Eat The Page by John Patrick Robbins

And put it to good use instead of cluttering it with your words.
And let the work end up going down the shitter where it belongs.

As it keeps the alligators company and maybe gives them something to read.

As they scratch their heads and wonder.

Just who writes this shit trying to pass it off as poetry?
And in return start crafting words of their own.

To simply get rejected by everyone until finding publication at the Dope Fiend Daily.

As their ego swells never knowing.
It has ultra low standards and a semi insane editor.

But who am I to burst their bubble.
I mean it's not like I got nominated for a Pushcart by Scott or anything like that.

But I heard that crocodile is now the poet laureate of the sewers and king of the open mics down below.

I heard him read once and could not make out half the shit he was trying to say.
He really seemed a great fit for the lit scene.

As for me,  I got rejected by my own mag only yesterday.

Bravo to me.

John Patrick Robbins.

Is an editor and that is all people seemingly  give a flying fuck about.

Because he is the man that pushes the publish button which is like a G spot to writers.

He practices black magic in his free time and is best friends with the Devil.

He enjoys serial killing and sexually harassing his co editor.

He also enjoys Roman orgies and eating alone at the Olive Garden .

He has published every writer's number on the bathroom wall.

He currently resides in Tokyo where he is the writer in residence at the Godzilla Geisha house.

He has been published in your dreams and nightmares alike, Esquire, Field And Stream, Jugs, Family Circle and this shitty as ezine as well.

He is currently working on building his death ray to destroy this planet.

He enjoys binge drinking while operating heavy machinery.

And writing ultra professional bios. 

Moth by Susan Tepper

When you know 
it’s time to slip out
seamlessly 
A moth 
through a ripped screen
Once the light’s been 
switched off
Flittering—
a drop to the gutter
possibly the last 
truth emerging
from the shit 
with no access to toilets

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most current are a poetry chap CONFESS (Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a funky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently she is in pre-production of a play she adapted from an earlier novel about artist Jackson Pollock in his later years. www.susantepper.com

Day 11 Skull by Kevin R. Farrell

 

Kevin R. Farrell, Jr. is a New York based artist, poet, and educator whose work has been published in BONED – Every Which Way, Burning House Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Adroit Journal, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Foxhole Magazine, Yo-NEWYORK! and others.

In 2021 Farrell released Best of the Worst which consists of 20 poems that have risen to the top of the trash heap that is his constant documentation of a life spent toeing the line between spiritual bliss and emotional upheaval. As a recovering addict each day can be a struggle when dealing with the dumpster fire that is modern day existence. Sometimes Farrell attempts to put out the fire, on other days he warms his hands by the flames.

Is This Poetry Gluten Free? by Frank Murphy

Yes and if it's largely published, it's probably boring as hell to boot.
It's been nominated for ten thousand pushcarts and a gold star too.

It's super clean and could never offend anyone because nobody understands what the fuck it's saying to begin with.

It's been previously published and never read in a single zine that it graced the pages of.

It got a hundred likes for simply sharing a link and yet never sold one copy of the book it's in.

It won't change the world and if you don't get it then this writes dedicated to you.

So recant it at the zoom reading and pretend it's a blast to be included in the scene.

Remember to play nice or if you're naughty like me.
You will be blacklisted stuck playing with yourself.

Well least this poem will leave you with a happy ending.
Don't say I never gave you nothing.

Wink wink.

Frank Murphy writes because murder is frowned upon in many states.

He collects fine whiskey and toxic relationships.

He is also the author of If Walls Could Speak Mine Would Blush  from Syndicate Press.

He has been published in Hustler, Tiger Beat, Family Circle, Drinkers Only, Under The Bleachers, Jugs and many other fine literary magazines.

He currently resides in Kill Devil Hills with his pain in the ass dog Boozer who he just buried yesterday but unfortunately he unearthed himself. 

Rust Belt Blues #666 by A.S. Coomer & Dan Denton

The street preacher yelled as I walked by,

"Satan will come back as a serpent."

He slithered passed under a rust colored sky,
the last rays of an overburdened sun
slipping off, tail between its legs
and still wagging.

He can't possibly know 
that I watched the devil escape 
from a bottle one night 
and another time I saw him
crawl into a needle
race through a brother's veins 
and come screaming out of his dead mouth 
a mouth that hung open and slack 
just like his dead eyes.

Broken concrete slapping a frenzied beat 
under my feet, slate gray sky permeating 
an insufferable heat, I turned the corner 
and crossed the street. “We’ll all come back 
as mosquitos,” I sang. “First to thirst, 
drink ‘til we burst, rising from the bloody dirt 
to swarm the earth.”'

A mother pulled her daughter closer as I passed.
I laughed and continued singing.

A.S. Coomer is a writer and musician. Books include Memorabilia, The Fetishists, The Flock Unseen, Shining the Light, The Devil’s Gospel, Misdeeds (forthcoming from Shotgun Honey Press), Birth of a Monster (forthcoming from Grindhouse Press), and more. He runs Lost, Long Gone, Forgotten Records, a “record label” for poetry. He co-edits Cocklebur Press, a small press “for books that stick.” @ascoomer www.ascoomer.com

Dan Denton’s work has been published online and in print in multiple zines, magazines, newspapers and anthologies. He co-edits Cocklebur Press, an indie publisher of books that stick.