My Pillow by Mónika Tóth

Lying in bed
My pillow is cold
I whisper silently
I love you

Romanian

I am interested in culture and fond of reading, painting, philosophy and photography. I like Romanian,Turkish , Russian, South-American and Norwegian literature.I am passionate the poetry. I write because it helps me sort my impressions and balance my inner and outer realities.

My poetry has appeared in Romanian literary magazines such as Boema, Oglinda Literara. I published in the Hungarian literary magazines Helikon and Napsziget. My new book of poetry is published with “Your absence makes me thin”. hungarian language (Soványít hiányod) title. It contains love poems, self-poems and poems about death in memory of my mother and grandmother

Winter's Web by Kevin M. Hibshman

These weird evenings are so deep and murky.

Car exhaust on a window pane.

I etch my name.

Caution, contempt, God, I am so bored and lonely.

Given to beer, cigarettes and pornography.

Drunk in the dark to the clatter of small change.

You smell smoke, throw the windows open at the last possible moment.

I'm just not well and I crave shrouding.

The water is cloudy and my face aches now in the cold.

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). His latest book "Just Another Small town story" (Whiskey City Press) can be found at Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B098FSD96W#detailBullets_feature_div

No Offense, I’m Dead to Me by Kevin R. Farrell

Sold my soul cause I ain’t have one,

neither do you,

so sell it for all it’s worth,

nothing,

price tag/toe tag,

I don’t have a lot of time,

not for any other reason than I am the father of a newborn,

I’m writing this in the dark,

my daughter was born yet I still believe there is no beginning or an ending to life,

figure that out,

I’ve seen bodies die,

I’ve watched them be prayed over,

nothing and no one,

this shell is not who we are,

our energy survives,

don’t you feel that,

doesn’t your spine crawl,

your ears ring,

spotting orbs in photographs,

that energy has always been and always will be,

both before and after you realize that this life is unfit for those who rationalize

living.

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.

AFTER THE GREEKS by Joel Dailey

Life is short
Art long
Opportunity fleeting
Chance dangerous
Judgement difficult
Lunch ready

Joel Dailey is the former editor/publisher of FELL SWOOP.

Gothic prince by Matthew Bowers

Gothic prince, 
pennyless soul,
aways so awkward, 
Inner pain always showed
An orphan to life
In youth poems he'd recite
A musical genius,
Entertaining the night
From America, to England
Friendless, alone
These were but the best times
A wildernss abode
He devoured classic lore
Inspired weird wonderful works
Drawn from within
The pain and the hurt
"I was surrounded by animals
Nurtured by pets 
So happy feeding them 
Feel my caress"
And she entered the room 
Mrs. H--S--
He fell Almost unconscious
She was So sweet and gracious
"She made a desolate world beautiful"
Filled his lonely heart with joy
A friend's mother, now confidant
Him blushing and coy

*(matthew bowers)*~93 is a Californian Angelino that recently had his first original concept poems published in Something Witchy This Way comes, published by Dead Man's Press Ink. He was recently featured in The National Beat Poetry Society' Internation Festival. He works in many mediums as well as platforms. "Each day is a new adventure and with it, new inspiration for more writing. " 

Candy by Wayne F. Burke

A fat girl standing in the
doorway of WALLREEN'S
"can you buy me something?
I have not eaten all day."
She follows me inside
tells me her name, "Jen."
"What's yours?"
"Wayne."
"Duane?"
"Yeah, Duane."
In the candy aisle she plucks a bag of
peanut butter M&M's off a shelf, on
sale 2 FOR 8 DOLLARS.
"Can I have two?"
"Sure."
She scoots down the aisle
and around the corner.
Returns with a pint of
ice cream. On our way to
check-out I notice she has three bags
candy and I tell her
put one back.
At check-out she has something
to say to everyone:
asks a woman why she, the 
woman, is buying so many
diapers. Compliments another
on her attire. At the register
she introduces me to the
cashier: "This is Duane, he
is helping me. I have not eaten
all day." The cashier has polished
and buffed nails; she and Jen
have a lot to say to one
another about fingernails.
Finally, I get to pay.
Outside the store she calls
"thank you" and
I grunt in response, not
begrudging her the food, but
hoping she does not make
a habit of asking.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published online and in print (including in the DOPE FIEND DAILY). He is the author of 8 published full-length poetry collections, most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Croutonville,Vermont.

Homecoming by Catherine Meara

              Fled to California stood in the waves salt scrubbed me shiny drugs gone booze gone start weak end strong got what I needed must get back to my family to him to her first one on the plane first one off how to explain will she understand…
 
            Flew above the plane the wind up there made me think I was going faster landing taxiing hit my head on the ceiling where the suitcases live flew down the ramp two flying leaps I burst into the waiting area where are they where are they…
 
            He holds her facing out she sees me immediately eyes marching in time with my gait she is in a trance from him I take all six months of her heavy and warm folding my arms around her eyes don’t blink I start to cry but stop myself she and he have seen enough tears of mine the past tries to intermingles with the now no more past only the present moment and how I will use it…
 
            She puts her forehead against mine as we stare together from our endless brown eyes a Vulcan mind meld I am careful with her when the escalator appears hold her a little tighter nothing will happen I will protect her safe within my arms we bond for the first time all the way to baggage claim out to the parking lot he askes for a hug why am I reluctant I waited months for this I am afraid of losing him but I haven’t so far after everything warmth spreads through me I know we will heal…
 
            I put a tired baby to bed she smiles reaching up to me for one more hug a tear busts loose and slides down my nose I wipe it away and go downstairs sitting down to talk with him the wall of my passed behavior hangs around like a bad smell don’t think just listen and he talks and talks and talks…
 
            I am a stranger he and she knows I am not who I was I look the same my voice movement all the same the person who’s been standing to the side of the stage behind the curtain emerges I am she not her my daughter knows this he will be harder to convince I know what’s inside I live here seeing the hope in his eyes the guarded love I will not hurt them again never again…
 

Older than most, but the beat rages on. Been published many times, though in all these years I've only made $50. Poems, stories (F NF) and a book later. I'm still here. I'd love to get my book off the ground though. As if.

 

 

Life On A Teacher’s Salary by Jake St. John

I 
At the supermarket 
mid morning 
shopping 
on a wallet 
that's as 
empty 
as my 
Stomach 

II 
Knock knock 
knocking on 
Heavens door 
the sound track 
of the liquor store 
as I walk 
down the aisle 
grabbing my poison 

Jake St. John spends his nights in a cabin on the edge of the woods. He is the author of several collections of poetry including Night Full of Diamonds (Whiskey City Press, 2021), Snow Moon (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, 2019) and Lost City Highway (A Jabber Publication, 2019). His poems have appeared in print and online journals around the world. 

Kentucky Blue by John Patrick Robbins

I know you didn't linger for yourself as any pain is a burden no matter the vessel it's bestowed upon.

I'm never the easy one to love and we were a pair of mutts all would overlook besides one another.

Drinks and memories the red promise that glimmers upon a sunset's farewell.
Goodbye my friend, forever may you run free.

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

His work has appeared here at the 

Dope Fiend Daily , Piker Press , Horror Sleaze Trash, Medusa's Kitchen, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine and Fixator Press.

His work is always unfiltered.

big cans by Ben Newell

I haven’t had

a proper lady friend

in 3 years.

My last one, well, I broke it off

over the phone,

chose beer and solitude over her.

A decision I often regret

when drunk

and sucking on these 16 oz. tallboys—

Sucking on them

and

thinking about those

beautiful tits.

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. 

Some Exquisite Lingerie by PW Covington

I’d come over

And take a seat on the sofa

With your husband

You’d sit across the room

In that leather, high-back, chair

And pack a bowl

You’d tell me to pull out

My already swelling cock

Then tell him to get down

On the floor before me

Then, after

After he came back

From brushing his teeth

He’d hand me his AmEx

And say that he’d have brunch ready

When we returned, the next day

It only lasted a year or so

But you ended up with

Some exquisite lingerie

   PW Covington writes in the Beat tradition of the North American highway. He's riding things out, in a hidden adobe, somewhere just off Historic Route 66, in Northern New Mexico. Follow him on Insta @BeatPW.

CATALINA, WHERE THE METH GROWS WILD by Robert Beveridge

The rain rolls down your face
and onto your tongue, and that’s
when you realize it’s got that
slight bitterness that comes
from a cloud of residue. Not
like you were going to get
much done anyway since
the cops closed the old quarry
down before they chased off
those two chumps who’s
been there for, like, ever. You
stop in the woods to have
a smoke where no one can
see you, then it’s back 
on the road to the nearest
convenience store with quarter
packs of baseball cards.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in El Portal, Blood Moon Rising, and PTMN.TEAU, among others.

haiku for the dead drunk by Tohm Bakelas

jaw muscles tense and 
fingers fan across the bottle neck— 
it’s over. 

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 12 chapbooks. He runs Between Shadows Press. 

Atheism by Elliot Foree

I’m an atheist,

But I don’t hate faith.

When I found you

on your knees

for a God you cannot see,

I admired it.

Admired your commitment.

Your drive.

Your passion.

I was born into faith,

but I am an atheist.

Years spent

with my head bowed

at the foot of His throne.

Years spent

judging my neighbors,

drowning my personality in verse.

But when I needed Him,

when the sky opened up,

and He was no where to be seen,

I did not understand.

Because what was the pain,

the hate,

if God is gone?

So I unlearned the hate.

I pushed past the hypocrisy,

I set aside my shame.

I reprogramed my mind,

my spirit,

my body.

I replaced my hate,

the one we’d named love,

with compassion.

Who I love

does not damn me.

My lack of pigmentation

does not put me above.

What’s in my pants

does not decide my role.

Choose acceptance,

because tolerance

is no longer an option.

Native of Houston, Texas, Elliot Foree is an aspiring novelist publishing poems and short stories on the side. A fan of romance and cynical humor, they hope to pave their own way in the world.

Playing with Baby Jesus by Daniel S. Irwin

Soon after my entry
Into Heaven, I noticed
No one was willing
To play with Baby Jesus.
That was strange but,
Asking around, both
Moses and Buddha said
In any games with him,
Ya gotta be careful as
That son-of-a-virgin
Cheats like the Devil.

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.  

 

You Looked Pretty In The Cemetery by Murders Row

So cold and peaceful where  you were placed for all the witnesses to grieve.

But those same eyes could not fathom your encore that very same night.

You danced lifeless within my arms as you had denied our love in your mortal life's existence. 

As your eyes once reflected terror and now lifeless, they are a mirror to only me.

You looked so pretty I couldn't bear the thought of you being alone.

So I decided to unearth you for one last soiree into the macabre.

The grave digger's burden and the morgue's masterpiece.

Is often unappreciated by most and seldom wasted upon the demons such as I.

Cold are the desires of the wicked; you are never truly alone when in the shadows' view.

Murders Row are a group of artists who choose to remain anonymous. 

Their art is dark as so often is life.

 That is all that needs to be said.

CHOKE THE CHICKEN ( or AUTO-EROTIC ASPHYXIATION GONE HORRIBLY WRONG) by George Schaefer

They found him
in a room in Thailand—
pants down, belt around neck
big smile on his face.
 
The prostitute in the room
sobbing and swearing
it was an accident.
Auto erotic asphyxiation
gone horribly wrong.
 
And then there are suicidal tendencies
and people hanging themselves.
 
But families lose the Ka-ching
if it’s suicide
so now we have lawsuits
claiming deceased loved ones
were really just perverts—
 
No intent to die
Just intent to cum
Auto erotic asphyxiation 
gone horribly wrong
 
But maybe we’re taking
our idioms and adages too far.
Maybe we need 
to drop “choke the chicken”
and bring back “spank the monkey”
 
There will still be
a lot of redness and swelling
but at least you’ll live
to recount your shame.

George Schaefer is a Philly born poet.  He grew up in the 80s heavily influenced by hippies and beatniks.  He began writing at age 15 and has continued the poetic journey for 4 decades.  He has been published by Alien Buddha Press and Moonstone Press.  Numerous self-published chapbooks are available when he's inclined to print them up in his apartment.

 

GETTING SERIOUS by Kenneth Pobo

The day begins, a fly 
on a window.  I’m a cloud 
and I must keep moving.  

Until I dissipate.  The spiritual weather 
channel expects that to happen soon.  
I have a date with the weekend.  

We’re getting serious.
Monday hides behind the shed, 
will call the cops on us.

Kenneth Pobo is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections.  Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), and Uneven Steven (Assure Press). Opening is forthcoming from Rectos Y Versos Editions. Lavender Fire, Lavender Rose is forthcoming from Brick/House Books.