The Walk Of Shame by John Patrick Robbins

My neighbors view them all.
An assorted crew of wayward souls.
Usually highly hungover and in different states of awkwardness.

Most leave without saying goodbye, others linger until the buzz wears off with the bliss.

As long as they leave, it's truly a mission accomplished to me.
It's funny how others find shame in how two adults choose to spend their time together.

I sat there watching the morning news with a semi dressed companion from the previous night.

Sipping a bloody Mary as a fool and an overgrown child was filmed giving yet another long winded hate filled speech.

In front of the white house steps.
He spewed his lies he would deny even speaking the previous day.

He walked off, hands clenched looking like if you put coal between his ass cheeks.
He could produce a diamond.

A rambling disgrace protected by men he considered peasants and mocked as losers in the press.
The only walk of shame is a fool standing in the shadows of true men unlike himself.

A spoiled child who bought the world only to attempt to destroy what he could never truly control.

I flipped off the TV and slipped from the insanity to enjoy the pleasure of another lost as I.

The biggest sin is in not living every second of this life to suit yourself.

Smoke them while you got em kids, cause this party is truly running on borrowed time.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of The Rye Whiskey Review  and Black Shamrock Magazine.  His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine, Fearless Poetry Zine,  The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, 1870 Magazine, San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review , Herion Love Songs, Romingos Porch and Schlock Magazine. 

His work is always unfiltered 

The Dreaming Dog by Gwil James Thomas

The world has changed 

since I was last here,

but at least my 

mum’s kitchen hasn’t - 

where across 

the chequerboard floor, 

the old family dog’s 

deep asleep, 

tapping his arthritic paws 

up and down effortlessly - 

running miles 

through the dreamworld 

even if he can’t 

in this one anymore.

I wonder if he can 

have lucid dreams?  

I wonder if he knows 

that he’s left the dream,

when he wakes? 

I wonder if him, me,  

every fucking word 

that I’ve written and 

everything that’s 

happened and ever will - 

are all just part of some 

interconnected dream 

unfolding in god’s head? 

Suddenly the dog wakes up,

stares at me and sighs -

as I laugh and focus 

on my own world again - 

the one filled with poetry, 

passion and chaos.

Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician. His written work can be found in numerous publications in print and online and has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of The Net. He resides in his hometown of Bristol, England, but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain. His most recent chapbook can be found here: https://analogsubmission.com/chapbooks/gwiljamesthomas-cocoontransitions

Find Your Eyes by Kevin M. Hibshman

Your gaze, a few steps behind.

Hipster vampires rule the night.

They don't eat meat but will drink blood.

Try to keep up instead of stopping to console every lonely tree stump.

Please don't wave at the cars passing by.

This is a respectable street guaranteed to meet the needs of the most puerile tourist.

I don't want any of them to notice us.

They sense that we are intruders.

Men from mars in full regalia.

I can't watch for you over my shoulder.

I am fogged in heavy second sight.

Don't attempt to describe what you see.

Get your mouth off of that tail pipe!

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).

The Lonely Chimes Of Backroad Cemetery. By John Patrick Robbins

I remember the peace in the hidden site, that lay off an old dirt road in Pike County Indiana. 

And the sound of those tuned wind chimes. 

That hung from an old oak tree that loomed over the few graves that stood undisturbed. 

Away from everything, such a peaceful beautiful music for none to hear and all to enjoy.

On a hot summer day I can always recall.

What peace existed there as I sat amongst the tombstones.

I wonder now hopeless as in memories and time that paradise sits untouched. 

As my soul breathes fractured truths even I as a writer and man cannot repair.

Dealing in lies and old ghosts.

I wonder, do those chimes still beckon me home for a final rest.

In a place no pain does exist, hidden away as I only long to be.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review his work has been published in.

Punk Noir Magazine,  San Pedro River Review,  San Antonio Review,  1870 Magazine,  Sacred Chickens,  Heroin Love Songs,  Piker Press, As It Ought To Be Magazine.


His work is always unfiltered.

Untitle Me by Ambrosia

Time finds strangers in us all.

But Does the night?

My words plague this desert intrusive in their design.

I'm alone in a hell no one can find.

But alone is where I always prefer to be.

Ambrosia is a Lithuanian poet whose poetry has been nominated for best of the net and his work has appeared in various publications all over the net and in limited print runs. 

Puzzuoli’s by John Doyle

Every dusk

Panama turns its back on me,

that’s fine, I've forgotten, already.

I'll remember Puzzuoli's, in lieu of these misgivings - like last time I heard

 

Obviously Five Believers, as I closed in on Singapore City,

half-awake, three-quarters trying not to sleep -

Puzzuoli’s, in porno-blue fly buzzing light.

In Panama City I found something - 

everlasting peace, a solitude of 

marble statues, jazz music tarred in sepia,

married men twisting their throats

in barbed-wire - another mile-long boulevard of sweaty cotton suits

before they considered divorce.

It’s final, divorce - 

a sweaty man in a dry cotton suit

tells me.

 

It's 12 hours after midnight - 

Jesus, this is hot -

It's hell on earth here;

like that time in 1987

 

trudging through a forest, 

shovels on our collarbones,

the gas-station kid’s body leaving stone-clutched trails

in the sour-faced dust. Oh yeah, I remember - 

 

that first time I knew Puzzuoli's 

was damned

was last May or April -

Paul Henry's blue-blurred dusk made stop-signs

 

look like Modern Art

stolen in a late-night heist, 

Van Morrison 

caught a Los Angeles connection, 

 

and we drank wine no-one kept receipts for.

In Panama City

the divorce rate is slowly rising, 

alongside the moon, the mercury, the capillaries of broken bottles -

Puzzuoli's

tearing-down

like a grizzly bear

chasing us through a forest

John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch. 

Sticky by Susan Tepper

If you slice vertically

you will find a heart

dissected in tandem beats

to smear across bread 

my blood and sticky love 

No scope can clarify 

the solitary nature 

of the soul—

why this—

Memory confined to

sensible phrasings

small gestures:

coffee in a pleasant place;

the sun going down

behind a stone church; 

dappled leaves, some fallen

outside plate glass window.

Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her two most recent titles are CONFESS (poetry from Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019) that was shortlisted at American Book Fest. Other honors and awards include eighteen Pushcart Prize Nominations, a Pulitzer Nomination by Cervena Barva Press for the novel ‘What May Have Been’ (re-written for adaptation as a stage play to open in NY next year), shortlisted in Zoetrope Contest for the Novel (2003), NPR’s Selected Shorts for ‘Deer’ published in American Letters & Commentary (ed. Anna Rabinowitz), Second Place Winner in StorySouth Million Writers Award, Best of 17 Years of Vestal Review and more. Tepper is a native New Yorker. www.susantepper.com