Bark > Bite by Kevin R. Farrell

Gnawing at dawn
a neighbor barks at the wind for blowing his garbage can lids into the street,
I’m only trying to keep my side clean.

You can’t teach an ideologue new tricks,
half-mast apologies,
full-fledged debauchery,
but enough about your fascination with propping up sycophants who created you in their own image.

Man, to find the strength I struggled to muster up,
holding grudges with my own resentments,
damn, this shit never is, was, or will be about you,
so don’t tell me,
you’ll dance on graves,
don’t tell me,
you’re kicking ass and taking names,
don’t tell me,
I didn’t ask.

No need for cold shoulders and frozen stares of passive aggression,
I prefer the heat of red hot active verbal assaults.

Know my mania,
even in love I write from a madness
that’s left dents in my bones.

I’ll promise to take myself less seriously only if you take on what I’ve given up.
Assume the best of me and I’ll give you more than assumptions to run on.

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.

What If by Lauren Scharhag

The What If games are real now.
What If you were on a deserted island?
What would you take with you?
Who would you take?
(That’s easy, I’d take you.)
What If you could only read one book forever? 
What If you could only eat one food every day
for the rest of your life, what would it be?
(What’s the store out of now?)
What If you met Hitler, what would you do?
Here we are, marooned.
Let’s have a staring contest.
I stare at you and you stare back
because there’s no one else here.
What If this was your last day on Earth?
What If this was Earth’s last day?
Let’s play Bloody Mary.
(Do you see yourself?)
Let’s make shadow puppets.
There is no time as day shifts to night.
The bare trees come to leaves only
to shed again. Wasn’t it
a week ago April? On this,
the five-hundredth day of spring?
Whatever happened to forty days,
forty nights? Will we ever get
to the other side of November? 
Will we ever turn that corner?
Let’s play rock-paper-scissors.
Papercut. Rock smash. Paper mask. 
Beer beats anxiety. Every time.
Best out of three, six-pack. 
1-2-3-4, I declare another war.
You don’t stand a chance.
These thumbs are agile and muscular.
They see me scrollin’. They hatin’.
Let’s play cops and robbers.
I’ll catch you and get you down
on the ground.
You’ll never take me alive
‘cause I’m the one with the gun, 
but all the games are real now.
Let’s play marbles. Let’s play jacks.
We’re playing for keepsies.
See my fistful of knucklebones.
See my haul of shooters and cat’s eyes.
That’s the way the ball bounces, jack,
‘cause all the games are real now.
Let’s play double-dutch.
Here’s the rope. 
Our hands are tied.
This is it.
This is the game.
Who’s out?
(Tagging from six feet apart. Freeze.)
All the games are real now.
We’re stuck at home base.
Let’s choose sides.
Let’s choose a team.
Let’s flip a coin. 
Engine engine number nine,
going down Chicago line.
Goodbye, Mr. Obama.
Goodbye, Lake Michigan.  
Goodbye, Wrigley Field.
No one’s throwing out the pitch.
Call it. Call it. 
Olly-olly-oxen-free,
except when we’re not.
Swing and a miss,
mouthful of sawdust
and crackerjacks.
Redline. Blueline.
Flatline. Toy surprise. 

What would you do?
What would you do?
What would you do?

All the games are real now.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com

Lazarus by Daniel S. Irwin

Lazarus
Was dead,
Then brought
Back to life.
But he still
Had that
Rotting smell.
So the village
Put him back
In the tomb.
Sorry, Jesus.
Cool miracle.
But he scared
The Hell outta
Everybody.

Daniel S. Irwin, a native of Sparta, Illinois.  Retired military.  Dudeist priest.  Dedicated heathen. Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world wide.  Founder of The Hardened Sailors’ School of Vulgar Vernacular (now disbanded). Latest work can be found at/in Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Cajun Mutt, The Rye Whiskey Review.  

Dunfermline Queen Margaret by John Doyle

A man wracked with sobriety
leaves his own funeral, 
drifts in beside me as I wake,
 
he steals my sleep
and I read his soul in act of vengeance
like a river impatient with its stones;
 
he is hollow,
like skin fitting him
because his mother told it so, and dying therefore fakes his headline acts -
 
they're in it together, there's little I can do except mock, 
feel a little spite.
Nuances like these are notable in wood 
 
more so than stiffs escaping funerals, 
the wood must be reliable, 
of course,
 
ordered from companies who say 
"So and So and Sons - Est. 1864"
on their doors; having sons is a great deal in a trade like this
 
and protects eternity from the bony-fingers of oblivion 
- if -
these sons stay clear of booze and women faster on the draw.
 
Several bars in town order stocks from such companies,
their counter-wood has a ring like a church-bell on Sunday,
a bright Protestant hope, an urge for Mondays,
 
tea and sandwiches for Max Weber, as he waits outside, 
door-bell singing.
December's fields are weighted-down like apologies in snow,
 
as my friend tilts on a passing bend,
dead people usually don't apologise. 
I expect less from him, 
 
Heaven and Hell does their bidding for them
no later than December, however,
a month for dreams that turn
 
to water and to air, guilt and salvation 
lagging right behind an ore-bound siding
near Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
 
When I died and went to Heaven
first thing I noticed was all my friends were roasting in Hell, 
I wept for days, then in despair pulled a flick knife on St. Peter, 
 
hoping for expulsion - so went the ticket collector's story 
leaving Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
I was hiding in the toilets before he arrived,
 
the ghosts around me could deal with him.
So they did -
So I thank them in this song,
 
pray like a good Christian should
for their beautiful
sacred souls.

 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.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

Glory by Wayne F. Burke

It was all for glory--
chasing down the ball-carrier
slamming my helmeted-head into
a gut, running over the
catcher because Coach told me to:
I never knew
then 
the glory was his, not mine, though
won with my blood,
my guts, and
all for nothing but
to make him look good, and
for some shits' profits,
and for the prestige of the
school, that
spit some of us out each year
into the factories and
fields, where our fathers ,uncles, and
brothers--who had also worn the
red & white uniform, labored
for what they too
never knew.

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.

Regarding the Previous Follow-up Email by Ben Nardolilli

I recently sent you information! Fuck you
For not getting back to me about it.
What? You think you’re so great
You can afford to pass up the opportunity
To read this great author’s equally fucking
Great book even though it’s free for you?
 
Yeah, it’ll take up time, time I’m sure
You’ll fill with wonderful things
Like feeding orphans and winning
Nobel Prizes for literature and peace! No,
You’re just a jackoff plain and simple,
Who needs to learn to reply to our emails
 
Come on, take it! Take this novel! Read it,
Cry over it, and then write a review,
Don’t worry, we’ll rip one sentence out
For a blurb on the paperback edition,
Before wiping our asses with the rest of it,
A boon for an unpublished writer like you

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.

Micro Dose Monologue by Kevin M. Hibshman

“Is it getting warm in here?”

“Holy shit, Elon Musk's little launch rockets come back down to earth, man!”
“They fucking land on tiny pads in the middle of the ocean that wait out there for them!”

“Wow, that new's lady's face just did something really strange.”
“How did she do that?”

“Turn up the music.”
“I'm only hearing out of one ear.”

“Dig this, Space-X put a freaking car in orbit, forever playing David Bowie.”
“NASA would never have considered that.”

Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems, reviews and collages published in numerous publications world wide. Most recently, his work has been published by Rye Whiskey Review, Drinkers Only, The Crossroads and 1870. In addition to editing his own poetry e-zine, FEARLESS, he has authored sixteen chapbooks including: Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011) and Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000).

The Devil's Dance by John Patrick Robbins

She said.

"I believe there is something oddly beautiful in suicide."

For in return, Frank simply remained silent.
As stupid seldom needs an encore.
Which is a statement largely wasted upon the ignorant.

As they sat upon the floor sharing drinks and little to nothing else.

She was a delusional fool, for which youth often grants that privilege in spades.
And her looks had clearly allowed her to skate by even the most venomous thinkers such as Frank.

Something in her statement enraged him so no matter it's effects.
He had to allow this airhead to know the side everyone thought was his truth.

"So my dear, death intrigues you? Ever been close to it?"

"No, but I write about it a lot in my poems."

"Yes and from what I have read you clearly believe it to be a fashion label but at least you wear it well sweetheart."

Frank, replied taking a ship from his drink.

"Hey! Why are you being such an asshole to me?"
Tabitha snapped back.

"Sorry my dear it's just my nature. Refill sweetheart."

"You know, you don't have to act around me. I mean we are close.
I mean I just like sucked your dick a minute ago."

"Yeah and clearly it's the smartest thing to come out of your mouth in a awhile sugar."

"Fuck you asshole!"

Tabitha shouted as she stood up and stomped out the room.
Frank could have made nice and chased after her.
But in all truth this was far more honest of an exchange.

They both had a momentary thirst and that said thirst had been quenched.

People always want to see the devil to simply know he exists.
Have a dance, maybe even a night's embrace to say you simply have been to the gates of hell.

Was it a trophy or a souvenir?
Frank hadn't a clue.
Tabitha wasn't stupid just simply delusional.

It's strange how people believe getting close to something that clearly isn't there to begin with.

Will somehow turn out differently for them, where it all turned to shit for everyone else.

Frank poured another and sat there basking in the silence and afterglow of a moment's release.

Before airhead's idiotic verbal intrusion.
For Tabitha, believed to be an artist, you must be deep and walk a razor's edge.

When in truth Frank, like any other lived his life not as a fashion statement.
It was simply the only life he knew.

As the pages now collect dust but a reputation is a both a curse and odd blessing.

As fools believed when you were silent. You were off creating some great art not just simply drinking your ass off.

And so are the trappings of ego and success.
Tabitha wanted to be what you simply could not become with filters and horn dog social media followers.

And somewhere along the way she came to the crossroads and met the devil himself.

She stomped off slamming the door as she left.
Calling rejection pain, when in truth it's the one common ground all true writers share.

The drinks flowed in her absence as life dragged on unfortunately.

Happy endings were only good in fairy tales and bedtime stories.
As for kids and delusional fools alike.

Frank would not be leaving the light on or the welcome mat out.

There were no vacancies in hell tonight.

John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and The Black Shamrock Magazine.

And author of The Still Night Sessions from Whiskey City Press.

His work has been published here at the Dope Fiend Daily as well as  Fearless Poetry Zine, Lothorian Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Piker Press, Medusa's Kitchen, San Antonio Review,  San Pedro River Review. 

His work is always unfiltered.