Poet Mania Special Coverage By Taylor Swift

It was billed as the biggest outlaw poet gathering of all time.
Once meant we could still have plenty of standing room down out the local bar.

Poets from all over the country packed together in cars like circus clowns and others caught a greyhound to be in Houston.
The event was sold out and the who's who of the scene was here.

It was hosted by The Dope Fiend Daily so the expectations were already pretty low.

The room smelled of stale beer and I am pretty sure someone had pissed themselves.

The lights went low and a clearly drunk out of his mind John Patrick Robbins took the stage.

“Hey why the fuck is it so hot  I thought this it was supposed to be cold in Alaska.”

There was nothing but dead silence over the room.

“Aw lighten up fuckers shit I know where I am. Hey miss in the front row you have great tits.”

The man was clearly wasted and being he was supposed to be the MC for the event things definitely were not looking promising.

“Get the fuck off the stage.”

Someone yelled.

“Hey you shut the fuck-”

John was cut short as he stumbled face forward hitting the hardwood floor like a ton of bricks.

The room was silent again.

Surprisingly enough John popped right up looked at everyone then just made his way to the bar.

The host took to the stage and announced the first poet to read.

K. W. Peery took the stage and ripped into the first set of the evening.

It was brilliant and fun.
Soon the show was in full swing the names read like a who's who of poets.

Todd Cirillo had everyone laughing and the drinks and the life of the room was magic.
The beers were cold and despite our surroundings this show was turning out to live up to its hype.

All were great well minus the continual heckling of Mr Robbins who somehow was still standing, well I believe the seatbelt on his custom bar stool seemed to help.

It made me question how this so called mad editor would be able to walk let alone read before closing poet Ryan Quinn Flanagan took the stage.

But other than Mr Robbins continual request for every speaker to play Free Bird.

The show was moving along nicely.

James Dennis Casey IV took to the stage.
John went to yell something out but James just shot him a look.
John shut up automatically.

Once being that he seldom shut the fuck up during the whole time he was stationed next to me was quite refreshing.

James work moved in  a surreal and deeply poetic fashion with great humor and skill.
His words filled the room coloring the walls like the best kind of acid trip.

Then came the moment most of us had been dreading.

Mr. Robbins stumbled to the stage, most groaned at the thought of this nut slurring his words and fucking up his lines.

They placed a cocktail beside him on the barstool he stood next to.

We waited for a encore of what had happened earlier.
He took a sip of his jack and coke.

Stood straight up and began to read.
He pulled no punches and had clearly fooled us all.

He was done quickly everyone applauded.

“And now folks I would like to welcome my good friend.”

Ryan Quinn Flanagan.

He walked of the stage without a hitch meeting James and the Editor of the magazine at the bar.

“Fucking great job brother John.”

K.W. walked over joining the group.

“You're a fucking nut man I knew you were just fucking around.”

K.W. said

“Hell you think at these prices I can afford to get loaded fucker?”

John replied as they clinked glasses.

“Hey when the hell is Flanagan going to show?”

James looked to Editor Scott Simmons and asked.

“Oh he couldn't actually be here so he is on skype that's why there is a flat screen on the stage.”

Oh everyone said well minus John who was to busy ordering yet a another round and telling the bartender make sure its a double this time.

Scott took to the stage.

“Hey folks I appreciate you all coming out to support these awesome writers, but now I want to welcome our featured poet here with us via skype Ryan Quinn Flanagan.”

The room lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Hell I wish Flanagan could have been here.”

K.W.  said.

Ryan had just began to speak when John interrupted.

“What have you done you sick bastards!”

John rushed the stage leaning down in front of the flat screen that stood upon the stage.

“Ryan what have they done to you trapping you in this flat hi definition box made by those French bastards at Sony!”

Ryan laughed seemly unfazed by his friends strange behavior.

“Hey John how you doing brother?”

“Ryan don't worry I will free you just stand back.”

Scott tried to stop him but it happened in a flash.

John kicked the T.V. over smoke shot out of it and with that it bit the dust.

The room went dead silent well minus James and K.W. busting out in laughter.

Cirillo was already headed out the door with a girl in tow.

“Holly shit I've killed Ryan!”

“You bastard!”

K.W. and James yelled out in unison.

As they continued to bust out in laughter.

Scott tried to get ahold of the cleary out his mind writer.

“Dude calm down he was on skype man.”

“Duh on a flat T.V, Scott , Like they even make those it was a portal you trapped him using some weird voodoo spell he is Canadian he is like a  innocent deer how could you? You son of a bitch!”

Staff were approaching the stage people didn't know what to make of the chaos.

The mic was live and picking it all up.

K.W. looked at James.

“Man you think this all part of a act?”

“Don't have a clue but nobody's tending the bar so drink up.”

James replied as he reached behind the bar grabbing a bottle of Kraken rum.


The argument continued on stage.

“Dude they make flat screen T.V.s now what do you live in the past or something?”

“Duh dumbass everyone knows I live in Carolina.”

“Look man just calm down go get a drink let me smooth this shit out.”

“Somebody's paying for that T.V. and that crazy fuckers cut off.”

John leaned in closer to Scott.

“What does cut off mean? Is he talking sexually I mean cause like I don't know what he has heard but I don't swing that way at least anymore I mean that man is clearly no Ryan Gosling I'm just saying.”

“Dude you are so fucking nuts.”

“Thank you that's very kind of you to say.”

“Dude why are you crying?”

Scott replied.

“It's just when I kicked that T.V. over and saw Ryan's soul fly up to the ceiling it was very moving  almost as beautiful as that closing scene in pretty in pink.”

Scott just looked at his clearly insane friend shaking his head.

“Wow you are so messed up inside that skull of yours.”

“Look I want you assholes out of here in fact everyone out!”

John looked at his fellow editor.

“Man they aren't taking me alive.”

“Dude stop Ryan's not dead I promise.”

John just looked his friend in the eyes fighting back the tears.

“You're right he lives in are hearts forever little buddy, like Celine Dion told us our hearts will go on even though a lot of people drown on that big ass boat that I can't remember the name of.”

“The Titanic.”

“No I don't think it was that one, it was the Black Pearl Johnny Depp was the sexy sea captain everyone knows that silly.”

“Look you two loons get your shit and get the hell out of here now!”

John walked toward the enraged bar owner.

Held out his hand the man just looked at him as if he were insane.

Then without warning he kicked the man square in the balls.

And ran out the door.

Never to be seen from again.

The night was definitely not forgettable as most wondered just what the hell they had just witnessed.

As K.W. and James vanished with two more bottles into the night.

Scott Simmons was later charged with destruction of property and lying about his age.

Apparently his fake I.D. listed him as thirty eight and had him under the name Manuel Estrada.

The crowd was nuts the poets were far worse.
this was definitely not your typical poetry reading.


About Taylor Swift: 
Currently makes horrible music to ear rape the masses.
So she may secretly raise the dark Lord from his resting place deep within the center of the earth.

She also is a member of the illuminati and often goes to mass orgies with the lizard people and writes songs about every man she sleeps with.

She took this job for the extra cash cause she could really use another jet to fly her spoiled ass around the world to brainwash the youth of this country into believing she actually has talent.

Follow her on Instagram with many of the other mindless humans who truly believe anyone gives a fuck what you had for dinner.

Xenomorph By Scott Emerson

Sending dick pics
my eyeless beast drooling
like Giger’s creation
stripped
of subtext


About Scott Emerson:

Scott Emerson has recently appeared in Year's Best Hardcore Horror Vol. 1, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Stranger to Blue Water: A West Virginia Poetry Anthology, and the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights' Horror Hill podcast. From 2010-2016 he served as facilitator for Morgantown Poets, a not-for-profit organization that hosted free literary events in Morgantown WV. 

Jaws Of Life By Jason Ryberg

You know,

maybe we should

only do unto others

as we would have them

do unto us and maybe

he who has the gold

does indeed make the rules

for the rest of us and I suppose

some of us should probably

try a little bit harder not to

stare at beautiful body parts

(no matter how sweet-weeping-

Jesus-on-the-cross-ly beautiful

they are) and maybe we should,

for the most part, keep our hands

to ourselves and wash them

regularly as well as brushing and

flossing our teeth daily

and not sayin’ nothin’

if we got nothin’ nice to say

and there’s really nothin’ much

you can say against the ideas

of counting your blessings

and saving your pennies

and cutting your losses

and callin’ it even

and even that one about

running with scissors

is a pretty good one.

And especially that one

about not killing, but instead,

loving thy neighbor (as best as

thou possibly can without getting

thy-self steeped too deeply

in thy neighbor’s business)

and not coveting or begrudging him

all his expensive stuff and / or

his hot-ass-pie of a girlfriend

or wife (not her exactly,

but one almost like her, right?)

Maybe even that one

at the bar the other night,

the one that kept catching you,

all stupid-drunk and stoned,

staring at her tits because

you couldn’t bear

to look her in the eye,

couldn’t stand to have her

look right through you

in that way they do

that pretty much says

they don’t even see you).

Probably safe to assume,

in the end, the only one truth

that really adds up to a good goddamn

is the hard brick wall of a fact

that every morning we must rise

Lazarus-like from the beds

that we make each night,

put on our boots and our hats,

get a good running start

out the front door and dive

into the great,

wide-open jaws

of life.

About Jason Ryberg: 

Jason Ryberg is the author of twelve books of poetry,
six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,
notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be
(loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry
letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. 

He is currently an artist-in-residence at both 

The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s 

and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor 

and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collections of poems 

are Zeus-X-Mechanica (Spartan Press, 2017) 

and A Secret History of the Nighttime World (39 West Press, 2017). 

He lives part-time in Kansas City with a rooster named Little Red 

and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere 

in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also 

many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

Driver By Ashley Cooke

You are the driver and I am the map

the tips of your fingers slide across my hips

your tongue slides over the curves upon me

you are never one to get lost

but without me you have nowhere to explore

you explore deeper and further into me every time

as if no matter how much you know me

you are still searching for more.

About Ashley Cooke:
Ashley Cooke is a creative writing major attending Long Beach City College. She is from Long Beach, CA. She is currently working on her first poetry collection

Stella By Matt Borczon

That's the

problem

with this

dog I

have she

is terrified

of fireworks

I say

to the

guys watching

them explode

over the

ball field

then

I pull

her leash

and we

run for

home

it's just

easier than

admitting

that eight

years after

the war

I still

can't stand

that sound.

About Matt Borczon:

Matthew Borczon is a writer and Navy sailor from Erie, Pa . He writes about war, ptsd, and all that it does to himself and others. He has written eight books of poetry so far the most recent being My Reality from Alien Buddha Press. He is married with 4 kids and not enough sleep.

Dracula Is A Rat With Wings By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A bat flies through the open

back screen door and a collective

of screams goes up.

Some of them from men.

With sports jerseys with other men’s

names on their back.

I tell them it is a flying rat with sonar,

quite impressive actually.

Then I ask if they have a fishing net

and a blanket.

Straight catch and release.

The bat doesn’t want to be here

any more than I do.

But I am still here.

Wondering if the bat feels

bad for me after he

is gone.

While some broken home

from Letitia Heights accosts me

back from the bathroom

by the stairs

trying to get with me

even though she has a boyfriend

I lived down the street from

when we were four years

old.

Sharing blue freezies

that stained our lips

each summer.

But this one wants to make a baby.

She isn’t getting any younger.

She wants me to be the father.

When I shoot her down,

it is hard not to be incredulous.

Battleships are made of

solid steel.

I know I am a little less.

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.

The Neighbor's Dog By John Yamrus

The neighbor’s dog

is

old

and

deaf.

she

sleeps all day,

pees

on the rug

and

throws up

every chance she gets.

I

promise

I won’t do that poet thing

and

compare

myself to her.

I can’t.

I’m

not yet deaf,

and

it’s been weeks

since I even came close

to

peeing on the rug.

About John Yamrus:

Since 1970 John Yamrus has published 25 volumes of poetry, 2 novels and one volume of non-fiction. He has also had nearly 2,000 poems published in print magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages, including Spanish, Swedish, French, Japanese, Italian, Romanian, Albanian, Estonian and Bengali. His poetry is taught in numerous colleges and universities. His latest book, MEMORY LANE, a look back at his childhood growing up in a Pennsylvania coal mining community in the 1950s, is a highly anticipated addition to his published work.

 

His website is: http://www.johnyamrus.com

Lucifer In High Heels By Jesse Rucilez

August 16th, 2017.

Hinckley, Oregon.

4:23 p.m.

Disgusted, Lance Felder held Ursula's hips as she gripped the oak headboard. Moaning, the thin, oversexed woman ground her pubic bone into his upper mandible. Painful, but not unbearable. Ursula had wanted to make love—again—but Lance hadn't been able to muster the strength for another mattress rodeo. So he'd begged off, claiming fatigue—not mentioning the half bottle of wine he'd polished off after lunch—and offered her what he called “his specialty” instead: a Felder Tongue Ride. With a sigh and a roll of her Botoxed eyes, Ursula had shrugged off her silk robe and shoved him onto her king-sized bed. Then she'd climbed aboard, straddling Lance's face while he forced his tongue onto her flesh.

Not that Ursula tasted bad. Not at all. She groomed and took care of herself. She just didn't taste young. She didn't taste fresh. 

“Oh, honey!” the enraptured woman moaned, rocking her hips to and fro. “Oh, Lance, baby! Oh, yeah! Just...uh!...oh, yeah, right...THERE!”   

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Ursie. Just get off already.

When she had, Ursula slid to Lance's right, collapsing in a sweaty heap. Hands pressed to her face. Lips sputtering. Legs quivering. Bleach-blonde hair a mess. Lance couldn't help but notice the graying roots, the veins in her weathered hands.

“God, Lance! You do that so well!”

“Thanks, babe. You know I love getting you wet.”

With an inner sigh, Lance rolled over and gave Ursula an obligatory kiss. She thrust her tongue in his mouth. He winced but reciprocated. 

“What a day. Think I'll take a nap.”

“Sounds good, Ursie.” I guess fucking and lounging by the pool all day is pretty tiresome.

“Wanna join me?”

Lance sat up, hoping his desperation didn't show. “Uh, I'd love to, babe, but I got some work to do.”

Ursula grinned. “The novel, eh?”

“Yeah...the novel.” Just another piece of my heart. Destined to be ignored. 

“Is it as good as the first two, you think?”

You mean the first two that were rejected by every publisher on both coasts? “Oh, it's even better.”

“That's great, darling! I can't wait to read it...”

“When it's finished, babe. You know that.”

“I know.” Ursula yawned, exposing capped, bleached teeth. “But you know I get impatient.”

“Oh, I know,” Lance replied with no trace of sarcasm.

“Hey, would you be a doll and mix me a rum and Coke.”

“Yeah, sure.” And I'll be sure to take it easy on the Coke.

Another yawn. “Thank you, honey.” 

Lance climbed over Ursula—enduring another kiss—and strode into the hall. Barefoot. Shirtless. His upper body toned and tanned. Dark hair jouncing on his shoulders. A thick beard hiding his forlorn expression. He wore a pair of ripped designer jeans, slacker style; low on his hips, top button undone. At thirty-two, he still looked twenty, but felt much older. A Bohemian soul, no longer young at heart.

All that money, and all she does is drown her troubles in booze day after day... 

Hands thrust in his jean pockets, Lance turned left, walking down the wide staircase.

The day had gotten off to a bad start, and promised to end even worse. Lance had awoken next to Ursula, slipped out of bed without waking her, and crept downstairs. The maid, Louisa, had wished him a good morning and started a pot of coffee. Outside, Lance had gone through his morning workout of push-ups, crunches, and twenty laps in the pool. Then, coffee in hand, he'd opened his e-mail to find two rejection notices from two different publishers:

Dear Mr. Felder,

Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately, this doesn't meet our publishing needs at this time. Feel free to submit again. Good luck publishing your novel elsewhere.

Sincerely, 

Publisher-at-large.

Two of those in one day. Talk about heartache.

Lance had sat, head in hand, for awhile, then plunged back into his current novel. The story of a man traveling cross-country by train, en route to see his dying father one last time. A good story. A worthwhile story. A story he had to finish. Lance had gotten a few strong sentences down when Louisa appeared to inform him that Ursula had awoken. Of course, he didn't have to drop everything and rush to her side...but he did, anyway. 

Gotta keep the bread buttered.

Ursula always slept in the nude; said it made her feel young. Looking at her naked form, Lance couldn't help but notice the wrinkles and creases creeping into her flesh. She tried, though. Oh, how she tried. Personal trainers. Weird diets. Plastic surgery. But Father Time had grabbed hold, and wouldn't let go. She had twenty years on Lance; old enough to be his mother. Still, he'd climbed back into bed as he had so many mornings and reassured Ursula as best he could. Still beautiful. Still desirable. They'd begun in the normal way, but after growing tired of her desperate kisses, Lance had flipped her over and vented his frustrations at not being published with every thrust.

And Ursula had loved it.

Afterward, they look a long shower, then went down to breakfast. Ursula drank her coffee, then had a Bloody Mary. Starting the day off right. The rest of her morning consisted of phone calls to her rich housewife friends. Women who had nothing better to do all day than check bank statements and bitch about their husbands. Lance wanted no part of that, and avoided the pool area until she went for her afternoon drive. Sometimes he went, but today he felt no desire to stare at trees in the middle of nowhere. 

“Goddamn waste of time,” Lance muttered, sauntering into the kitchen. Soon, Ursula's friends would start trickling in. They'd just want to say hi, have a drink, or take a dip in the pool. Some would pull her away to ask for a loan. She didn't think Lance knew about that, but he did. At first, it had bothered him, but now he felt little sympathy for Ursula Klinke. She'd made her bed with those people; let her lie in it with them.

Ursula. Lance first met her three years ago. He'd been waiting on tables at the Stark City Steakhouse downtown. Good money; a way to make ends meet while he wrote in his free time. Ursula had arrived one night accompanied by a handsome, well-dressed man. She'd looked ravishing, decked out in a black evening gown and fur coat. Lance had winked at her as he'd approached her table, and she'd begun flirting with him in earnest, almost ignoring her young date. Thus, he hadn't been too surprised to find her phone number scribbled onto the check after Ursula left. He'd texted her as soon as he got home, and she'd texted back, complaining that her date had been a lousy lay. Lance had a few girlfriends in his life at the time, but nothing serious. So he'd jumped at the chance to hang out with this attractive, older lady.  

And that's how it always starts. Very innocent.  

Clink, clink! went two ice cubes into a tall glass. Lance dusted the ice with ground cinnamon, then poured a hefty dose of Bacardi over them. He cracked open a fresh Coke, sucked fizz from the rim, and filled the glass. “Here's to us, Ursie,” he toasted, taking a sip.

“Ahhh. Not too bad, if I say so myself.”  

From the beginning, Lance knew he wouldn't last with Ursula. She'll get bored with me in a month and trade up, he figured. But Ursula surprised him. Twice divorced, she'd played the field for a few years and wanted to settle down again. So a month became two, and during that time Ursula read everything Lance had written. “You're so talented,” she'd cooed in his ear each night. “Just think what you could accomplish if you wrote full time...”  

Quite an invitation. But Lance hadn't accept right away. Sure, he'd jumped into bed with Ursula without hesitation, but quitting his job and moving in with her seemed like a huge step. So he'd thought about it for a whole week. Thought long and hard about being a “kept man.” At first, it seemed great; being wined and dined on someone else's dime. And he had as much free time as any writer could want. But, day by day, he'd seen the growing desperation in Ursula's eyes. She didn't love him; she just needed someone to make her feel young and vibrant. That need—and Ursula's drunken lifestyle—had turned Lance's affection into utter contempt. Now the depressed young man felt as if he'd made a deal with the devil. Lucifer in high-heels.

And he still hadn't gotten published.   

For all of her wealth and socialite friends, Ursula had zero contacts in the publishing industry. Which left poor Lance in the same boat as about a million other authors: writing, submitting, hoping...and despairing.

Unfortunately, your novel doesn't meet our publishing needs at this time.

“Crock of shit blow-off, is what that is.”

Drink in hand, Lance glanced outside, saw his laptop on the table beneath the umbrella. Like a magnet, it drew him, and he crossed the den as if entranced. “Just once I'd like an editor to tell the truth...”

The cement felt warm under his bare feet as he stepped onto the patio. Sunlight reflected off the pool. “'Dear Mr. Felder...I regret to inform you that we don't give a shit about the literary merit of your novel...'”

Next to his laptop lay an old notebook, pen on top. Next to the notebook lay a battered copy of Betrayed At Birth, a  tawdry memoir written by some porn star named Angelique du Mal. Ursula had loaned it to him. Damn thing had sold over three million copies.

“'You don't have a recognizable name that we can bank on, and that's just not good business. Also, we're looking for stories that make teenagers feel like they're the center of the universe. There's also a market for bored housewives. You know, something for them to fantasize about while vacuuming the rug and mixing up cake batter. A cheap thrill. And the cheaper, the better...'”

Beneath Betrayed At Birth lay a copy of The Writer's Market; all the publishing information one could ever want between its covers. Sipping the rum and Coke, he slid it out, held it up to the light. “'Also, you're un-agented, Mr. Felder. Really, now, you're wasting our time and yours...'”

Lance belched, grinned a vulpine grin. Then he heard it. A shrill voice from the upstairs bedroom. Ursula. Lucifer in high heels:

“Laaance! Oh, Laaance! Where's my drink, sweetheart? It's nap time and Mommy's getting crabby!”  

Another sip, and the grin became grim. “'But keep on writing, Mr. Felder. Because you never know.'”

Lance glanced at his laptop. He wanted, needed to write. No matter what. And he would, no matter what. He also wanted out of this nightmare; pretending to love a woman he didn't, but having nowhere else to go. 

“Lance, honey, are you using the toilet or something?”

Trembling, the frustrated young writer turned back to the pool. “'You never know, Mr. Felder.' Yeah, right.”

Then he tossed his Writer's Market into the crystal blue water, returned to the bedroom, and somehow found the strength to make love to Ursula Klinke one more time.  

About Jesse Rucilez:

Jesse Lynn Rucilez was born in Reno, Nevada. Growing up, Jesse was an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes stories and Marvel Comics. Throughout his life, Jesse has mainly worked in the security industry, both in Seattle, Washington and Reno, Nevada, and taught self-defense for several years before deciding to focus on writing. Inspired by authors such as Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Kurt Vonnegut, he prefers to write literary horror and science fiction, exploring what he calls “the dark side of the American Dream.”