Who Do You Love? by Marie C Lecrivain

                   

… tell me, who do you love? - George Thorogood and the Destroyers

Sweat drops form a wet corona across Alice's forehead. She looks up into his flushed face. His arms tremble from tension, as he holds himself up, poised between her legs. The medicinal smell of Bushmills wafts over her with each exhale.

“I... want to do this... but I love her... and... I think... I love ya, too,” he groans. Her eyes briefly flit down to the erect penis between her legs.

Through an alcoholic haze, Alice hears his plea. She turns her head towards the nightstand. Alice spots the photo of him, and “her”. A full moon shines through the skylight, illuminating the photograph. Alice sees the woman's head, crowned with a long fall of red hair, melded to the crook of his shoulder. The woman’s left hand rests comfortably on his chest. Alice takes note of the diamond solitaire ring on the woman’s third finger. In the photo, his head is thrown back with the force of laughter. It's an intimate moment, the synchronous candid kind rarely caught on film.

She understands.

Alice grasps his penis. She shifts her left leg up, and gently guides him, down and 

around, until they reverse positions. Alice kneels between his legs; one hand wraps 

around his cock while the other strokes his thigh. She shuts her eyes as she encloses her mouth around his penis. With the decision no longer in his hands, he climaxes quickly, leaving Alice with a mouthful of semen, and a huge sense of relief.

Within moments, he's fast asleep, wrapped in the twin blankets of exhaustion and alcohol. Alice rises from the bed, swiftly dresses, and leaves the room. She makes her way to the bathroom and spits his cum into the sink. She opens the medicine cabinet and finds the mouthwash. She gargles three times.

Alice walks into the living room, empty but for an easy chair and a fireplace. She spots a larger version of the photo on the mantle, with a small piece of paper tucked into the bottom left hand of the frame. She walks over to the fireplace, and removes the paper. It’s a prayer card with a picture of the Virgin Mary, her heart pierced by swords. She flips the card over, and reads the first line: Fiona Mary Daly, 1974-2001.

About Marie C Lecrivain: 

Marie C Lecrivain is a poet, publisher, and ordained priestess in the Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica, the ecclesiastical arm of Ordo Templi Orientis. Her work has been published in Nonbinary Review, Orbis, Pirene's Fountain, and many other journals. She's the author of several books of poetry and fiction, and recent editor of Gondal Heights: A Bronte Tribute Anthology (copyright 2019 Sybaritic Press, www.sybpress.com).

One last beer before Christmas. By Roger Turner

Sitting in a run down bar

Toasting Christmas' once again

Making New Years Resolutions

That in eight days I'll amend

Watching Christmas Specials

On what happened this past year

All the while waiting

For another glass of beer

Commercials for electronic this

and battery powered that

Pill that kill your acne

Machines that suck your fat

Little plastic whatzit whos

That vibrate and make noise

Not one damn ad of one damn thing

For Christmas...girls and boys

Where did Christmas go to?

When did Christmas die?

When did Amazon take over?

Telling us just the things to buy

Where is Christmas spirit?

In a movie or a play?

At an office Christmas party?

It's all saved for Boxing Day

The beer arrives, we look about

The bar is filling fast

Most talking of the better days

The days of Christmas past

People on the tv set

On that damn show TMZ

Reality folks, who don't know real

At least not like you and me

I harken back to days of yore

When Christmas was so real

When there'd be fifteen aunts and uncles

At our house for a meal

When charity was normal

Cynics..few and far between

When Christmas trees dropped needles

And all had a slight lean

Where did Christmas go to?

When did Christmas die?

When did Amazon take over?

Telling us just the things to buy

Where is Christmas spirit?

In a movie or a play?

At an office Christmas party?

It's all saved for Boxing Day

It's getting on for closing time

It's time to get on home

Where, I am not sure of

It's nice...I'll think I'll roam

A bench, perhaps, inside the park

I think I'll be all right

I'll pick one near a walkway

By a nice and shiny light

Oh, most of us are homeless

We hit the missions for our meals

We drink some down at this old bar

We just like the way it feels

We spend Christmas Day together

Our extended family grows each year

But, before I go and find a bench

I think I'll throw back one last beer

Merry Christmas

Happily married writer in hiding. I enjoy good bourbon and cigars and try to see the good side of life from the dark side of the bar. I love twisting my endings so it isn't what you're ready for. Small gatherings in old school settings are my favorite place for inspiration. Life is flawed...so...share your flaws and put pc to rest. I live for today, remember yesterday and never plan for the future...it may never come.

TERRITORY. By Bryn Fortey

some prefer the sound of running water

the sight of lush green grass

I’m more at home with

tyres on tarmac

the red and grey

of bricks and mortar

some find peace in rustic charm

the village green and country pub

I’m more at home in 

towns and cities

where mother concrete

offers comfort 

at a price

Bryn Fortey is a veteran writer from Wales in the UK. Widely published

over the years, he has had two collections published by The Alchemy 

Press, both featuring a mix of short stories and poetry.

 He is grateful thatin old age he is still able to put pen to paper and finger to keyboard

killer by jck hnry

a black crow follows me

as i make my

way down a two lane road

in the middle of

fields of wheat & corn.

yellow summer light burns across my

flesh &

with each drip of sweat

i leave a trail for you to follow.

we met at a thrift store

in the center

of a tiny farm town,

across from a diner,

next to a bank

around from the A&P.

miles from home, miles from home.

bus breaks down, most move on;

i stay.

and sleep in the basement of an old record shop,

steal clothes from a tithings drop,

work as a laborer out at a farm

just up a two lane

road.  twenty bucks a day for all of that.

black crow follows me

as i stagger back to town,

a bloody knife in my hand,

her heart in a box.

jck hnry is a neo-modernist, post-apocalyptic writer, living in the hard scrub of a californian desert.  after a 10 year hiatus hnry is back at it.  recent publications include:

includes publication in Horror Sleaze Trash, Bold Monkey, Red Fez, dope fiend daily and a bunch of other noble zines and journals.  Chapbooks/Books: “Snow in Summer and the Playground is Closed,” “Empty Houses-Kendra Steiner Editions,” “the Downtown Cafe (Erbacce Press),” “With the Patience of Monuments (neoPoesis) ,” “Crunked, (Epic Rites)” and “the Righthand Curve of a Continuous Circle. (Blunt Trauma Press).”  hnry is also editor and publisher of "Heroin Love Songs, V2.0, 7thEd" available now. for more go to jackhenry.wordpress.com.

The Sea Knows No Lover by John Patrick Robbins

I watched the rain drops slowly collect upon the windshield, as I sat parked overlooking the water.

I had always admired a good storm.

Storms were like great lovers and fine whiskey.

Destructive in nature and often gone no sooner than they had arrived.

I never could fathom being away from the ocean.

It was my home, I had bared it's wrath yet still there was something tragically beautiful about its nature.

The sea had called many men to their watery grave and I was happy enough baring its abuse from the shore.

She had spared me where others lost everything around them.

Maybe she felt pity for something as pathetic as myself.

Or maybe she yearned to see me suffer.

The ocean is chaos never ending, much like all the memorable women in my life they were always happy to leave me with a scar and little else.

I watched the storm roll in, as I had done so many times before.

A fool builds his home upon the sand and a poet pens odes to those that can never return the sentiment.

The best poems are all tragic by design.

And this is no differ than the rest.

                        John Patrick Robbins


Is the editor of The Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only and Under The Bleachers.
His work has published by. The San Pedro River Review, Punk Noir Magazine, Ariel Chart, The San Antonio Review, Red Fez ,As It Ought To Be Magazine, Piker Press.

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

His work is always unfiltered.

I’ll Carry Your Ghost. By Linda Imbler

I shall open all envelopes of complaint,

accept denunciation

by those passionate

in their stinging rebukes.

I’ll take the blame

for your past actions

having caused the current reproach.

I shall pocket your thirty pieces of silver

because you left me

in command of the purse strings.

My contribution,

however unknown to me at the time,

and however undeserved

demands I must now own your shadow.

You had so many rooms

with tightly locked doors,

but the key is now in my possession.

I’ll wipe down your walls,

and let my mind gather the webs and mold.

We have the blessing or the curse 

of the invisible thread.

I’ll not fight the old,

will work to construct the new,

and, in the process, protect your legacy.

And, when I am done making your excuses,

I will find time to finally make things right.

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. 

Fall In Love With Cities. By Sara Minges

Lose yourself in their eyes and soul.

Walk around the square.

Soak into your skin their vibrant energy.

Wander into local bookshops and taverns.

Be curious, ask about the histories of neighborhoods.

Learn how Pilsen differs from Lincoln Park.

Savor the spices of life.

Savor each moment
like a delectable piece

of chocolate,

to be tenderly consumed.  

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).  

Cinderblock Kisses . by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

When she can’t find you with her lips

she gets angry,

throws sleepless pillows around 

like hated circus acrobats.

Makes up a false urgency.

Reassures you that her male roommate 

is gay.

It is then that you begin to feel it.

Those cold cinderblock kisses against your face.

As if your rough hands are back working construction.

In a darkened bedroom this time.

The sheets kicked around like an abused 

woman.

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,The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Under The Bleachers, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.

The perfect murder. by Ashley Cooke

I thought of one million ways
To remove you from my life
None of them seemed as sincere
Or as permanent as death
So many ways to dispose of you
But no bullet can puncture you
No knife can dig deep enough
To rip you out of my mind
No building would be high enough
To push you from
And no pill is strong enough
To take your life

No, the best way to kill you
would be to wipe out my memory of you
leaving me with no trace
washing every bit of you away
like the blood on my hands
disposing of my thoughts of you
Just like the pieces of your body
Thrown away in places never to be reached again
not keeping a piece for myself
No momento of this crime
No trophy or lock of hair
Hidden in some box under my bed
Lining my walls with your essence
No, It would be the perfect murder
If I never thought of you again.

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. Her work can be found in various online journals such as Moontide Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Scarlett Leaf Review and many others.

CHEAP BEER. By Gwil James Thomas

So, I’m in the kitchen 

playing with a knife 

and drinking cheap beer,  

as I start studying 

the beer can in front of me –

some people get snobbish 

about cheap beer, 

but at 28 céntimos a can 

mediocre never tasted better –

a drip of condensation then

slithers across the side of the can 

like a bead of sweat zigzagging 

down the torso 

of a beautiful woman 

and I follow the drip as it slips 

over the can’s expiry date 

and find myself thinking over 

the last year, 

making a mental highlight reel 

as I go over this and that 

saying so long and looking back 

with a smile – 

then again 

I could romanticise anything, 

even cheap fucking 

beer.

Gwil James Thomas is a Best of The Net and Pushcart nominee currently living in Donostia, Pais Vasco. He has worked as a chef, product demonstrator, aeroplane cleaner, labourer and news article archivist. His two most recent poetry chapbooks are In The Barrel of a Beautiful Wave (Holy&Intoxicated Publications) for sales and inquiries: johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk and Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press) which can be found here: https://adrianmanning.wixsite.com/concretemeatpress/publications

Gwil 

flagpole. by Wayne F. Burke

in bed early

11:30 PM 

try and get some reading done

or maybe write something

worthwhile

but

fuck-it, I am too tired

for either, and

start to think of a girl

I used to watch undress

as she stood before her window,

and though I know

it is not healthy

for me

to go there,

I go;

watch her stretch and

bend over...

I raise the old flagpole:

I used to be her dildo

she used to be my girl

every night

11 PM

we met

a cold and distant relationship

that ended

only because

she moved elsewhere.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print. He has published six full-length poetry collections, most recently DIFLUCAN (BareBack Press, 2019). He lives in the Pine Tree State.