No one Suffers Like The Poor. By Ian Lewis Copestick

The older I get the more I see
That for no one is this life easy
The multi-millionaires  that I hate
Still have hemorroids and headaches

No matter what lifestyle, no matter what class
Everyone has to wipe their ass
We all get hungover from a night on the booze
We all have our time to sing the blues

Lovers leave and parents die
We all have times we have to cry
But I might feel better if I had a decent amount
Of money in my bank account

So, no the rich don't really suffer
They have their cash to act as a buffer
They say happiness is something you can't buy
But I don't know, I'd like to try

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 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.

He Comes and Goes, That Rodeo Rider. By John Doyle

Again, it's grits everywhere,

saucepan lid spins

until - its muffled crescendo -

good morning. 

I was told “expect this every morning, John”.

Outside, spooked horses, hind legs kicking,

Gene Clarke wannabe, thrown on his tired and withered ass -

no sign of him anywhere, dust a pointless witness -

dust is a language, sunlight - its parchment, maybe sometimes a song.

There's no sun today, weatherman told me, after a local kid

playing the zither, some commercials, then this -

plates like marooned half-moon effigies,

too many miles on the clock, 

too much liquor, harvest looks bad this year.

He'll return before supper, tire-tracks a treasure map

back to jukeboxes, bourbon, frightened women with tourist cameras

finding out not all cowboys tip their hats like Walter Brennan.

In the barn, he tunes a fiddle - nothing happened right? - he smiles,

guess he’s going back to his roots.

I leave grits and delph, tire-tracks, saddles in the rough.

It's a language he knows, though he has yet to read it -

not as many miles on his clock as he wishes everyone would think

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. 

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.

Eurydice 57th Street-Seventh Avenue Nowhere Near Carnegie Hall. By John Greiner

Dead lost and not 

knowing the note 

to be got, they're

the ones that 

always have 

a song to sound, 

if not to sing

on the subway

platform

when the train

is somewhere 

so far beyond

that it's gone

behind the very

thought of time.

The desperation

call to all 

and sundry.

They've got

a movie scenario

of what's to happen 

in their heads,

the well worn play;

the star is born,

found and made icon.

We're a country quick

to take fairytales 

for facts

never having 

heard Philomel's

jug jug call.

I came down

the stairs with no

Orpheus

in my dreams.

I came down 

the stairs with only

the N train on my mind.

and now I've got

another failed 

bossa nova boy

looking to take

me for a ride.

Plug my ears

for the trip 

from Hades to 

all the anywheres;

Brooklyn to Manhattan

to Queens.

If you've got no voice to sing

then I've got no need to hear.

I'm not lost

I just don't know

how I'm going to go.

If you've got

a song, sing it,

don't put on a show.

I know

the notes

and I know

how to hit them.

Orpheus is gone

and the subway train

is so far along

that it's forever behind.

Orpheus is gone.

The air is dead.

I know why he turned around.

I know why I stayed behind.

Orpheus is gone.

I don't need

your off-key melody.

John Greiner is a Pushcart Prize nominated writer living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research.  Greiner's work has appeared in Sand, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Valueand numerous other magazines. His chapbooks, broadsides and collections of poetry and short stories includeTurnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2017), The Laundrymen(Wandering Head Press, 2016), Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press, 2014),Modulation Age (Wandering Head Press, 2012), Shooting Side Glances(ISMs Press, 2011) and Relics From a Hell’s Kitchen Pawn Shop (Ronin Press, 2010). 

Hurry Up, The Cars Are Waiting. By David Boski

I saw a woman yelling at her husband today

or maybe it was her boyfriend

either way, she was screaming at him

they were on the other side of the street

walking in the same direction I was

I was walking Melvin

this woman was big and fat 

and she had a bad dye job, red hair 

she was pushing a baby in a stroller

and the man looked like he was carrying 

foldable lawn chairs amongst other things

and as we reached the stop sign 

at Dunn and Springhurst  

he was lagging behind his giant lover

and she turned around and yelled: “hurry up, the cars are waiting!” 

so, he began jogging as he struggled to hold onto and not drop 

all the shit he was carrying

and I looked at her with a sense of disgust 

and at him with a sense of pity

poor bastard, I thought

as I kept on walking

my wine hangover still lingering

David Boski lives in Toronto. His poems have appeared in: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Under The Bleachers, Down in the Dirt, Beatnik Cowboy, Winamop, Ramingo’s Porch, Cactifur, North Of Oxford and elsewhere. His chapbook “Fist Fighting and Fornication” is out now and available through Holy&intoxicated Publications.