Knee-Deep in Mud, No Gold Yet by John Doyle

Some dolt called Agnew 
whose first name's not Spiro

leaves me standing rain-soaked in a hotel foyer, 

taxi motor still ticks outside -

she tells me sorry 14 times,

when a chef shouts at her 

from the kitchen to bring out 15 souffles,

her bestie and soul-mate Sarah giving me the evil eye

with her cool-cat friends 

waiting behind my taxi in dune-buggy 

like its 1968,

ready to recreate photos of people standing by a wall

doing various alternating poses, 

some wearing beany-hats,

others in stripey psychedelic drainpipe pants 

and Dick Dastardly hats. 

Everyone likes to jump when the camera clicks - 

makes them look kooky, you see.

Her bestie's boyfriend's called David, 

or Carl, or something - he's sensitive, apparently.

Agnew knocks things over, quite a lot, I notice, 

and six months later 

she still calls me 'Rob'.

Rob, she says, can we do this some other time?

I say sure, but I've forgotten your name, 

is it Spiro? I know your pop's name is Nelson.

I turn around, she's gone - in a puff of smoke, 

the bang of a dune buggy back-fires

outside, my cab driver drops his Evening Herald, looks around. 

It's times like these I wish I smoked, though it couldn't be Marlboro, 

I'm not enough of a cowboy just yet

to lasso cowgirls like these.

Turns out three years later she comes out. After dark, I tell myself -

to feast on the souls of fallen angels. 

Bloodshot O'Hara sitting beside me agrees,

pours me a long-cool glass of milk,

we run Planet Waves and Oh Mercy through the jukebox, 

until we start to weigh them down

and they stop by a water through, smoke coming from their saddles.

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.

remembrance. By Jck Hnry

the sky lingers

fat across my mind,

blood stained and wet

with tears from a

mourning of souls.

it is another day

of remembrance

when everything remains

forgotten.

so-called patriots

thump their chests

w/ broken fists,

chant about civil

rights and masks.

it is a courtesy and

respect for others,

but they don’t care,

they don’t listen,

they don’t believe in

anyone’s gold but their

own.

and i laugh as they

cough through tubes

of plastic attached

to machines that keep

them alive.

there are no sides

to take when it

comes to dying.

jck hnry is a writer/publisher/editor, based in southeastern california.  recent publications include:  Deuce Coupe, Rye Whiskey Review, Razur Cuts, Cajun Mutt, Dissident Voices, Horror Sleaze Trash, Bold Monkey, Red Fez, dope fiend daily and a bunch of other noble zines and journals.  Books include:  “With the Patience of Monuments (neoPoesis) ,” “Crunked, (Epic Rites)” and the upcoming "Driving w/Crazy (Punk Hostage Press, 2020).”  hnry is also editor and publisher of Heroin Love Songs and 1870. for more go to jackhenry.wordpress.com. 

Pulped by Susan Tepper

All theories of madness pulped

‘til pits floated in the liquid

undrinkable—

the off-color of piss. No formulation 

we could figure out 

as the thing darkened by the minute

we sank further in the muck—

around us a stink.

Rot and decay like cheese

not cured to mold. 

Father, I prayed,

in my rusty way, 

what beast has set upon the earth?

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

Pick Your Poison by John Patrick Robbins

The bleach didn't work so I snorted ajax and purchased a hazmat suit online from amazon.

Washed my hands until they bled, kept my distance and watched the news daily till I went damn near insane.

And marveled at my neighbor who huffed paint and seldom was alone.

He never wore a mask and he didn't seem to wash his hands, so I doubt he washed his ass either.

The ignorant will outlive us all and the drunks may truly have a great point .

So I bought a carton of cigarettes and a case of whiskey .

We are all going to die anyways, least this way I get to choose . 

Sayonara my darlings.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor of the Rye Whiskey Review.

His work been published in.

Punk Noir Magazine, Piker Press, Heroin Love Songs, The Blue Nib , Sacred Chickens, Romingos Porch, Angry Old Man Magazine, Red Fez, San Pedro River Review, San Antonio Review, The Dope Fiend Daily.

His work is always unfiltered.

Wrestling with the Sun. By Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

I wrestled with the sun all morning and afternoon.

I lost a hair or two and maybe a gold tooth.

I melted under the hostile sun and the beer I drank

did not quench my thirst or stop my tears.

The burning sensation I felt from its touch

was not like the kisses I sadly missed. When will

I find my luck in the sun. I feel like I am always

under its watch and I take its most brutal shots.

I feel like taking a dip in the river. Its reflection

is always there. The sun drowns me with scorching

rays and I do not know how I remain standing.

I could taste its fire and feel its heat in my eyelids.

One day I will not be able to see. At the local saloon

I will not raise a toast to the sun as a principle.

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.