Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Did The Cemetery Disappoint You Too? By John Patrick Robbins

I remember first seeing it and wondering how one place with so many stories could ever be so peaceful.

I remember the great stone work and the names.
The oldest ones impressed me the most.

It was on the way home from school I would always stop here.
There were no asshole kids looking to kick my ass.

And I thought it was sad that the dead were far better than the living I had up to this point known.

It was here I first began to write. It was nothing but it was a start.

I stayed there awhile then eventually made my way back home.

Getting hassled by everyone from kids on bikes to dogs letting me know it was best to keep moving.

I rather have stayed amongst the tombstones.

And seldom after all these years has my opinion changed.

There is peace eventually.
It's just sad I have to die to know it.

About John Patrick Robbins:

He is the author of A Cold Beer Beats A Warm Heart.
Available on Amazon published by Alien Buddha Press.

He is also the editor and chief of the Rye Whiskey Review.

His publications include:
Blognostics, Angry Old Man Magazine, Outlaw Poetry Network, Ariel Chart, Romingos Porch, Red Fez, Spill The Words, Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Blue Pepper, Synchronized Chaos.

His work is always unfiltered.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

Pine Tar By Smokey Dodge

All things from this earth.

Will hit the ground eventually.

To many times I found myself amongst them.

We all get lost.

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.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Vacation With Dave By Michael Dwayne Smith

Wind last night was unexpected. It’ll flash flood soon.
My father was Air Force. Never got near an airplane
except commercial flights. Had the polio. The Bible
thumped through his heart while he kept books at

Edwards Air Base. To escape sleeping in a chicken
coop, he lied and was Merchant Marine by 14,
and got a Judy Garland tattoo. The best days of his life,
he said, were between ships in Puerto Rico. Thanks,

Dad, is what we all said. Oh, you kids, Mom would
interject, Why don’t you run along now, smoke some
grass, maybe drop acid. At least that’s what it sounded
like to me at 14. Once, I dreamed she had passed and

when I prayed to her in heaven she said, Wonderful
to hear from you, son, but it’s a bad time. Be sure to
call back later, okay? Love you, gotta go.
Dad died driving his 280 Z head-on into a light pole

on the Covina Boulevard off ramp of the northbound
57 freeway, after being found out with Mrs. Ballard
from church. Mom never let on about Dad and
Mrs. Ballard to me or my brother, Dave, who later

grew a beard, took up with a Scientology woman called
“Snow” and got 5-to-10 for idling in a getaway Ford
while Snow tried to hold up Desert Community Bank
in Victorville, with a pink aluminum bat. Mom keeps

telling me to fetch Dad and Dave, that we should
have them over for dinner. Then the nurse comes in,
asks You doing okay, Love? and makes sure Mom
takes her pill. To help her remember, the nurse says

brightly, but I can’t get caught up in what things mean
or feeling bad about Mom’s failing brain—tonight I
help Dave escape on a train, slip onto a south sailing
cargo ship. After that, it’s us and sunny Puerto Rico.

About Michael Dwayne Smith:

Michael Dwayne Smith is most recently author of the poetry collection Roadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press), available at Nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, his work haunts hundreds of literary houses--such as The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Star 82 Review, Blue Fifth Review, Gravel, Word Riot, San Pedro River Review, Chiron Review--and has been widely anthologized. He lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals.

Sunday, October 28, 2018

The Good Life By Scott Thomas Outlar

There are worms

in the air

that will burrow

into your scalp

if given the chance.

They attach

to mosquitoes

and wait for the leech

to suck on your skin,

and then they hop off

their winged ride

to front an assault

against your defenses.

They dig a hole

and slide inside,

finding a perfect spot

to take up the lifestyle

of a parasite –

not quite rich and famous,

but not bad digs to say the least.

They feast on your cells

and your tissue and your

fat and your blood and

your brain and your nerves

and your sanity and your

bones and your marrow and

your guts

until they’ve sucked you dry.

They had it all,

but cooked the golden goose.

A free ride

that they crash into a ditch of death.

It must have been good, though,

while it lasted.

About Scott Thomas Outlar:

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His recent work has appeared in venues such as: The Rye Whiskey Review, Ethos Literary Journal, Setu Mag, The Pangolin Review, and Dissident Voice. 

Scott Thomas Outlar

Saturday, October 27, 2018

All That Suffers Is Not Gold By James Diaz

I'm already late for something
the swat houses of light
emptying out in the dark
this oak tree so scarred
along its face
that I can almost see nothing else

and when I think of what all this means 
I think of every run
up the skin
as holding together 
all that would otherwise
overflow into earth
gone, like me on better or worse days
it hardly matters once you've seen
what you've seen
and rubbed your eyes
into bruises
that collected light
in the dark house of their hurt

forgiveness is carrying the fat man uphill
as Cheryl said
and my back is so sore
with all these bodies
almost broken, 
almost completely thrown.

About James Diaz:

James Diaz is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent Books, 2018). He is founding Editor of the literary arts & music mag Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared most recently in Occulum, Moonchild Magazine and Philosophical Idiot. He lives in upstate NY and occasionally tweets @diaz_james. 

Friday, October 26, 2018

Art By Matthew Hall

About Matthew Hall:
Matthew J. Hall's poetry collection, The Human Condition is a Terminal Illness, is available through Bareback Press. His poetry chapbook, Pigeons and Peace Doves is available through Blood Pudding Press.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Space By Ashley Cooke

On earth I sit and watch her
wild and free above me
my soul mate, my Venus
she is the brightest to me
the storm in her soul rests on Jupiter
she dances with my tongue on Mars
I breathe in her soft laugh
her fingers grasp Saturn’s ring
as I slip it onto her finger
she grips my sides tightly
as she takes me above.

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

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

"Now Playing" By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

it is “weird” to stand
with all the mothers
at the playground
behind their happy children 
and say:
“Now Playing”

in that sultry leather dominatrix voice
introducing the previews
“at a theatre near you”

that same sudden gun range voice 
you find flea collar

as though Donald Sutherland
is selling arms to legs
in a bid to reunite the human

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, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Oklahoma Review

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

How Dreams Die By Mike Zone

the stops between crime and high finance
hell and high water
the life of false display
civil machinations
played with masks, charades
primitive barbary
and the movie continues downhill
from the climax of unfolding passion
infused soul bearing realms getting wrapped up
in warped digitized technicolor celluloid
dreams, pictures of a picture, sampled atop moments
performers in action,
life imitates art imitating life and it begins all over again nearing end of daze
just before we dream to die

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.

Monday, October 22, 2018

The Paranoia By Jay Passer

I worry about the finger
Pointing down from on high
At the surly plus the wretched
At the plucky impoverished
All of whom fuel the city
While individually sweating on
Needles and pins
I worry about the souls of cats
Of crows, of dragons and titmice
Even my roommates, the cucarachas
As freedom grows scarce
And scars accumulate
Air ghosting gray before blackening
I fret and pace
Something’s coming, somebody
Trailing morbidity like a cowl
The finger pointing
Down further, inciting molten masses
Bodies unwashed and writhing
Drones keeping watch
Cameras surveilling
A town burned to the ground
A city stealth-bombed from on high
Not a moment alone
Not a second of privacy
The finger coming down
Plugging the hole
Closing the distance
Between tangible and clairvoyant

About Jay Passer:
Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. His work has been included in several anthologies and he is the author of 10 books, the most recent being The Black and the Blues, from Alien Buddha Press, 2018. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.

Sunday, October 21, 2018

I've Been Shit On By John Yamrus

I’ve been shit on...

this time
by a
whose aim
was more direct,
on target
and effective
than any of
the critics
who dislike me,
my poems,
my attitude,
my way of writing or
just my way of
seeing things.

this bird
should write
a book
and call it
“John Yamrus is in my sights...lean,
mean and as I see him”...
a little long
for the title of a book,
but, then,
this was
hell of a bird.
I’d tip my cap
to him, but,
like I said...
he’s got me
in his sights.

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:

Saturday, October 20, 2018

Head Full of Boogeymen / Belly Full of Snakes (or, No Escape from The Island of Misfit Boyz) By Jason Ryberg

Some nights,
the restless specter of the mind
will just not lie still, 
opting instead to skulk about 
the dark, gothic country-side of the psyche:
the foggy moors of the emotions, 
the primeval backwoods of pre-historic memory, 
the two-lane highways and old back-roads,
like stitches, criss-crossing and holding 
the whole gooey, grey mass together. 

On nights like these,
when the flesh (and perhaps the ego, as well) 
is bruised and battered beyond recognition, 
and the ancient, haunted scaffolding of the bones 
is creaking and popping, like an old cedar tree in the wind,
under the compounded and constantly shifting weight 
of the 60-hour work week, 

when the sprawling network 
of nerves and arteries and capillaries 
is a NASCAR speedway (enriched by
high-octane coffee and toxic energy drinks),

the spirit searches, longingly, 
for a co-sponsor, of sorts,
a technical advisor or low-grade savior, even,
to shepherd us through yet another 
shadowy valley of sleepless Summer hell,

an intermediary between 
the cold, indifferent cosmos
and the unreconstructed cave dweller
that still huddles, fearfully, somewhere inside us all.

We’re talking one of those nights of endless, 
sexistential free-fall into the gaping, black maw
of the great Space / Time consortium,
like a city-block-sized sink-hole
just suddenly opened up beneath you,

deep and dark as the legendary 
long, dark tunnel of the soul 
(about which, so many poems 
and stories and songs are so earnestly
purged out into the wild, blue 
meme-o-sphere every year).

But here, the light at the end 
is the light leaking out 
from the other side of a door 
left cracked open, conveniently, for you
(almost as if someone were expecting you):

a light with the weird luminescence of the light 
one would dig one’s own grave by, maybe,
or better yet, a prison break light
or concentration of multi-colored spot lights 
shining down on you at that precise precarious moment
you’ve forgotten the lines to your big,
solemn, earnest speech to Life’s unsmiling
and wildly indifferent grand jury.

And despite what half the ghosts in your head 
and damn near every one of the snakes in your belly 
are telling you, you proceed, heedlessly, anyway ...

only to bolt awake, 4:37 am, 
some place you don’t recognize,
an old-fashioned rotary-dial telephone ringing 
and ringing like a goddamn ice-pick in your ear,
a collect-call from the Island Of Misfit Boyz, it seems,

a Mr. Charley In The Box
(yeah, you remember,
you guys go waaaay back)

and will you accept
the charges?

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. 

Friday, October 19, 2018

Chicory By Terrence Sykes

I come
to gather
wild chicory
too old
to bloom
too bitter
to eat
too much
like me

Terrence Sykes was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia.  This isolation brings the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined.  Other interests include heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles .  His poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in India, Mauritius,Scotland, Spain and the USA

Thursday, October 18, 2018

An Old Soul Begging To Escape By J.J. Campbell

The demons like to laugh at me
when I feel lonely on a Friday

this is no different than high school

when I was in a house of a
couple hundred strangers
and I was in my room alone

listening to muddy waters

sneaking sips from a bottle of gin

there was an old soul begging
to escape

that ancient soul is dying now

I feel it in every tear that runs
down the face

every ache and pain

every lost desire on a dark highway

I once left home with thirty
seven cents and a cigarette

thirty fucking years later
I don't have much more

perhaps a few books and
a few more scars

find a spot well off the road

leave the car and walk a few
more miles

paradise is one empty shell away

About J.J. Campbell:

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet still managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Dodging The Rain, Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Fourth & Sycamore and The Beatnik Cowboy. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Flounder By Ezhno Martin

When you can smile,
with visions of chunky black hot shots
dancing on your arms...
you can tell me it's the junk stealing my soul.

When you...
are so lucky,
as to try to fall in love
with these sentiments squalor poisoning your tongue
your senses dulled beyond salvation
you can hypothesize the miracles I'll find
when I get sober..

The void on which I lay waiting for a beautiful train wreck
is something that lends itself to my melancholy mondays
moreover I'm predisposed to marvel at my masochism
  fleshy eucharist shoved
into my literal manifestation of self inflicted mirages of missed matrimony...

junk is the only fucking thing that makes sense
when you're laying in the same shit
you sent to hell,
 only to stumble face first into
with a fire eating grin
time after time
broken promise after broken promise
again and again.

And when you can conclude,
in shame, as you skip town
    that there's no one left to blame,
but yourself
blastoff boys
I do believe black tar becomes benign

in Burroughs equation for a junkie...

you'll be a cripple on the couch afraid of everything but dreams of soft rain...
spike of smack or not...

I'm waiting for that moment of clarity,
but it's overly apparent my demon isn't the denude
it's always wanting more than I'm meant for;
the stars are out of reach
and the more of them I see,
the more I want to blur them
into a lake of fire that can't touch me.

About Ezhno Martin:
According to Bob Phillips -- Toledo's Best Poet, and an old man who knows every prostitute between Flint Michigan and Cleveland Ohio -- "Ezhno's does what Ezhno does and goes around fucking up everything."

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Inside The Crackhouse With El Bastardo

Question 1: Who do you think is the best lubricated cast member of Happy Days?

Andy Griffith

Question 2: Can you truly be depressed on a slip n' slide? 

I once lost a distant cousin due to tragic accident upon this overrated condom upon rooftop.

But he was distant cousin so I not really no him well enough to mourn.

Question 3: What is your advice on surviving in the brush of the Canadian wilderness if all you have is a G string and a crossbow?

Dis very good question.

I have survived many years in Ontario my new home baseico.

You must ask yourself because you have captured the Tiger did you ever truly desire the Dragon.

Yes that answer I believe speaks in droves.

Question 4: Is it true that you are actually the lead singer of The Beach Boys? 

I once was lead singer in Herb Albert's Tijauna Brass.

Question 5: Which two celebrities would you want to watch muddle wrestle over at the sandbox of my elementary school's playground?

Dis also fantastic question.

Ivan The Terrible and Mr Ed.

Question 6: What's worse a clown with the clap or syphilis in a sitting President?

I once strangled a squid with my bare hands dragging him from the oceans floor to prove he does exist he now hangs in museum of Mexican History.

And Apple Bee's drive through.

Question 7: What do you think is the best dressing for a tossed salad?

Anything with senor Paul Newman's faceico on it.

Question 8: Are there any tips that you could give your readers when it comes to being a successful hostage negotiator on Sesame Street?

To always buy low and sell high.

I know many secrets to investment banking and for minimal fee would be happy to represent you or any of your fine clients.

Question 9: How many voices in your head do you think are too many?

I speak to many spirits on other side to rob gringos of there pesos for I is man of the people Ole.

Question 10: Who do you think will win the Cold War and what pizza toppings will be involved?

I believe Alaska and with anchovies and chocolate sauce while beautiful soothing sounds of Cannibal Corpse plays in background.

Question 11: Do you have any thoughts about Kenny G. and his new band Pantera?

I believe man who runs with donkey knows the truth of chasing ass.

Question 12: Is it true that your dick is a considered a dangerous weapon in at least 17 countries?

Bastardo currently is working on his first book and will take best offer from sexiest publisher.

Question 13: What is the key of mastering the ancient and delicate art of Wet T shirt contests?

Mucho maracas.

Question 14: How do you cope with being the most human perfect being on the planet?

Dis very hard task.
Bastardo very lonely luchador.
But to protect Dis world I must remain in shadows to create art and wrestle other well oiled gringos.

Question 15: What is the true secret of obtaining true Immortality?

The mask must be passed I am the 10th Bastardo.
Dis no lie or joke.

The mask has been worn by many.
And when my time has come to step from the ring so to will it be passed to another.

Dis just how it must be and shall remain.

Monday, October 15, 2018

I Planted My Garden By Joan McNerney

on the wrong side

of moon forgetting

tides of ocean

lunar wax wane

only madness

was cultivated

there underground

tubular roots

corpulent veins

flowers called

despair gave off

a single fruit...

I ate it

my laughter

becoming harsh

my eyes grew


About Joan McNerney: 
Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Three Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title is Having Lunch with the Sky and she has four Best of the Net nominations. 

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Fair To Middling By Tony Pena

Woke up on the right
side of bed but shit
never quite lived up to
the great expectations
of cavalier cock crowing
as Dickensian days
rubbed shine off sun
with rags greasy
from the black
blood of factories.
Even the dark
chocolate of night
lost her taste for dreams
of romance and mystery
to brain washing
rituals and routines
leaving a hangdog
moon in her wake.

About Tony Pena: 
Tony Pena was selected as 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  
A new volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available now at Amazon.  
His publication credits include   "Dogzplot,"   "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” “Misfit Magazine,” "Red Fez," “Rye Whiskey Review,”  "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee,"  and others as well as a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."
Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Friday, October 12, 2018

Dee Wee By Wayne F. Burke

the plumber fixed the sink
plugged with the life
I live
on Planet Crouton,
in an a.p.t.
with the shades drawn
and door locked
on the second floor
of a house
on a back street
in a town
people avoid
and so should you
unless you want to look me up
I am in the phone book
"Wayne F." not
"Wayne P."
who is some other jerk
got a Dee Wee
reported by the newspaper
and the dopes at work
thought it was


About Wayne F Burke:

Wayne F. Burke has published four volumes of poetry with Bareback Press and two chapbooks with Epic Rites Press. He lives in the central Vermont area, USA.

Thursday, October 11, 2018

Waiting On My Wife In Belle, Missouri By Daniel Crocker

She won't be here until 3am
In my manic days that would
be nothing. I would have just
been getting started on writing
and beer and music

But I'm medicated now
and it's so hard to stay awake
though I know she's driving
through a powerful storm

I smoke cigarette after cigarette
I pace the empty streets of Belle
I drink a case of Diet Coke

I'll be here
I'll wait
wide awake

About Daniel Crocker: 
Daniel Crocker's work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review, Hobart, Big Muddy, New World Writing, Stirring, Juked, The Chiron Review, The Mas Tequila Review and over 100 others. His books include Like a Fish (full length) and The One Where I Ruin Your Childhood (e-chap with thousands of downloads) both from Sundress Publications. Green Bean Press published several of his books in the '90s and early 2000s. These include People Everyday and Other Poems, Long Live the 2 of Spades, the novel The Cornstalk Man and the short story collection Do Not Look Directly Into Me. He has also published several chapbooks through various presses. His newest full length collection of poetry, Shit House Rat, was published by Spartan Press in September of 2017. Stubborn Mule Press will publish Leadwood: New and Selected Poems—1998-2018 in October 2018. He was the first winner of the Gerald Locklin Prize in poetry. He is the editor of The Cape Rock (Southeast Missouri State University) and the co-editor of Trailer Park Quarterly. He's also the host of the podcast, Sanesplaining, about poetry, mental illness and nerd stuff. He is a bipolar, bisexual Gemini living the cliché.

Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Tired And Fully Rested By Smokey Dodge

She always spoke in riddles and he always ran behind.
In a vague hope to find something he lost with another.

The game never ends until we die.

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.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Her Place Is By Tony Parker

         Somewhere I am at least fifteen
          feet away, she is a bitch and I
          the one left paying alimony.

           A stiff dick can get you in more             
           trouble than its worth having.
           I should have become a chef and
           hired a housekeeper instead.

About Tony Parker:

Tony Parker.

Is a lounge singer and poet.
The nightlife inspires his work.

Sunday, October 7, 2018

Inside The Crack House With Jesse Lynn Rucilez

Question 1: How do you keep your scalp so sexy Sir Jesse?

Ah, well, the key is to shave as close as possible, and channel my inner sexiness through my skull.

Question 2: Which supper hero has the smallest dick of all time?

Tough question, but without consulting Stan Lee, I’m going with Puck from the Canadian superhero team: Alpha Flight.

Question 3: Could you explain how you play the mandolin in Hawaii while your wearing a stained kilt?

Well, having never been to Hawaii, never having learned to play mandolin, and not owning a kilt, I’m not the most qualified person to ask…so I’ll just say, very carefully.

Question 4: Do you enjoy to wear your black belt and nothing else?

Only on Saturday nights.

Question 5: I demand that you tell how to catch woodland critters in my back yard!

My advice to you, Mr. Simmons, would be to smear honey all over your body, lie down in your backyard to draw the critters close, then anesthetize them with your drug of choice. Either that, or go full-on Bill Murray in Caddyshack.

Question 6: Sir John Patrick Robbins would like to know when dressing in drag what kind of heels do you prefer? Is it nice stilettos or boosts and which footwear is the most appropriate for a showdown at the O.K. Corral?

Well, for Mr. Robbins’s information, stilettos are always the way to go. As for footwear at the O.K. Corral, I’d have to go with a good pair of Nikes, because when the Clanton boys start shooting, I—like Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now—am fuckin’ splitting, Jack.

Question 7: Sir John Patrick Robbins would also like to know what dark magic rituals do you like to participate in before writing? 

I hate to disappoint Mr. Robbins, but my rituals are just like any other writer’s, I’m afraid. A little human sacrifice, self-flagellation, imbibing the spinal fluid of my enemies, reading from the Necronomicon. You know, the usual.

Question 8: Which golfer is sexier Arnold Palmer, Phil Mickelson, or Mike Tyson?

Mike Tyson, without question. Although I have to say that I find golf utterly boring. I much prefer bowling with human skulls.

Question 9: Who is more sinister Richard Ramirez or Teddy Ruxpin and which one would you cuddle with?

Teddy Ruxpin is evil beyond measure. Still, I’d rather cuddle with Ruxpin than Ramirez; mainly because Ramirez gives Satanists a bad name.

Question 10: Do you have any thoughts about the Power Rangers heroin addiction?

What? I thought they did meth…

Question 11: How often do you go skiing in the Mojave Desert in tightly fitting spandex?

About once a year, at the height of summer, naturally.

Question 12: John Cena has requested for your personal information may I pass on your email, phone number, and social security number to him?


Question 13: Does the Ultimate Warrior watch you in the showers too?

Not after I had a looong talk with “The Gods.”

Question 14: Lets play a game just finish the lines A B C and turn out the lights.

Ha! Not falling for that one…

Question 15: What is the key to blocking out your mental emails from the government is it a tin hat or something else?

Seriously, the only way to stop govern-mental emails is to remain in a state of what I call “hyper-functional self-hypnosis” between the hours of nine a.m. to five p.m., Monday through Friday. All wearing a tinfoil hat does is make you look foolish.

Saturday, October 6, 2018

I Guess Billy Read Him Wrong By John Patrick Robbins

He couldn't fathom the thought of running anymore.
From one little piss water town to the next.

After awhile he simply didn't give a damn to remember.

Those that hadn't fallen along the way, if that lucky had headed towards the border.

Never looking back trying their damnedest to forget.
But still he remained.

Blood on his hands and the constant promise of death upon the wind.

The gunman told himself it was him or me, it broke most.
Haunted their nightmares and Billy slept like a baby.

Some men are not bound by fear.
But are truly shackled by ego.

Legend should not be mentioned amongst the living.
For it poisons the mind.

Causes hatred amongst men, women lust for the outlaw forgetting the man behind the title.

Trusted friends soon know envy.
And the well becomes poisoned and bitter with regrets.

There was nowhere left to run.
That's why he simply sat and waited the night Pat came to see him.

Had he not killed his old friend another would have only taken up the quest.

Not only did his head have a price.

His name carried a weight, and others longed to be known as the one that slayed the dragon so to speak.

The oil lambs glow did little to show the shadows.
Like old ghost that hid in the corners.

He knew this man was his friend.
And as the bullet passed through his body.

He knew he would run no longer.
He had lived long enough to believe his own bullshit.

The ego defeated the mind as he bled out upon that dusty floor.

He knew a true friend would never shoot another in the back.

He apparently read him wrong.

About John Patrick Robbins:

He is the author of A Cold Beer Beats A Warm Heart.
Available on Amazon published by Alien Buddha Press.

He is also the editor and chief of the Rye Whiskey Review.

His publications include:
Blognostics, Angry Old Man Magazine, Outlaw Poetry Network, Ariel Chart, Romingos Porch, Red Fez, Spill The Words, Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Blue Pepper, Synchronized Chaos.

His work is always unfiltered.

Friday, October 5, 2018

Rapture By R.M. Engelhardt

To each Beast
To each his own
We tread the
Light of being

No darkness
Only night
In the hearts
Of all

Walk the
Earth like
A lost

Of ghosts

The caress

About R.M. Engelhardt: 
 R.M. Engelhardt is a veteran poet & writer whose work over the last twenty some years has appeared in such journals & magazines as Rusty Truck, Thunder Sandwich, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Writer's Resist and many others.

His new book of poetry is " Coffee Ass Blues & Other Poems" (Alien Buddha Press 2018) and is available on Amazon.

 He currently lives & writes in Upstate NY.

Thursday, October 4, 2018

Famous By Terrence Sykes










& in the 376 square feet
 of a local storage facility

About Terrence Sykes:

Terrence Sykes was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia.  This isolation brings the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined.  Other interests include heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles .  His poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in India, Mauritius,Scotland, Spain and the USA

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Russian Zombie By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

We are at the roulette table in the Bellagio.
The computerized one because it has seats
and lower betting minimums.  A mother and daughter
beside us keep hand feeding this cute little dog
treats.  They even get him a bowl of water to sip
at as he leans over the mother’s arm and watches
the lights.  He seems bored.  Like obedience school
is for losers and everyone should know it.  On the other
side of us there is a group of Russians.  
The missus leans in close and tells me she doesn’t
trust Russians.  The Cold War is over, I tell her,
the Russkies aren’t evil anymore, they’re just stupid now
like all the rest of us.  You want to see someone on heroin?,
my wife says, look at the girl with them.  I look.  Not so obvious!
It is too late, I have no filter.  I also point at people
when I’m talking about them which drives my wife nuts.
I guess I just don’t care enough to be discreet.
But there are two girls.  The heavier one on the end looks
as though she is there for support.  The skinnier one is rolling
her eyes in and out of consciousness and falling over the machine.
She is even drooling a little with an absurd smile on her face.
The other girl plays her numbers for her.  The Russian men
pay no attention until it is time for them to throw
more money in her machine.  That’s an expensive date,
I say.  I hope she enjoys the short high, my wife says, because
she’s going to be sore tomorrow.  What she’ll have to do for
that high, I wouldn’t want to be her!  I watch the whites
of her eyes.  She looks like a zombie, I say.  A Russian zombie,
the missus says, a Russian princess.  And it is true.  The guys keep speaking
Russian and throwing their hands up at the table and taking care
of everything.  I look at the dog and he looks at me.  
I have made a friend.  When he takes a sip of water, I take
a swig of beer.  We are in this together and
we both seem to know it.

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, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Oklahoma Review

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

The Perfect Note Goodbye By J.J. Campbell

it's that sinking
feeling once

every other week
is the end of some
world it seems

the tragedy is how
easy the shotgun
goes in your mouth
these days

god gave you short
arms to avoid that

but you have plenty
of belts around and
practice makes perfect

but you promised
a lonely woman in
Virginia you wouldn't
kill yourself until you
had the perfect note

I'd love to kiss that
lonely woman just

because it's on the
nights like these that
the perfect note is
getting easier to

About J.J. Campbell:

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is currently trapped in suburbia. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Under the Bleachers, Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Mad Swirl. His most recent chapbook "the taste of blood on christmas morning" was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find J.J. most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (

Monday, October 1, 2018

Pressed By Ashley Cooke

"I bet you give every girl this poem"
she says as I drop it at her feet
she picks it up and sets it in her lap
"You can't lie to me"
she opens it up and begins to read
her eyes shift fast across the lines
but as she reads on she slows down
stopping at every line
every word
that’s when she realizes I've truly captured her
placing her in a jar she could never fly out of
I preserved her in time
like a flower pressed behind glass.

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

The Dreaming Dog by Gwil James Thomas

The world has changed  since I was last here, but at least my  mum’s kitchen hasn’t -  where across  the chequerboard floor,  the old family...