The Conductor By Jonathan Butcher

Each page of that good book
is kept pristine, misquoted only
at the most opportune times.
He keeps each shirt starched,
in perfect rows like polished armour.

And when questioned, he only ever
acknowledges their backs, as he dresses
up division with second hand logic.
his words falling like torn confetti,
that scrapes the ground like his witherd
reputation.

His voice drenches out others in sewage
filled waves, his false respect for opponents
slowly resurfaces. Given a yard he could
vomit a mile, given an enema, he could reside
in a match box.


About Jonathan Butcher: 

Jonathan Butcher is a poet based in Sheffield, England. He has had work
appear in various print and online publications including: Popshot, Sick-Lit,
The Transnational, The Morning Star, Plastic Futures, Picaroon Poetry, Amaryllis
and others. His second chapbook 'Broken Slates' has been published by 
Flutter Press

Inside The Crack House With Todd Cirillo

Question 1:
How would you describe your time as a Calvin Klein Model?

Answer:
It was fantastic, I always got to cut to the front of the line but could never eat the appetizers.

Question 2:
Would you have sex with yourself in the mirror and can I watch?

Answer:
I require a funhouse mirror. Makes my hands look bigger. It will cost you 5 tickets and you would have to meet the height requirement.

Question 3:
As a trucker have you ever rubbed your body naked on your rig a few times?

Answer:
Have you never seen Smokey and the Bandit fuckface? It's a classic. Any true trucker knows all you need is weed, whites and wine...Little Feat told us that. Trucker motto: gas, grass or ass...no one rubs for free.

Question 4:
What are your thoughts on Peanuts in the Indonesian economy?

Answer: 
What does Charlie Brown have to do with Indonesia? The poor dude can never catch a break..whomp whomp.

Question 5:
Is it wrong to bring a Mariachi band to a funeral?

Answer:
Not if there's fireworks and a two for one deal on the donkey show.

Question 6:
Are you more into Dona Summer or ABBA man? If so what is your favorite ABBA Jam to make sweet love to in the backwoods of New York city?

Answer:
I'm more of a Chaka Khan fan.

Question 7:
What secret to your beautiful hands? Do you put lotion on the skin ?

Answer: 
My hands have provided me with a true gift of the gods. The Lords of Karma smiled upon my well crafted and versatile hands. I have been told by those in the know that they are both exceptionally gorgeous yet functional. Sometimes it is a curse because when I reach for the check or to pull a string on a ceiling fan the room stops and loses its collective breath. I just want the world to know that I didn't ask for this but am grateful I don't have the wretched corn husks of commoners. The secret is, if you can't have jazz hands, then have humble hands.

Question 8:
If squirrel had 4 nuts and another squirrel stole 2 nuts and a snake stole 1 nut how many nuts would that squirrel have left? Would it be different if he is married?

Answer: 
I don't do math.

Question 9:
John Patrick Robbins would like to know who is the most sexy Muppet? And if you get a blowjob from miss Piggy is it technically a hand job?

Answer:
Janis from Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. As to your second attempt at a question...technically it would be a ham job.

Question 10:
Why are you so distant from me after that divorce I had in my dreams? Am I just not pretty for you anymore asshole?

Answer:
You were never what they describe as "pretty", I have heard you described as breadlike, rotting pumpkin face, forgetful, rashy, the embodiment of disappointment, shifty and kind eyes.

Question 11:
Sir John would also like to know if you were a roller derby girl what would your name be?

Answer: 
Funny you should ask, I was actually spotlight dance champion of Skateland, Pasadena, 1978. It is rare to find such a flawless yet bulldozer on wheels. My roller derby names are Daisy Dukes-up, T-wrecks.

Question 12:
Is it true that you are actually a werewolf that is trying to steal my job?

Answer:
I actually wrote this poem about my werewolf inclinations recently:
http://thedopefienddaily.blogspot.com/2018/09/werewolves-of-new-orleans-by-todd.html

Question 13:
Boxers or lamb skin loincloths? Can you send me any (unwashed preferably)?

Answer:
Boxers...they compliment my extraordinary hands.

Question 14:
What is the secret to cheating at a dick measuring contest?

Answer:
The secret to cheating at a dick measuring contest is to make sure the other contestants are eunuchs.

Question 15:
Would you want to go to the  drive in movies with me Saturday I have extra room in the trunk?

Answer:
I only act out movies...never watch them from a trunk.

Bonus Question: 
Can you explain in 5 words or less what you think of freshly drying paint?

Answer:
Don't mock me, paint.

Farewell By Wayne Russell

Hands friction, melting intrusive block of ice, heart encased,
no morning thaw.

Ocean's carnal wave envelop me, undertow pulling me down,
undertaker in-balms carcass.

Goodbye to love and all that, farewell to that elusive dream.
Raven in stealth mode, intermingled fantasy, darkness betrothed
down by the tracks.

I left her as I found her, alone, the golden-eyed and angst-ridden
woman, with highlights in her hair.

Depart now, into my past woman of my dreams, so elusive, I
shall remember you and our time, so limited.

About Wayne Russell: 

Wayne Russell is a creative writer that was born and raised in Tampa, Florida.
Wayne is the founder and former editor and chief of Degenerate Literature.
Sadly, due to unforeseen circumstances and time restraints DL closed in late 2017.

Wayne's poetry, short stories, and photography, have been widely published both 
online and in print.  

Pine Scent & Marijuana By Victor Clevenger

our ’97 life in a rear-view
day skies were green
night skies
were hot-kaleidoscope-orgasms

we said together we’d love forever
because a day without loving 
would be a day of certain misery
that we would never choose to wake to

I’ve lived twenty-years of days since then
all ones we said we’d never choose

& I have no idea
if they are miserable for you 
I only know that there are still dark mornings
when I can feel a warm vibration
of you whispering words
into my ear

I wake quickly
alone     & imagine

our aged bodies
dangling like slivers of driftwood
from two beaded nooses
in this dreamcatcher
above my headboard

 

About Victor Clevenger:

When not traveling highways across America, Victor Clevenger spends his days in a Madhouse and his nights writing poetry.  Selected pieces of his work have appeared in print magazines and journals around the world, as well as at a variety of places online.  In 2017, Victor was nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, as well as a Pushcart Prize.  His most recent published collections of poetry include A Finger in the Hornets’ Nest (Red Flag Poetry, 2018) and On The Tip Of Our Tongues (Analog Submission Press, 2018)

 

Worm Shit By Scott Emerson

The cavity where your heart once lied
now cradles a colony of maggots
boiling in frenzied feast

finally giving your life
purpose

About Scott Emerson: 

Scott Emerson has recently appeared in Year's Best Hardcore Horror Vol. 1, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Stranger to Blue Water: A West Virginia Poetry Anthology, and the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights' Horror Hill podcast. From 2010-2016 he served as facilitator for Morgantown Poets, a not-for-profit organization that hosted free literary events in Morgantown WV. 

Pay Phones And Quarters By Kevin Martin

I

still

remember

pay

phones 

and 

quarters 

meeting 

drug dealers 

on 

corners

I

shiver 

and 

shake

violently

in my 

past 

life 

sweating 

profusely

I

remember 

that last quarter 

cost me a dollar

almost cost me everything 

that I had left when the 

county sheriff pulled in

and stopped

touch tones in left ear 

now dial tones that match

the rythym of my heart

ringing and ringing

I

know he is still there i can smell

him from afar as the radio of 

enforced freedom cackles in

his ear breaks like a wave in mine

my connect answers the phone 

which startles me and almost

dropped the receiver the 

phones cord makes bending 

metallic sounds that can be 

heard on the other end

that can be heard in Heaven

I

tell my man

that I need to talk

a minute

he said why are you calling 

from a payphone?

told him a lie 

that my ol lady was being a bitch

smashed my cell phone

wasn't ready to leave quite yet

placed my order which was accepted

half an elbow of blow

a little elephants ear is 

what it reminded me of

could see it behind my 

eyelids

silence on the other end

he hung up on me as I'm 

waiting and waiting for 

Davidson County's finest 

mother fucker to drive away

I

drop a quarter in and call my 

brother who even though at two

in the morning I've woken him up

talks to me and understands 

my situation as I lean forward 

to adjust the Glock 21 45acp

safety to vengeance as there is 

always one in the chamber as 

my voyouer of Justice has had

enough of my laughter and gravel 

pops as he pulls away empty blue 

lights disappear and i tell my brother

goodnight hang up and pull out my 

cell phone to let my dude know that

I'm on my way and I'll meet him at the

spot in thirty minutes.

About Kevin Martin: 

Kevin Martin resides in North Carolina and is a regular contributing poet to The Arrival Magazine, Winston Salem, N.C.

Werewolves of New Orleans By Todd Cirillo

“I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada

at Trader Vic’s, his hair was perfect.” —Warren Zevon



In the last ten minutes

before my birthday begins

I sit in my room,

silent.

No music, no booze,

no guests.

Just me

listening

to the air conditioner

hum.

I feel like Warren Zevon

at the end of the world.

There is no special meaning

to it.

I don’t feel older.

I don’t feel wiser.

I don’t feel tired.



Soon,

my phone will light up

with messaged wishes

and I will make every one count

with friends

and bartenders.

Knocking back

each year

with another bottle,

but for now,

at this moment

with four minutes left,

I understand why Warren

wrote Werewolves of London.



At exactly midnight,

I’ll go outside,

howl at the waxing moon,

let the new neighbors know

they’ve got something real special

on their hands,

walk up to the all-night bar

on the corner,

order a Pina Colada

and my hair

will be perfect.



About Todd Cirillo: 
Todd Cirillo is a poet, publisher, editor and pirate. He co-founded Six Ft. Swells Press and has had multiple books published including his latest, Burning the Evidence (Epic Rites Press, 2017). Todd's poems have appeared in various national and international magazines and cocktail napkins everywhere. Todd lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. He can be found at afterhourspoetry.com and toddcirillo.com