The True Eyes Of Patrone by John Patrick Robbins

It always came down to us old friend.

The devil hitchhikes from the gates where the meek crawl from out the muck of the mediocre.

Snakes don't bother me as much as vermin.

Shit and regrets stink up the nonexistent soul.

I taste hatred far easier than compassion.

In love as in sex my hands clasped around your throat to to taste the edge between bliss and total demise.

I am the darkness you deny and yearn to truly embrace.

To be real let's impersonate the victim you never were.

Hey asshole! Let's ring up the fakest person in the room.

Collect calls from the outskirts of truth.

A razor only cuts for that is its sole purpose to destroy.

Do you accept the charges?

Your silence speaks wonders.

Never toil in the affairs of men or killers such as I.

To stand alone beats swimming in a sea of mock praise and self told lies.

A maggot takes flight as well as a crow.

I rather die than ever be compared.

You see only in the colors of envy.

And the truth is I never saw you at all.

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

He is also the author of Death Rattle & Roll.

His work has been published here at the Dope Fiend Daily, Punk Noir Magazine, Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal,  Fixator Press, Schlock Magazine and The San Pedro River Review. 

Best Tacos in Town by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal

I took a drive

to the best tacos 

in town. Hope it

is much better

than the coldest

beer in town. The

advertising take

such liberties 

that no one knows

what to believe.

I once was told

by an ex-flame

she was the best

love I could ever

get. Based on

experience she

had to be lying 

unless her best

love was for another

fool. I am hoping

the tacos are the

best I ever had 

because I cannot

take anymore 

disappointment 

in my life.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in Southern California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry online and in print has appeared in Ariel Chart, Blue Collar

Review, Kendra Steiner Editions, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories, and Yellow Mama Magazine

Frogs by Michael Lee Johnson

"Grow grass,

stone frogs,"

written on bathroom walls.

Hippie beads, oodles

colorful acid pills

in dresser draws,

no clothes,

kaleidoscope condoms, 

ostentatious sex.

No Bibles or Sundays

that anyone remembers.

Rochdale College,

Toronto, Ontario 1972,

freedom school, free education.

Makes no sense,

when you're high on a song

"American Women" blasting 

eardrums and police sirens come on.

(Note: Rochdale College was patterned after Summerhill School-Democratic "freedom school" in England founded in 1921 by Alexander Sutherland Neill with the belief that the school should be made to fit the child, rather than the other way around.)

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada, Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL.  He has 248 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for 4 Pushcart Prize awards and 5 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/. Do not forget to consider me for Best of the Net or Pushcart nomination!

Death Comes to Market Street by Daniel S. Irwin

What the Hell?  Oh, Death, great.
What a relief.  For a moment,
I thought you were one of those
Annoying Goth-types in a black robe.
Well, what is it?  You know, I’m busy.
Fact is, I really don’t have time for this.
Don’t you dare raise your scythe to me.
Don’t you know who I am?  Oh, you do.
Look, let’s be reasonable.  Why don’t you
Just come back next Thursday or Friday,
In forty or fifty years.  Or not at all.
Bloody Hell, you’ve got a cold touch.
Let go of my hand.  Ha, ha, ha.
Are those fingers or chicken bones?
Sorry, a little sarcasm there.  Really
It was more facetious than sarcastic.
You know that I have a lot to do.
Agreed, so have you.  We’re both busy.
I’m just asking for a little more time.
Go tend a war, a famine, or something.
If you want something to do right now,
May I suggest my asshole of a neighbor.
No one can stand him, he’s really a jerk.
He hot rods up and down the street.
He’s always running the stop signs.
Couldn’t he kiss a tree or something?
Go make a quick visit to the hospital.
Oh, you were just there.  Any takers?
This thing is just out of the question.
I haven’t had a life-ending accident.
I don’t have any physical maladies.
In fact, I’m a specimen of prefect health.
Besides, I’m just finishing eating.
Care to join me?  Excellent cuisine.
These are really the tastiest mushrooms
I’ve ever come across in the woods.  Yum.

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.  

The wounded city by DS Maolalai

the wounded wind, the wounded air

which howls around the branches

like a flute section of orchestra 

between buildings. outside 

flowers splatter, knocked down

by heavy raindrops, bright 

like wet blood spots 

sticking wetly

on cement. trams groan

unpleasant sounds 

as if somebody's shot 

a rhinoceros. blunder 

and move forward

through crashing growth

and bitter blackberry leaves.

bottles drop, abandoned 

prams fall over. car windows 

rot on pavements

into tiny 

shining squares.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016) and "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019)

Prizefighter by Gwil James Thomas

Sat at the ringside, with my little brother 

we’d watched an old friend 

take punch after punch in the ring. 

It was hard not to think back 

to our friend in school –

he’d been short, smiley and content,

an easy target for any bully 

hoping to pass on their suffering. 

And yet slowly but surely, 

our friend then began dodging 

his opponents punches – 

tiring him out, before he’d delivered 

the perfect uppercut to his opponent – 

knocking him out, as he’d tumbled down 

and I’d waited for small cartoon stars 

to circle his opponent’s head, 

as our friend smiled to a speechless crowd – 

winning his first professional match. 

I think of that tonight, as end times feel near, 

or at least overdue, in this world full 

of plagues, lost souls, and crazed dictators – 

reminding myself that there is still hope, 

even when the world has you on the ropes.

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in his hometown of Bristol, England, but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. He has twice been nominated for Best of The Net and once for The Pushcart Prize. His ninth chapbook of poetry, Gold Chains Around our Necks, Hellhounds at our Heels will be published by Holy & Intoxicated publications in 2022. 

endless rain by Lori A Minor

endless rain. . .

another drunk call

to suicide hotline

Lori A Minor (she/they) is a queer, neurodivergent, poet and activist. Recipient of more than 15 haikai awards, they are proud to be included in A New Resonance 12 and to have given presentations at Haiku North America (2019, 2021). Lori’s sixth book, Hot Girl Haiku, is now available.