The White Noise of Dead Strangers by Mike Zone

ascending particles

mad dog raindrops screaming

the unknown vault amiss

double-bond chemical trail broken

drop the torch

in perfect gardens

deer hunting with Jesus

plucking strange fruit

inhabiting odd yet familiar places

which didn’t quite fit

but we lived it

anyway, our havens

more an exile

going back to the spherical music

of it all

is a wonder, a short-term lease

from outside the void

spitting on a quasar?

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.

This Family Tree by J.J. Campbell

my sister likes

digging in the

past, seeing who

is actually part

of this family

tree

 

I told her I

wasn't

interested

 

it's a long line

of drunks and

assholes

 

there's no point

in believing

something

other than

the facts

About J.J. Campbell:

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where the lonely housewives are. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Fourth & Sycamore, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, The Stray Branch and Red Eft Review. You can find him most days bitching about something on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Necrophiliacs by Danijela Trajković

Enjoy, necrophiliacs,

you horny bastards,

relish, you slaves of death,

the remains of my body!

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

My heart pours a color

on his palette!

His fingers caress my hair

before he puts it in

the depthless passion

and leaves the hairs

in the paintings -

making our love cosmic!

My lungs breathe the scent

of his atelier,

my soul makes love to his

while he throws colors,

unconscious, that he is the murderer.

Wallow, you bloody dogs,

in the filthiness of death!

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

About Danijela Trajković:

Danijela Trajković is a Serbian poet, short story writer, reviewer and translator. She holds an MA in English language and literature from the University of Philosophy in Kosovska Mitrovica, Serbia. Her work has been published worldwide in journals, newspapers and anthologies. The most recent in World Poetry

Almanac, edited by Dr Hadaa Sendoo and Balkan Poetry Today, edited by Tom Phillips. Danijela’s first book ‘22 Wagons’, selected Anglophone contemporary poetry was published in 2018 by Istok Academia, Knjaževac.

Is You The Fuck High? by Heath Brougher

Queasiness readies itself,

conjuring brown rocks and white lines;

prisoners of the windy constant tilt,

foaming over something unbroken yet seeming

rotten apricot skin worn as face

real enough to talk and fondle

thorns pricking whiteblood and blackcloud

summer vaporstorm fringes purely

warm and wet, distancing itself

when those sicknesses bring windy

weather riots to bomb

flimsy worlds; lushing brimfuls of stagger

frail as a discarded poppy by the windowsill.

About Heath Brougher:

Heath Brougher is the poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Award for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee. His work has been translated into several other languages and his two newest books are To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press 2018) and The Ethnosphere's Duality (Cyberwit.Net 2018) as well as 3 forthcoming collections. His work has appeared in Ghost City Review, Ramingo's Porch, Chiron Review, MiPOesias, Main Street Rag, Blue Fifth Review, indicia, Boston Poetry Magazine, Brave New Word, Burningword Literary Journal, Pangolin Review, Clockwise Cat, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere.

Balls Most Fowl by Tony Pena

Hungry, broke, and stoned after the softball game and fresh off an unheard of Golden Sombrero in slo pitch, Milton scalded his testicles trying to smuggle a rotisserie chicken out of Foodtown. He screamed like a toddler, shitty diaper deep in a tantrum, when the smoked poultry juice snaked around his genitals and down his legs. 

The store manager, a short, club footed Indian wearing a red, white, and blue turban for protection, gave a pseudo chase as Milton staggered outside. A chubby teenage boy corralling carts plowed into him like a middle linebacker bearing down on a halfback.

“My fucking balls. Goddamn, my fucking balls are on fire,” yelped Milton as he writhed underneath the teen like a desperate spider on a crumbled tissue square. 

The manager pulled at Milton’s crotch yelling, “Give me back my bird, you, you bitch man. I want back my bird.”  

A skinny blonde cashier with eyebrows bushy and multicolored like a psychedelic caterpillar grabbed a black security guard by the arm and ran towards the men wrestling on the asphalt.  After catching her breath she said, “I saw the bum stuff the $4.99 Perdue special down his pants.”

The guard’s eyes widened. “Frozen or hot?”

“Hotter than hell. Just off the spit.”

“A hot chicken? Down there? Damn, I hope we’re not too late for the barbecue. That shit’s like a delicacy if cooked right.”

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:

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry

She Just Thinks They Are Cute by Victor Clevenger

there is a stray dog that runs these blocks
& he is black
with long legs

yesterday we watched him
chase a fat squirrel

do something     she said
it's going to kill the poor thing

that is life     I told her

she punched my shoulder
& stood up shouting
STOP     GODDAMMIT     STOP

the squirrel ran up a tree
& perched
with its stomach flapping
over both sides of the small branch

she stood up
grabbing a rock & threw it

her aim is decent     but she
bounced it three hops to the left

the dog gave up & walked back
towards an alley

she smiled satisfied
& walked back into the house
as I watched the squirrel
escape alive

I have been that squirrel before
pulse throbbing in my neck
& stuck
in moments that i had no clue
if I could survive

the excitement was over
& I went back inside too

we ordered chinese food
rice    tangy chicken     noodles
egg drop

we both got full
& she ran herself some hot bathwater

she climbed in
& I took all the leftovers to the curb

I liked that dog

I have been that dog before too

About Victor Clevenger:

When not traveling the highways across America, Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry.  He lives with his second ex-wife, and together they raise six children in a small town northeast of Kansas City, MO.  Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world, as well as at a variety of places online.  His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, as well as the Pushcart Prize.  Victor’s most recent published collections of poetry include a split book with Tom Farris titled Ginger Roots Are Best Taken Orally (EMP, 2018), A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018), and On The Tip Of Our Tongues (Analog Submission Press, 2018).  He can be reached at: facebook.com/thepoetvictorclevenger 

Cheers

THE OBJECT OF OUR INTERCOURSE by Duane Vorhees

This diet of salsa and meringue 

weds ricochet to boomerang, 

wrecking ball to rocking chair. 

Arquebus quells harlequin 

as balsa envies the hickory 

and will urges the unwilling. 

Where cutter’s bow ignores the buoy.

Like orangutans with the palsy 

We do that salsa and merengue. 

(My proud mother ego muse wanted me to make a lyric that was silvery articulate, wanted me to create music that was wildly meticulous; id wanted to make magic, a heroic playboy image with a song instead that leered. – Duane Vorhees)

About Duane Vorhees:

Duane Vorhees used to teach. Now he doesn't. he used to live in Canada, Korea, Japan, Thailand... Now he doesn't. He used to be young. Now he isn't. He was never rich and still isn't, but he is happy with his wife and son. He spends the rest of his time proprietoring a daily creative arts site duanespoetree.blogspot.com and hopes you will drop by and sit a spell.

Winner Takes All by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

He dug his eyeball out of his red meaty face

and threw it down on the table:

I see your severed thumb

and raise you an eyeball.

I met his eyeball

and raised him three piggies

from my left foot

because I was in too deep now

and couldn’t let him know

I was bluffing.

The pot was rich now.

The scalpel dull and rusty

which made removal of anything

an adventure.

Tommy had renounced women a few weeks back.

He stood up, sliced it off:

guess I won’t be needing this anymore.

Hacking through the thing as though sawing through

a 2X4.

The loss of blood was incredible.

I could barely see my cards.

Balled up towels all over the floor.

No one else willing to meet his bet

Tommy took the pot.

He was the big winner,

but we all felt bad for him

somehow.

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

Poem To The Working Man by Jake St. John

In all the cities
ancient buildings
of beauty rise upwards
along the streets
casting shadows
like colossal tombstones

legacies of the fortunate
erected with Cheshire grins
and fine cigars

counting their money
over imported whiskey
washing away their souls
until their bodies
were as hollow
as the creations
they financed

and now their bones
which held together
only skin
rot and decay
in the same earth
as the bones
of a thousand
ragged and broken men

About Jake St. John:

Jake St. John writes out of New London, CT. He is a father, husband, teacher and neobeat adventurer. In his free time he can be found roaming the streets of Coyote Territory.

Attachments area

#1 Doctor Recommended Brand by Ben Newell

I think

I’m done.



Alcohol dehydrates

and

this causes constipation

which wreaks havoc

on hemorrhoids.



A $400 procedure

involving a needle

and scalpel

has sobered my ass up.



My new drink of choice—



A tall glass of water

mixed with 2 rounded teaspoons

of Metamucil.



My poems

haven’t really improved.



But my bunghole

is much better.

About Ben Newell:

Ben Newell, 46, works as a dishwasher in Jackson, Mississippi.  His chapbook, You Are Being Detained, was published by Epic Rites Press as part of its 2017 Punk Chapbook Series.  

Borderline by Terrence Sykes

crossing over
the border
into the night

no passport
nor visa
at hand

determination
desire to go into
another land

on his guard
eyeing with
suspicion

murmured “poet” 
above his breath
in local dialect

was it a curse
or welcoming
into his province

would I scribe
of love
longed

or merely 
a passage 
without rhyme

line forgotten
stanza remembered 
ode to a broken heart

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

Successes by Ian Copestick

It's always weird, when I see
A transit van drive past, and
The name on the side is an
Old mate from school So now
They've got their own business
A plumber, a brickie, or even
A sparky. I'm pleased that
They are doing alright for
Themselves. I sometimes
Wonder what they think of
Me, and what I've achieved
Since our paths last crossed.
They probably think " What a
Fucking loser. At school he
Was supposed to be the one
With the brains ! So he used to
Come top in the exams, what
Good has it done him ? A
Drunk and a druggie that's
All he is."
I suppose that if I could be
Bothered, I'd cast back a
Rejoinder. That not everything
Can be measured in pounds
And pence  That some people
Consider me a powerful poet,
And a short story writer of
Some potential, but I know
They wouldn't understand.
I appreciate their successes,
They never will mine. And
That, sadly is how this poem
Ends

About Ian Copestick:

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer who has put out 70 poems and 5 short stories in 15 e-zines. He has also been in print anthologies by Alien Buddha Press and Horror, Sleaze, Trash.

Vacation Plans by John Patrick Robbins

Rick phoned his wife told her he was on the way home.

The office was a ghost town.

Rick always burned the midnight oil and that in turn had gave him a life he never imagined having.

He was the top tier in the advertising world.
Everyone wanted to do business with Venture advertising. 

They had all the top accounts.
You name they signed it.

As he stood waiting for the elevator he couldn't help but feel nervous.

He was far from a child but this floor during the day was like grand central station.

Now it was silent as the cemetery.

He stood there waiting for the elevator not noticing the man behind him.

"Hell of a wait huh boss?"

"Jesus Christ ! "

Rick yelled out.

"Who the hell are you!"

"Hey calm down chief didn't mean to scare you just maintenance had to replace some lights on this floor is all."

Rick was still rattled and a bit annoyed.

The guy that stood before was a mountain of a man standing at least six four and built like a damn linebacker.

Rick was amazed how a man could be so silent sneaking up him as he did.

Rick eventually got himself together as they both stood  waiting for the elevator.
and as it slowly made its assent to the top floor of the huge office building.

"Fuck do you repair elevators as well?"

The massive man laughed.

"Yeah it be nice if they designed this bastard to move faster than a turtle huh?"


They both laughed at that one as they struck up a conversation.

The man hadn't been working there long not that Rick would of known anyway.

He didn't truly pay attention to the hired help.
He was in the business of selling products not employee management.

Rick hated people in fact he mainly spent his days sleeping in his office.

The best perk about being the boss was knowing nobody could bust your ass for slacking.

But he was loved by the companies he made money for.
He had a wife and kids and  two mistresses on the side in the city.

For Rick the rules didn't apply cause he wrote the book and what he said was gospel.

"Shit you must hate this job."

Rick said.

The man just shrugged his shoulders. 

"Hell a man has to eat."

"Yeah I guess but I rather have more than a job if I had to bust my ass like you dude it would  drive me nuts."

"Well Mr Harris it has its moments."

Rick looked at the man puzzled for he just met him so he didn't know how he could know his name.

Just then the elevator doors opened.

But instead of the usual scene they opened to nothing but a empty dark space.

He felt the push and that was it.

The man who never liked the dark found himself free falling to his death.

The man who clearly was no janitor looked down into this abyss.

Laughed to himself and said.

"He asshole enjoy your trip."

Michael O'Brien was no maintenance man.
But he liked to think of himself more of a human exterminator.

It never mattered who the target was all he ever gave a damn about was the money.

He made his way to
the stairs.

Decided to have a smoke on a bench in the hallway before he made his descent.

Yeah smoking would kill you and so would Michael for a price.

About John Patrick Robbins:

John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet and editor of The Rye Whiskey Review and Under The Bleachers. His work has appeared here at The Dope Fiend Daily and also at, Ariel Chart, The Mojave River Review, Red Fez, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash , Synchronized Chaos , Boned Magazine, Five Two Poetry, Cajun Mutt Press, Blue Pepper, Blognostics, Piker Press, Spill The Words, And The Whiskey Writer.

 His work is always unfiltered.

Mance by K.W. Peery

A
Brazos
bottoms
blues man
born
Beau De Glen

Had a
Choctaw
Mama
and a
dead-thumb
grin...

Played
pocket knife
slide
on the
"Jack of Spades"
Pickin'
down
at Threadgill's
he was
all the
rage...

It was
"Sugar Babe"
shuffle
in five
dollar
shoes
With a
Lipscomb
lean
at the
old
Jade Room...

His voice
was as
hollow
as a
Navasota
stump
King
of his
precinct...
ole Mance
could
thump

About K.W. Peery: 

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of seven poetry collections: Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; Bootlegger’s Bluff. 

Tales of a Receding Hairline was a semifinalist in the Goodreads Choice Awards – Best in Poetry 2016. 

Peery is a regular contributor in Veterans Voices Magazine. His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III.

In 2018, Peery is scheduled to have poems published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, Big Hammer, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and Apache Poetry. 

Credited as a lyricist and producer, Peery's work appears on more than a dozen studio albums over the past decade.

A Small Operation by Jim Bourey

I lost the power of procreation.
No, I volunteered to surrender
the possibility. Heated argument came
before a decision. It was settled

when mild midday breezes moved
white lace curtains. A few days
of shallow pain. Six weeks waiting
for confirmation.

Assured, a new freedom
seemed possible.
Not burning freedom,

carelessness just mattered less. Though,
it was the Eighties, and who could
know anything for certain then.

Jim Bourey is an old poet who lives on the northern edge of the Adirondack Mountains. His chapbook “Silence, Interrupted” was published in 2015 by the Broadkill River Press. His work has appeared in Mojave River Review, Stillwater Review, Gargoyle, Broadkill Review, Rye Whiskey Review and other journals and anthologies. He was first runner up in the Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Competition in 2012 and 2016. He can usually be found reading aloud in dimly lit rooms.