Yip by Marc Darnell

Free your mind, your ass will follow.

Crawl out from under your rock

before your life goes out the window

because you were too scared to swallow

the big hard pill that life is suck;

then you make a path to follow.

Don't yip of yesterday tomorrow

and go on as a suckling speck,

or else your life goes out the window--

whatever life you had or borrowed,

making other people sick

from all the pointless rules you follow.

You're a straight and narrow fellow.

Widen up, and what the fuck

before your life goes out the window.

Don't be a puppy barking sorrow,

leashed within the fraidy-flock.

Free your mind, your ass will follow,

or chase the chew toy out the window.

Marc Darnell is an online tutor and custodian in Omaha NE, and has also been a phlebotomist, hotel supervisor, busboy, editorial assistant, farmhand, devout recluse, and incurable brooder.  He received his MFA from the University of Iowa, and has published poems in The Lyric, Rue Scribe, Verse, Skidrow Penthouse, Shot Glass Journal, The HyperTexts, Candelabrum, The Road Not Taken, Aries, Ship of Fools, Open Minds Quarterly, The Fib Review, Verse-Virtual, Blue Unicorn, Ragazine, The Literary Nest, The Pangolin Review, and elsewhere.

At the Dog Park by Michael Ceraolo

It’s maybe a mile or so

east of the mouth of the creek,

                                             and,

though not yet recognized as such

by the local municipal authority,

the property owners (the local hospice)

have acknowledged reality and posted signs

about keeping your dog on a leash

(there are fences on three sides,

the fourth side is the lake

                                        Interestingly,

the property on the outside of the fence,

though having the same owner,

has signs posted prohibiting dog walking)

It is one of the last days of winter,

                                                  yet

the temperature is twenty degrees above normal,

though the lake remains shrouded in fog

even in the late morning

None of the deciduous trees have bloomed yet;

on the ground are last year’s

oak and maple leaves and sweetgum balls

in various states of decay

The concrete drive is badly cracked,

                                                     leading

to a garage-like building

with four bays in front:

three of the bay doors slide up and down

while the fourth has been removed for repairs

There are three bays in the rear of the building

that each have a two-door covering

where the doors open out,

                                       and

there are similar covering on the windows

There is a residential structure

next to the garage, left over

from when the property was a religious retreat;

the basement and first-floor windows

and most of the second-floor windows

have been replaced with wood

There is a winding asphalt walkway,

covered with moss in many places,

and periodically interspersed

with half-circles of brick

There is an asphalt lot

on the east end of the property,

                                              probably

a parking lot at one time,

                                    though

now the front gate is kept locked

to keep out vehicle traffic,

                                       and

two large piles of wood chips

sit near the lot’s center

Last weekend the baseball team

from the Catholic high school next door

was practicing on the asphalt

and adjacent grass,

                              with

the weather much less hospitable

There is another paved path

that starts and ends with no

particular rhyme or reason;

perhaps a remnant from when

a sanitarium occupied the property

I try to pick a time

when no one else is here,

                                      or

at least when certain others

are not here,

                   because

their dogs are too aggressive,

even violent,

to be let off the leash

Michael Ceraolo is a 64-year-old retired firefighter/paramedic and active poet who has had two full-length books (Euclid Creek, from Deep Cleveland Press; 500 Cleveland Haiku, from Writing Knights Press) published, and has two more in the publication pipeline.

JACKASS by S.F. Wright

Don’t draw

Attention

To yourself;

At least

Pretend like

You’re doing work—

And I won’t

Bother you.

None of us

Wants to be here;

Let’s just

Make it bearable.

But

There’s always

One.

As I was

Lecturing to

20 mostly

Catatonic

Teenagers, 

Vaguely

Appreciatory of

The few who

At least feigned

To pay attention—

What do I hear?

A video playing

On someone’s phone—

This person 

Not even using

Earphones,

But playing

The video’s audio

Through the phone’s

Speakers,

No doubt thinking

That because

He was in

The back,

I wouldn’t

Hear.

Granted,

Earphones

Are prohibited,

But this kid

Was in the corner;

He could’ve 

Put on his right

Earphone,

Which I would

Have pretended

Not to have seen.

All of his classmates

Have figured this out;

Why couldn’t he?

I paused,

Stared at the back row,

Said,

What am I hearing?

No answer.

I waited another

Beat,

The video

Still playing faintly,

And then I said that

If I didn’t hear

Whosever phone that was

Turned off right now,

Everyone would have

To move

Their seats

To the front

(I let them

Sit in the back:

That way,

They are

Far from me,

I am far

From them).

A second later,

The video

Turned off.

My annoyance

Subsided,

I went back to 

Affecting to lecture,

Most of

My students returned

To staring

Into oblivion,

The courteous few

Resumed

Pretending

To pay attention.

S.F. Wright lives and teaches in New Jersey. His work has appeared in Hobart, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and Elm Leaves Journal, among other places. His short story collection, The English Teacher, is forthcoming from Cerasus Poetry, and his website is sfwrightwriter.com.

Backbone by Ian Lewis Copestick

I've

finally

discovered

some

backbone.

Some

spirit.

My

give a

shit machine

is

broken.

And

thank

fuck for

that.

I can feel

my strength

returning.

I'm sick

of self pity,

now I'm

getting

angry.

If the world

spits in my face,

and

pisses on

my shoes,

do I give up ?

Fuck no!

I come out

swinging.

I may get

battered, but

at least I've

gone down

fighting.

It's better to

die on your feet

than live on

your knees. 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 49 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash

Evolve Past The Pain by Jesse Rucilez

Life is so fragile, 

And frayed at the seam,

For childhood is naught, 

But nightmare and dream,

For every smile there’s a tear,

For every laugh there’s a scream,

And we strive for contentment,

In the spaces between,

Desperate for order,

In the chaos supreme.

Youth is both starburst,

And dark whirlwind,

That hardens and molds us,

Into women and men,

Then comes maturity,

And molds us again,

Into cynics and skeptics,

Who seek to pretend,

That our heights and our depths,

Are a means to an end.

Together, we’re alone,

On this treacherous plane,

In the void of this universe,

In this world gone insane,

We live and we die,

And evolve past the pain,

An eternal conundrum,

Which none can explain,

We struggle and triumph,

In the end, all in vain.

 

Jesse Rucilez was born in Reno, Nevada. Growing up, Jesse was an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes stories and Marvel Comics. Throughout his life, Jesse has mainly worked in the security industry, both in Seattle, Washington and Reno, Nevada, and taught self-defense for several years before deciding to focus on writing. Inspired by authors such as Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Kurt Vonnegut, he prefers to write literary horror and science fiction, exploring what he calls “the dark side of the American Dream.”

All of Jesse's work can be found on Amazon.com @ https://www.amazon.com/Jesse-Lynn-Rucilez/e/B00WDEAWTA/?fbclid=IwAR19CJ_iGEZI4pCEB1v3kpza4PI6ZmkQz04_Xrp2VbtPnby6YUvsYF2L6JE

Follow Jesse @ Jesse Rucilez (jlrucilez.blogspot.com)

The Last Time by Daniel S. Irwin

The last time I really gave a shit
Was like all the other times
That I really gave a shit,
The shit ended up on me.
Nothin’ complex, just a fact of life.
Assholes and heartless bitches
Seem to way outnumber the
Righteous and good ones.
If that was the Godly plan,
It was a sorry ass piss poor plan
Put together by some moron.

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.  

Skin Suit Situation by Murders Row

Tanned to perfection and torn from another.
We dress to impress and some to enhance this masquerade.

Red wine in crystal glass as you are in agony upon the precipice of this plane’s escape.

So restricting our forms as the tattoo reminds of borrowed suit’s owner.
We can disembowel another and eternally dissect ourselves.

Did she know enough pain in the deceit?
Burn of blade, emptiness of deaths promise.

A slumber’s intrusion, a lock’s hope, and barred windows lie.
Painted truths cast from your life's very essence.

How is it to die for another's art? 
My sweetest canvas of near unrecognizable flesh.

I will wear you well.

https://www.amazon.com/Snuff-Poems-Murders-Row/dp/B09RM8WPB9/ref=sr_1_5?crid=3VYWN1ZO31YS4&keywords=snuff+poems&qid=1654628101&sprefix=snuff+poems%2Caps%2C80&sr=8-5

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.

Hear Me Out by Kevin R. Farrell

The first thing you should do is believe me...

Bedroom war stories

wiretapped lullabies

backyard glances

front porch longing

branches stretch like morning arms

as shadows yawn across a black cats path

while the sun no longer warms

only brightens these winter days

the moon howls on the horizon

waves ripple like a tv on the fritz

blinking flatlined dead ends back to life

gravel heeled

screeching halts

the skinny of it

artists starve themselves

the haves convinced they have not

haikus but not

prose but not

poetry but not

truth but not

oh what it feels like to be alive

but not

faith in symbols

proper burials

lacking humanity

relationships are recyclable

to let go of triggers by holstering words

damned if you do

don’t if you’re damned

the death of a generation

meet the generation of death

spill your drink

spill your guts

chaos is inviting

order is passé

catacomb depth wishes

broken vows of silence

the crucifix is in

crosshairs of crisis

prayerful hands empty

palms up

time’s up

breathe in emptiness

breathe out nothingness

this is everything

still not enough

gluttons for monotony

root causes stuck in the weeds

mind full not mindful

life is deadly

in death we never die

...the last thing you should do is doubt me.

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.

Eyes Closed by John Drudge

I looked down

At the scars

That were left

And was afraid of them

Afraid of my own skin

And the sight 

Of sorrow

Scratched across

Every step

Of every other 

Tomorrow

Falling in love

Once again

With our eyes 

Closed

Like two birds 

In a new cage 

John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology.  He is the author of four books of poetry: “March” (2019), “The Seasons of Us” (2019), New Days (2020), and Fragments (2021). His work has appeared widely in numerous literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children.