
Triadae Magazine and Your One Phone Call.
He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI