Slapped by David Boski

“Slap my pussy,” she said,

as I kneeled above her, 

staring down at her naked body.

I happily obliged her request

and later on, as I was about to fall asleep

I thought of all the other men out there.

men who made more money than me

men who had better jobs

and better cars

men who had wives

and men who owned homes

men who were nicer than me 

smarter than me

funnier than me

better looking than me

tall men, short men, fat men, thin men,

muscular men who loved working out.

all kinds of men from all over the world

who went to bed that night

without having slapped a pussy…

and I felt good 

and momentarily 

everything seemed all right.

David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have appeared in: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under The Bleachers, Down in the Dirt, Beatnik Cowboy, Winamop, Ramingo’s Porch, Cactifur, North Of Oxford and elsewhere. His chapbook “Fist Fighting and Fornication” is out now and available through Holy&intoxicated Publications. 

Sweat Flying. By Ian Copestick

I was just thinking of when I

Worked in a salt packing plant.
My God ! That was hard work !
Whichever sadistic bastard had
Set the speed of the machinery
Had it set that only by rushing
Around and working flat out
Could you keep up with it.

If you blew your nose, or had to
Scratch your balls then there
Was a backlog of boxes of
Salt built up on the conveyer
Belt from Hell. Then you would
Have to try to work, sweat flying,
Even faster than you thought
You possibly could to catch up,
So you could go back to your
Usual flat out rate.

On top of that, it was 12 hour
Shifts, 5 nights a week. So, I
Was raking in the cash with my
60 hour weeks. The problem
Was that on my days off I was
Too tired to do anything but
Sleep.

I don't remember what caused
Me to lose that job, either I
Was laid off, fired or I quit.
I seriously can't recall, if you've
Had as many jobs as I have
Sometimes you just forget.
Anyway, it's fair to say that I
Wasn't exactly heartbroken to
See the back of it.
Until I got the next shit job.

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.

THE ICE SHOULD STAY IN MY GLASS (NOT ON THE PAVEMENTS) By Bradford Middleton

My life grows hard as
The booze drowns my poor highly-spirited wreck of a body
And the cold freezes my outers and
The streets are full of ice and
The people are in a state of panic as
The thought of running out of anything drives them to new heights of consumerist mania
Zombies stomp in, loading up crates of beans just in case
But me I just laugh as today it didn't even snow
And soon the ice will melt and the sun will flood right on in
Taking us onwards to spring when I'll be
Happy just to go to the pub knowing
The only way I'll fall over is if I've drank too much
Rather than on some damn ice death trap
That has apparently already caught a few

Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine.  He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn't until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again.  Ten years later and he's been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled 'Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity', his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK).  He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds.  His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses 'Poet to Notice', Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl.  If you like what you've read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1. 

Buttfuck Christ and Chicken Tenders at the Galactical, Fantastical, Truck Stop Found on the Jefferson Parish Trail. by PW. Covington

Buttfuck Christ and chicken tenders at the galactical
Fantastical truck stop found on the Jefferson Parish trail
Confession
Penance
Circumstance and mystery of misery, besides;

Dance, my sweet cuckoldress!

February on the coast is never simple
Last September’s hurricane debris is sacrament
Unction
At the junction of
Fantasy and fear
The far away and here

Drive-through coffee sacrilege and red lights
Neon echoes bottled
Drank in dank motel rooms, alone
Flash of fleshy thighs beyond the end zones

Only make my cock swell
Within the dancer’s cage
Against her present
Control and chastity and counsel
On the road

PW Covington writes in the beat tradition of the North American highway.
He is a Pushcart nominee and his latest collection of short fiction was named named a 2019 Finalist in LGBTQ Fiction by the International Book Awards.
  Covington lives in Northern New Mexico, two blocks off of Historic Route 66. Follow him on Insta @BeatPW

STRATOSPHERE. By K.W. Peery

I'm
so
high
tonight
my
ole
heart
feels
heavy -

Ridin'
waves
in
my
mind...
tryin'
to
escape
how
she
left
me -


Oh -
her
face
holds
many
faces...
from
all
those
places
that
she's
been -

And
I'm
here
in
the
stratosphere...
tryin'
to
survive
another
year

Yeah -
I'm
here
in
the
stratosphere...
just
tryin'
to
survive
another
year

Americana songwriter and Kansas-City-based storyteller K.W. Peery is the author of eight poetry collections: 

Tales of a Receding Hairline; Purgatory; Wicked Rhythm; Ozark Howler; Gallatin Gallows; Howler Holler; 

Bootlegger’s Bluff; Cockpit Chronicles. 

He is founder and co-editor of The Angel's Share Literary Magazine (Shine Runner Press).

His work is included in the Vincent Van Gogh Anthology Resurrection of a Sunflower, 

The Cosmic Lost and Found: An Anthology of Missouri Poets (Spartan Press), Best of Mad Swirl Anthology 2018 

and the Walsall Poetry Society Anthology, Diverse Verse II & III.

Peery’s work has been published in The Main Street Rag, Chiron Review, San Pedro River Review, The Gasconade Review, 

Big Hammer, Blink Ink, Rusty Truck, Mad Swirl, Veterans Voices Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Mojave River Review, The Asylum Floor, 

Horror Sleaze Trash, Ramingo's Porch, From Whispers to Roars, Culture Cult Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only Magazine, 

Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir,  Mutata Re, Ariel Chart, The Beatnik Cowboy and Apache Poetry.

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

Website: www.kwpeery.com

FRONT PORCH LAMENT. By Sara Minges

I find comfort in 

the gentle sway 

of the front porch swing 

as I sip a cocktail on 

sultry summer nights.  

Porch swings never really 

belonged to me.

For 30 years, I’ve been 

a visitor perched 

on other people’s swings.  

We only lived once 

in a house we owned,

just a few years 

in that blue house. 

Loved playing whiffle ball out back
Though Dad always complained about 

mowing the grass and Mom often panicked

When I chased the “high balls.”  

My wild whisky blood finds comfort in chaos

It feels like home, complicated, raw, rough

Its flames helped forge my superpowers

Vulnerability, sadness, empathy, joy and laughter

Blended together, never to be torn apart.  

Sara Minges is a 2019 Pitch Best Poet of KC Nominee, Founder of Wonder Woman Rising, peer mentor, coach and motivational speaker living in Overland Park, KS.  She is the author of Naked Toes (Chameleon Press, 2019), and her work has also appeared in Prompts! An Anthology (39 West Press, 2016), Hessler Street Fair 50th Edition (Writing Knights Press, 2019) and Angel’s Share (Shine Runner Press, 2019).  She’s been a featured poet at Blue Monday (2015, Kansas City, MO); Swordfish Tom’s Speakeasy (Kansas City, MO); 3 Wishes (Merriam, KS); Poets & Pints (Minneapolis, MN); Mac’s Back Books, CLE Urban Winery, Visible Voices, and Glass City Roasters (Cleveland and Toledo, OH); In One Ear (Chicago, IL), The Porch (Nashville, TN) and Crescent Moon (Lincoln, NE).  

Hooch. By Linda Imbler

Abating sentries of rev’noors,

these now impeccable brewers

offer steep drink within lawful lines.

They’re no longer part of a sinning legion.

Once clandestine lodging of glass bottles,

hidden under haystacks, 

and behind hollow brick facades.

Chosen by disobedient revelers,

with a glib indecency,

and a whacked fetish for drink.

The history of moonshine reflected

in poorly remembered scenarios,

in suppressed neighborhoods,

along some preferred mazes

of streets and alleyways.

A nauseous whirlwind

of heavy boozers weaving their way home.

And wives with no resolute sleep,

offer a dramatic welcoming back home.

Their ramshackle boom,

loudness in the living room.

In a lunar instant,

a starlight grenade he offers in response.

And landlords cite an embarrassing dread,

as families face a rancorous displacement,

and bags of empty vessels are left behind.

Kentucky stills now in the open,

Pray no more families become broken.

Linda Imbler’s poetry collections include three published works by Amazon, “Big Questions, Little Sleep,” 

“Lost and Found,”  and “Red Is The Sunrise.”  

Soma Publishing has published her two e-book collections, 

“The Sea’s Secret Song,” and “Pairings,” a hybrid of short fiction and poetry.  A new e-book from Soma Publishing 

entitled “That Fifth Element” is due out in late 2019.  Examples of Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be 

found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. 

Modernity : John Wayne Car-Chases. By John Doyle

Twice Duke dismounted, 

slid his cancerous ass

into a creamy leather smoothness 

that eased his pain, his throat like the inside of a sewer-pipe,

his need for movement enhanced by those other great Americans

Pontiac and Ford - over the English accent of stewed and home-brewed Thames,

the streets of Seattle marshaled

by long-hairs, by men who fired slugs instead of taking clean shots.

Duke, in the driver's seat

like he never once

needed to dismount his saddle

smooth cancerous ass eased into a

chamois shine

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.