OTHER PEOPLE’S LOVES by Andrew Darlington

strangers love in lives
we can’t even imagine,
we see them holding hands
in the transport interchange,
gazing deep into lover’s souls
across the Starbucks alcove table,
we watch them live
their perfect lives,
of salty kisses and sandy toes,
we ache to be a part of
those other lovers we see
in their more intense trysts,
strangers lives and stranger loves
I see her wake him with a
good morning blowjob
the taste of her pussy
still sweet on his mouth,
then they taste each other
in the tangled tongues
of sleepy blurred kisses,
yet they’re the same strangers
who glance across at us
and fantasise our love-life

About Andrew Darlington: 

Check out my website ‘EIGHT MILES HIGHER’ – ‘The Blogspot for People Who Don’t Like Blogspots’ – latest postings include… ‘Tales Of Wonder’ the full detailed story of Britain’s First-Ever SF magazine, ‘The Walking Dead: The First Nine Seasons’, ‘Mick Farren: Sex And Drugs, SF And Rock ‘n’ Roll (‘Mona’ and Phaid The Gambler)’, Sly Stone Meets Doris Day, plus music interviews The Secret Life Of Fiat Lux, Floy Joy… From Sheffield, Hula: Old World, New Machines, More Electric Shadows... and more… All with archive photos, and more… monthly updates at andrewdarlington.blogspot.com

Sinner by Donna Dallas

I can’t touch God
through thin air
I try to
pry open
a cloud
look for wings
or a harp……..I lie in bed
in search of
an angel
flapping music
I whisper my
confessions tonight……..
but only the devil listens

About Donna Dallas:

I studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor of the New York Quarterly.  I am recently found or forthcoming in 34th Parallel, Sick Lit Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Beautiful Losers, Chiron Review, Red Fez and Bewildering Stories among many other publications.

Hanukkah in Albany, New York 2003 by James Steck

the piano
sings at night
only deaf keys
and numb notes
like grandpa
its pedals and hammers beat
within swollen frames--

I had too many nosebleeds when I was young;
Mom almost fainted
in the bathroom of St. Pius

but I was a Jew

(ish)

listening to other people sing
like the piano in the living room

I did not know I was out of tune
until someone played me;

the high B was always mute for me;

I don’t like dry martinis
empty politicking around red wine;
it reminds me
of the backside of his eyes
only occasionally.

About James Steck:

James Steck grew up in upstate New York, and now lives in Washington, DC. He teaches high school English and coaches track and field in Fairfax, Virginia. He often draws in relation to his poetry. His writing is influenced by romanticism and realism while focusing on contradictions, the body, and everyday life. You can find his work at The Rye Whiskey Review, The Ugly Writers, The Woove, and The Silhouette Literary and Arts Magazine.

From Place To Place by Damion Hamilton

I am such a nomad

I move from bar to bar

neighborhood to neighborhood

job to job

have a hard time standing in one place

interested in the new thing

always searching, always

looking, the new place seeking

you out

I can understand being young and being like this

I am now 41, and still seeking

the dancing, the wonder, the delight

of new things, crazy seeking

getting bored with things eventually

and seeking things that just happen into

existence

new things dancing and breathing and moving

into fruition, into the dance of the moment,

song tumbling and stumbling into the front of you

going and going

and twisting and twisting, this snake of the day,

wrapping into a python

dance dance, seeking and dying

falling and stumbling into a place to be.

About Damion Hamilton:

Damion Hamilton is from St. Louis MO. His poems have appeared in Chiron Review, Poesy Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Red Fez, The Camel Saloon and many others. He writes poetry, stories and novels. He has written several books.

Snub Nose by John Patrick Robbins

I managed to really tie one on last night.
I awoke to the room destroyed.
The dog had tore through the garbage.

There were bottles everywhere.
And apparently I had puked in the dog bowl just for good measure.

He looked at me from the comforts of his bed.
There was still a little wine in the bottle.
I figured the best way of beating a hangover was drinking more.

He simply got up and headed out.
Guess even he had enough of my vices.

It's bad when man's best friend is sick of your shit.

I think I should have bought a goldfish instead.
Of course I won't even go into that night I pissed in a friend’s fish tank.

I believe I may have what some would describe as a drinking problem.

But I seldom ever concerned myself with the opinions of others.

The first step taken is always the one that leads to buying more booze.

 John Patrick Robbins 

Is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only.

He is also the author of Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown from Soma Publishing and Sex Drugs & Poetry.

His work has been published in.

The San Pedro River Review,  The Mojave River Review,  Red Fez, Ariel Chart, Punk Noir Magazine , Blognostics , As It Ought To Be Magazine and here at The Dope Fiend Daily .

His work is always unfiltered. 

This Write was originally from Once Upon A Nervous Breakdown and if you would like to check out the book here is a link to it on amazon: 

https://www.amazon.com/Once-Nervous-Breakdown-Patrick-Robbins-ebook/dp/B07WHJW2NT/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=Once+upon+a+nervous+breakdown&qid=1566001399&s=gateway&sr=8-2

Genesis by Robert Cooperman

In the beginning was the peach basket,
or rather, the void of the Springfield YMCA
in the bitter Massachusetts winter of 1891,
exercisers homicidally bored with calisthenics
endless as Sisyphus’s rolled stone. 

So James Naismith was charged with inventing
a game that wasn’t too violent, didn’t need
a lot of space, and could keep men in shape
for the spring track season.  Hence, the two
peach buckets nailed to the walls of the gym. 

Despite rules forbidding tackling, punching,
and gouging, boys cooped up all winter will,
well, be boys: the first game ending in shiners,
broken ribs, and one concussion.  The players
shot with a soccer ball, not a rock-hard
baseball they could hurl at each other,
for the fun of inflicting pain. 

So I think of those peach baskets
as the Great God Naismith proclaiming, 

“Let there be light,” and that soccer ball,
a temporary sun in its firmament; and his rules,
the flora and fauna of the Fifth Day;
the game itself, the Garden; and seeing it all,
Naismith may have been well-pleased, and thought,

“The rock, the spheroid, the basketball—can wait.”

About Robert Cooperman:

Robert Cooperman's latest collection is THE DEVIL WHO RAISED ME (Lithic Press).  Cooperman's love letter to the Grateful Dead, SAVED BY THE DEAD, was published earlier this year by Liquid Light Press.

Inside the Crackhouse With Arthur Graham

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The Destiny of a Poet by Anđelko Zablaćanski

Translated by Danijela Trajković

Night had woken up poets from time immemorial
It opened their souls with the golden key 
Then split the pictures of life
For any of those to seem small in comparison with a verse

Night had always been dancing tango of
Thoughts and feelings tides with a poet
In the middle of a boat without a sail and oars
And occupied with turmoil knowledge

Night had always been stealing poets
From the reality, the world and themselves
In order to give them power just before sunrise
To live in the verse for years

 Anđelko Zablaćanski (1959) is a Serbian poet, aphorist and translator. He has published seven collections of poetry. Was awarded in Russia at the Poetry Festival in St. Petersburg in 2014.  Zablaćanski is the founder and editor-in-chief of the online literary journal Suština poetike. His newest book From Pushkin till Kapustin (an anthology selected and translated by Zablacanski) has been published in 2019. He lives and works in Glušci, Serbia.

Why Mother is Paying Huge College Bills by Dan Provost

Her bare midriff was rolling along aside of her while the other male in heat students were whistling along. 

Obsessed with breast, bars, and excuses to give the professor why they will miss the first class.

 “It’s only the syllabus,” a longhaired fat kid says to some zit-faced hero.

 “They never do anything the first day.”

 “Tell the teacher that your schedule was wrong. He’ll believe you.” 

While the girl with the jiggling abdominal muscles looks for other failures in the fashion world to bond with, another girl storms out of her dormitory-angry over her lack of slumber.

 “My God-damn roommate was up fucking some jingle jangle she met last night…I didn’t get a wink of sleep with her moaning and screaming.”

She wasn’t saying it to anyone in particular, just showing her emotions to the blank air.

Upset over other’s orgasm.

Her blood-stained eyes focus on an SUV that is in the process of packing up some misguided co-ed’s belongings.

As the balding dad shakes his head in disgust, carrying a computer and a small lamp-the mom emerges from the doorway with her arms around her daughter.

Consoling the sobbing girl who is muttering, “I can’t stand being so far away from home…I hate this place.”

Three older girls, probably juniors, are pointing to the hysterics between small giggles and party goggles.

“It’s only been two days,” one of the experienced says to the other veteran. “I guess she just couldn’t take it.”

Meanwhile, the third girl with the black halter and busting cleavage stares at some boy who just left the science building.

“I want him,” she utters in the midst of a sheepish grin.

“I want him drunk and naked tonight.”

All three girls guffaw loudly, ignoring the fact that they have biology lab at 9 o’clock the next day.

“So, we’re going to Smitty’s Pub tonight, right?”

About Dan Provost: 

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura--and their Bichon Frisce...Bella.

Nicotine Chakras by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

wake up suddenly
in bed

beside a Gideon’s side table
along the highway
for $59/night

to clear your nose
and look for casualties

you can feel the thick ones

the bloody chunks
the jump out of your nose
into soft tissues
like revisiting the slaughterhouse
with someone else’s
nightmares

the sink backed up
with old cigarette butts
from big tobacco

smoker’s cough
through the walls
like croupy nicotine
chakras

and the way the continental
breakfast sucks on every continent
worth counting

the front desk
afraid to come out
so that you hope he doesn’t
choose today

and that your car in the parking lot
is still there in the morning
so that when you pull away
from the curb on camera

all the others can see
how it should
be done.

About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:

Ryan Quinn Flanagan guards the Northern Wall for The Frat with his army of horny unicorns and 4/5ths of the Village People.  His private jet is a tax write-off and most of his first edition moose dulaps as well.  He is Scott's Simmons' father and wants Scott to know that he has been a very naughty boy and to get the spanking paddle out of the closet.

Here is a link to Ryan's Book: 

https://www.amazon.com/Road-Hell-Paved-Writers/dp/1074748654/ref=olp_product_details?_encoding=UTF8&me=

Haiku written while upside down, as an adult by Alex Z. Salinas:

Nike soles never
Looked so filthy. New meaning
To brain drain, constraint.

About Alex Z. Salinas:

Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His poetry has appeared in the San Antonio Express-News, Shot Glass Journal, The Rye Whiskey Review, Duane's PoeTree, and in the San Antonio Review, where he serves as poetry editor. His short fiction has appeared in publications such as Every Day Fiction, Mystery Tribune, Red Fez, Schlock! Webzine, Nanoism, escarp, 101 Words, and 365tomorrows.

The Last Week by Bruce Hodder

'Jesus, what does it take with you?'
she asked me underneath the duvet
in the last week of our love affair,
when her right hand failed to reach me
like it used to, and she cramped.

About Bruce Hodder:

Bruce Hodder lives with his wife Michelle in Northampton, England, the most statistically average town in the UK. He has been published in many magazines and online, most recently in ‘Winedrunk Sidewalk’, ‘Under the Bleachers’ and ‘The Rye Whiskey Review’.

Please check out Bruce Hodder's book The Journey Home:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/bruce-hodder/the-journey-home/paperback/product-24163986.html

Driving Stoned in North Chicago by PW Covington

I am driving stoned in North Chicago
Waukegan Avenue, all the way to Fountain Square
And, I’m hitting every light green, mile after mile
Charmed
Blessed
One of those cold April nights, when Winter reminds us
She’ll stay as long as she pleases

And I’d be jazzed
If things were different
If you hadn’t just told me about the biopsies
That came back malignant
Cancer
And it’s spread
To the lymph nodes

But, not to tell anyone else, just yet

And, you brew coffee
Strong, boiled, stove top…dangerous
And we smoke in your kitchen
American Spirits from the yellow box,
Then, a joint of some hydro-grown sativa strain
We do the math in dog years, 8…maybe 7
Since we last shared space

Before Sacred Wounds set my words to wheels

It all flies by
Like driving stoned, at night
And hitting every light green
Red reserved for canvas tennis shoes
And other lanes of traffic
Other avenues
To heaven

About  PW Covington:

   PW Covington's writing is inspired by the grit and greatness of the North American highway.

he has been invited to perform across the hemisphere, and his short fiction collection North Beach and Other Stories was recently named a finalist in LGBTQ Fiction by the International Book Awards.

Follow him on Insta @BeatPW

Fear the Senses by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I fear the senses
coming and going.
I mine for feelings
hidden in my heart.
I know my thoughts have
stalled. My organs have
shut down. I rely

on my eyes to see.
My health is all I
had. How I suffer
in my soul? I mine
my heart for strength. I
just have one. I don’t
know why I’ve gone mad.

About Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal:

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in Southern California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry online and in print has appeared in Ariel Chart, Blue Collar

Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine.

lesson plan of the damned by Ben Newell

I’m reading Robert Bloch’s

Psycho II.



Norman kills a nun with a tire iron

then bangs her

in the back of a van.



Necrophiliac Norman Nails Nun—



An excellent example of alliteration

but probably not the best choice

if you want

to hold on to your teaching job.

About Ben Newell:

Ben Newell dropped out of the Bennington Writing Seminars during his first semester, eventually resuming his studies at Spalding University where he earned an MFA.  His first full-length collection of poetry, Fuzzball, was recently published by Epic Rites Press. 

https://www.amazon.com/Fuzzball-Ben-Newell/dp/1926860667/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=fuzzball&qid=1563733227&s=books&sr=1-2

Rodeo of the Soul II by Daniel W. Wright

Two years is a long eight seconds
Garden grows
Don’t ask the same question too many times
The rich get richer and the poor get prison
There's much more beyond the sea of reality
Ghosts of revolutionaries haunt
the silence of modern worlds

I don’t know what to do with a God
Take it away before it scares me
Winds rev themselves up
to be so cold they burn
Education leaves San Francisco
as starving artists
struggle through winter
without four walls
Buena Vista Park bohemians
ready to kill for an ounce

Early morning anxieties
remind you that being working class
these days
only means you’re poor
but don’t do meth
Don’t care about being rich
just don’t wanna be poor
Drinking in Whitman’s chair
underneath Brooklyn Bridge
Artistic entitlement
entangles half-wit writers
in their own mess
Last lessons to unlearn
Freedom isn’t always what you want

Mickey Mouse motorboats Marilyn Monroe
as Medusa Madonna eats McDonalds
Yin Yang Charlie Brown eats Chinese food and Donuts
Empty bottles are the church bells
of that which is unfulfilled
God points an American made gun
at Adam

Psychedelic tantrums no longer progressive
Sitar spangled banner
brings rain to wash reality
to cover the earth with new dew
Death masks lie in wait
within the eye of silence
Tree trunk coffin for lovers
Nothing closer to the spiritual plane
than music
pure and easy
Carve out a book and call it home
Those who look to the stars
are never alone

Too tight to incinerate
Mirror only reflects curves
Choir forsaken Christ mystic
lonely for the archetypal arch angels
to shape world
Kingdom defeats diffusion
speaks in riddles to communicate
Faces reflect in Rorschach slides
Closed eyes put head in the sand
Just be a big boy,
It’ll all be over soon

Face to face with dead eyes
on the battlefield
where the moon says
I love you
Exhausted dreams
lose place in countdowns
Kick the bottle
Watch it skid
Success has many fathers
but failure’s an orphan

About Daniel W. Wright:

Daniel W. Wright is a mid-western son who loves and loathes the red brick town that surrounds him. A poet of the no collar work force, Wright’s work has appeared in the Gasconade Review, Bad Jacket, Acid Kat, Crappy Hour, Eleven, and The Rye Whiskey Review. His previous works include Rodeo of the Soul, The Death of the Ladies Man, Small Town Blues: Early Lyrics and Poems, Portrait, Murder City Special, and Working Bohemian’s Blues. Wright currently lives in St. Louis, where you can usually find him in a bar or a bookstore.

River#5 by Wayne F. Burke

About Wayne F. Burke:

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length volumes of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019).

A link to the book:

             https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/192644924X/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

Stan & I by Damian Rucci

At 1 am

the store goes

on break

Stan and I

hit the front parking lot

we smoke

beneath the gray

winter sky

&

tell stories

about the outside world

I want to see

the country,

the wide Buffalo

beaten plains of

North Dakota

The blue of

New Mexican skies

Stan misses Miami

the way the women

shook their crotches

in his face in those clubs

the way the cocaine

glows beneath neon lights

we both just want something

more

than this

About Damian Rucci:

Damian Rucci's work has recently appeared in Cultural Weekly, Public House, Beatdom, and coffee shops and basements across the country He is the author of three chapbooks and a split with Ezhno Martin. Damian hosted the Poetry in the Port reading series, now hosts the Belle Ringer Open mic, and is a poet in residence at the Osage Arts Community in Belle, MO. You can reach him at damian.rucci@gmail.com