A Treatment. By Ben Nardolilli

If God exists, I’ll know
Because he’ll tell me how to fix
The latest knot
Within the plot of the novel
I’m working on,
He’ll be divine enough to know
Not to interfere with the poetry,
That stuff has to remain
Human, only human
In its sources and execution,
If I claimed otherwise
I wouldn’t be a poet any more,
But a prophet instead,
And I don’t want that career,
I’m not armed heavily enough
To last long on any dais,
Nevertheless, if God exists
And we’re in talks in private,
I’ll tell him I’d enjoy
A promotion to the big room
And be a writer for his show.

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel. 

WHEN IT'S BEST TO DRINK ALONE. By Bradford Middleton

It's happened again as the time spent at bars

Dwindles to the point where I contemplate

Just giving up, maybe visit only once a week

To drown this lonely existence surrounded

By other people by way of a change.  Of late

Though it is these other people that have

Caused the most damage to my mind leaving

Me demanding more booze to drown out

Their existences as I struggle through dreaming

Of sitting at home alone, smoking the

Proverbial weed and very occasionally

Treating myself to a drink but not through

Need or habit just for the pure simple joy

Of cracking that bottle open and taking a taste

Loving it as it cascades down my throat.

The other night I went out, alone as usual,

And found myself in one of those moods,

Dark, foreboding, wanting to get annihilated

The only people I spoke to were bar staff

All of whom knew my name and asked how

I'd been, handing over drink after drink until

That point where I could face no more, a time

Spent surrounded by useless hipsters, bearded

Fucktards who annoy me greatly, and if it

Weren't for the smoke I'd have ended up

Leaving a hell of a lot quicker and walking

The streets dreaming of bars where the drinks

Flow cheaper and there are no immaculate

Beards requesting craft beers looking down

On me as I sit, beer and chaser at the ready.

Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the summer of 1971 and won his first poetry prize at the age of nine.  He then gave up writing poems for nearly twenty-five years and it wasn't until he landed in Brighton, knowing no one and having no money, that he began again.  Ten years later and he's been lucky enough to have had a few chapbooks published including a new one from Analog Submission Press entitled 'Flying through this Life like a Bottle Battling Gravity', his debut from Crisis Chronicles Press (Ohio, USA) and his second effort for Holy & Intoxicated Press (Hastings, UK).  He has read around the UK at various bars, venues and festivals and is always keen to get out and read to new crowds.  His poetry has also been or will be published shortly in the Chiron Review, Zygote in my Coffee, Section 8, Razur Cuts, Paper & Ink, Grandma Moses 'Poet to Notice', Empty Mirror, Midnight Lane Gallery, Bareback Lit and is a Contributing Poet over at the wonderful Mad Swirl.  If you like what you've read go send a friend request on facebook to bradfordmiddleton1. 

WITH MY PLUS ONE AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL. By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Sitting here

at The Bowl,

my plus one

to my left,

a cooler

with six beers.

It does not

tell me to

stop drinking.

It does not

tell me to

stop singing.

It does not

disappoint

or let me

down.  My plus 

one is all 

that I need. 

Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health 

field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy,

Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.

Mr. Asshole. By Dan Provost

It’s a great

justification for 

all those who suffer 

from depression and anxiety

that “getting out of your head”

is the reason you, sometimes,

drink twenty Miller Lights.

Smoke ten pipe hits of the weed.

And take credence that the

world is all right for a while.

No, not really…

The truth is that asshole has crept

into your life again.

Not as often

Not every day…

But he still lingers around the 

Periphery.  Peeking, hiding—

Welcoming back the guilty 

hangover, 

when, while groaning in bed… 

All you want to do is swallow

the bullet—Cursing your existence.

No, I do not make

the cut anymore…

Walking around dazed.

Pondering creative ability

under the influence.

When you have difficulty 

picking up the pen…

Yes, I hate that asshole

who has hounded 

my footsteps for so many

God damn years.

He laughs when I’m

fucked up…grins

when I make a fool of

myself…

Calls me out when

I try to stay sober.

Kills me if

he wins…

Dan Provost 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.

The Weirdo of La Calle. By Gwil James Thomas

Lived at the top 

of the street - 

his hair was wild 

like an animal’s - 

maybe that’s how 

he’d befriended 

the alley cats 

that’d follow him 

down the street - 

he carried a pen 

and a little 

black book 

in his back pocket, 

he was frequently 

seen in the bar, 

or by the dumpsters

going through 

unwanted paintings 

and broken furniture - 

a few months ago 

he was caught 

skinny dipping 

with some girl -

having climbed 

the fence 

to the pool of 

the nice flats 

down the street - 

he always 

seemed to have 

some fresh wound 

or bandage on him too - 

God knows what 

he did? Or where 

else he went? 

Someone said 

that he wrote

poems too - 

but of course 

you can’t believe 

everything that 

they say.

“Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. He is a Best of The Net nominee whose written work can be found widely in print and online. His latest poetry chapbook Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry is forthcoming from Concrete Meat Press. He is currently laying low somewhere in Northern Spain.”

Tattoos by Wayne F. Burke

Tattoos
over
his
arms
looks
from
a
distance
like
he
forgot
to
wash.

Wayne F. Burke has published six full-length collections of poetry, most recently DIFLUCAN (2019, BareBack Press). He lives in Vermont.