Desert Dare by Leah Mueller

“I bet you could smuggle heroin
 across the border.”
                                                 
                                                  He lay across from me on the mattress
                                                  and smirked, because he already knew
                                                  what my answer would be.

“Just stick it in your vagina.
If the customs guard questions you,
smile and look like a suburban mom.
They’ll never suspect anything.”

                                                 He’d smuggled heroin himself,
                                                 in a different orifice, back in the 1970s,
                                                 before numerous stints in jail and rehab.

“Everyone should try heroin before they die.
It’s good for writing poetry
and besides, you’ll lose weight.”

                                                He knew people on the other side.
                                                They were always holding.
                                                If I wanted, we could leave right away.
                                               We only needed to drive for twenty minutes
                                                to get to the Arizona/Mexico border.

“Maybe some other time,” I said.

                                                 I’d lived forty years without intravenous drug use,
                                                 and had no desire to start that evening.
                                                 I just wanted to have wild sex
                                                 and go to sleep, like a normal couple.

 “Shit,” he complained.
“You’re so middle-class.”

About Leah Mueller:

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of two chapbooks and four books. Her next book, "Misguided Behavior, Tales of Poor Life Choices" will be published by Czykmate Press in Autumn, 2019. Leah’s work appears or is forthcoming in Blunderbuss, The Spectacle, Outlook Springs, Mojave River Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, Barnhouse, and other publications. She was a featured poet at the 2015 New York Poetry Festival, and a runner-up in the 2012 Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest.

Killing Without Kindness by Rathnar Kilbane

I was drinking ale from my mighty Cyclops horn reflecting upon future battles and what lucky wench I would conquer later to show her the spoils of war.

And allow her choke up my mighty broadsword.
I farted to amuse my men at the table.
And thought of old friends I had to kill and cannibalize to get here.

And how tender Oxnar The Mighty was.
I believe he was hiding a secret from me.

 For only the men of the cult of eternal bath houses were this tender.


It is a shame what secrets brothers keep from one another.

Of course had he only known when I told him to look at the mighty cave troll with a dripping tentacle was merely a ruse for me to bury my battle axe in his skull he probably would be kind of upset with me.

He died with honor like a real man.
And as I pillage the village of Chuck E. Cheese tonight I will think of him as I disembowel that stuffed rat.

Yes the beauty of the battle is almost enough to make the salt water fall from my eyes.

But as I learned from the sea witch Fergie big girls don't cry.
But they certainly do scream as you burn them at stake.


Be well my friends.

Taken from the great scroll of the battle of Muffin Top Mountain and ski resort.

About Rathnar Kilbane:

Is the poet laureate of Iceland.

His praise has been sung by his countrymen for years.

When not slaughtering and feasting upon his victims Rathnar enjoys watching cooking shows on the food network and playing Xbox crushing the hopes and dreams of small children.

Rathnar's work has appeared in.

Seven Swords Of Venom, The Old Witches Smelly Cave Wall, Wolfs Heart Quarterly, The New Yorker, The Wrong Whole Review.

He is currently on tour in the states doing readings.

And killing his audiences literally.

Donna DeBonise by Dan Provost

The first love of my life…
I would suck
in my fat when
she walked by with
her zit-faced best friend
Laura Stark.

I asked her out in 7th and
8th grade…

Her, being the master of
my seventh-grade erections…

Then my eight-grade
frustrations since I
had no idea what
masturbation was.

Both times she thought
about it, then told
her pimply sidekick
to tell me
no…

I haven’t been the
same since
I guess that’s a bad thing.

About Dan Provost: 

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for many years.  He is the author of nine books and lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife, Laura--and their Bichon Frisce...Bella.

Slivers by John Doyle

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard 
Anne Sexton

'Mourning' is such a stagnant word,
a forensic patch one's grief clings to;
If our lives unhinged our souls from these
wintry spells, though intermittent, somehow the storms would never fully pass -
and if you're not careful,
our feet will twist like fork-lightning, body's loss-filled rhythm.
Anne Sexton homed in her co-ordinates
due south of peaceful climes; I watched, the window pane as sharp as knife
cutting blood from eager tongues, elderly folk from the bowling club saw nothing
(or at least it seemed that way, as they sipped their tea, and chattered).
I remembered Alan, my old boss
in the netherworlds of horned beasts and
sons called Ethan riding bikes
on the soreness
of blistered moons; he measured each passing day,
a chisel that pierced his veins, and drove him wild in the dying forests;
there was nothing left for Alan,
overachieving every goal he set, except how to breath, how to see.
We mourn our dew-glazed kin,
we mourn Squanto, planting maize
in worlds built for God, the four elements
Caelus gave us -
fire, water, earth, and slivered glass of sea.
Let the Englishman's God rest his florid crown,
pray that maize will grow like glass falls
from shattered windows,
the rapture matching the soul's lost weekend of rhythm.
Oh Alan, oh Anne, I have the wildest dreams some nights,
I see you as Adam and Eve, and the forests are a circuit board
lingering in electric-blue digital light

About John Doyle:

John Doyle is at present watching Rocky V and wondering why he could have been at such a loose-end to be reduced to this, I mean, seriously... 

He accepts all major credit cards, but will start dancing a whole lot sooner if you just point a gun at his feet and fire at will.

The Solivagant Soul by Amit Parmessur

He proudly lights a cig in the
bus filled with Sunday people. With
the conductor too effete to
tell him off, the smoke stirs livid

looks. He swears in the language of
a faraway father, feeling
hot and frustrated with someone’s
pretty wife just in front. Looking

at the scenery through the stained
window, he gulps some local rum,
his Rasta headband swaying to
every whim of the tired driver.

Drunk, he soon falls asleep after
a few drags on the bent cig that
drops from his old, wrinkled fingers.
After being mocked by well-dressed
passengers, he wakes up to have

a few more puffs, starting to swear
again (this time in his mother
tongue). He looks wildly for the cig
that has wandered into someone

else’s territory. He then
worsens the situation by
releasing from his shirt pocket
stolen coins, with them scattering

everywhere like the rapid shells
of paralysed tortoises. Shamed,
he sits erect, and smiles at the
Sunday people—very kindly.

About Amit Parmessur:

Born in Mauritius, Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. His writing has appeared in over 160 magazines, namely Galaktika Poetike, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences and turn them over in the light. A one-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Web nominee, he nowadays edits The Pangolin Review.

An Actual Turd by Brian Rihlmann

we believe
we must have
our "shit together"

you know...
the car shiny
the bed made
the house clean
and bills paid

(hey, that rhymes!)

own the latest gadgets
and the newest fashions
have our hair glued into place
just right

the garage organized
on top of things at work
our relationships in order

only healthy
loving relationships

and only with those
who have their
"shit together" too

we must have
all this

or there is unease...

but how do we expect this
when we can't even
squeeze out
an actual turd
the way we would like?

one swipe
done!

About Brian Rihlmann:

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Under The Bleachers, Cajun Mutt Press, and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry.

Consumption by Tony Pena

Fuck that eyes

be the window 

of the soul shit

as pretty blues pry 

my skull open only

to loot my mind

for gold nuggets

to drop as bait 

at the bar to snag 

a cowboy who looks 

like a young Robert 

Redford and fucks

like Charlie 

the chihuahua 

thinking a leg

a bitch in heat.

About Tony Pena:

Tony Pena was selected as 2017-2018 Poet Laureate for the city of Beacon, New York.  

A new volume of poetry and flash fiction, "Blood and Beats and Rock n Roll," is available now at Amazon.   His publication credits include   "Dogzplot,"   "Gutter Eloquence," “Hudson Valley Transmitter,” “Misfit Magazine,” "Red Fez," “Rye Whiskey Review,”  "Slipstream,"  "Underground Voices," "Zygote in my Coffee,"  and others as well as a self published chapbook, "Opening night in Gehenna."

Colorful compositions and caterwauling with a couple of chords can be seen at:

Www.youtube.com/tonypenapoetry

Www.facebook.com/tonypenapoetry