Pages

Thursday, November 11, 2021

Glorious Abandon! By Randall Rogers

 

Mystify your world

look for souls you’d

want to go to heaven with

and drink with them

love them

toast them

share truths

and insanity with them

boast

as brothers

fight

spend time

in sweet inebriation

drunk


with their wives

in carnal knowledge

with them

hold dear to


mystery to

define them

in alcoholic shining armor!


enhance amber clarity to

obtain

position in their

thought where they

rest assured

come fortune or naught

failure or success

grounding of a middling

stifling drudgery life


or cognitive tempest

sex with you

is the answer

too all will be well….

With another round.








He is Randall Rogers, visionary poet of the prairie.  A cowboy, yea, a beatnik; a Beatnik Cowboy.  He is an old young, sorry.  Here he exhibits new work.  More flashes in the pan.  I hope the world, nay, you editor, approveth of seeth/something here. (Currently reading "Pilgrim's Progress")  Adios!  I kind of reworked these to work in booze but they are total virgins (never put out).

Sunday, October 31, 2021

Tell Me Everything by Susan Isla Tepper

Sundays, liquor is scarce in these parts.  Inside a dusty cabinet in his kitchen, one sticky bottle of Kahlua leftover from the year of the flood.  I come down the porch steps with the bottle.  “Who drinks this stuff?” I say.

    “People do, people do.”  On the lawn chair in burnt grass he’s baking himself.

    “If you weren’t so mean to people, you could’ve gotten Jerry to bring a bottle of gin over, Sunday or no Sunday.”

    “He can go to hell.”

    “See.  That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

    He pulls the straw hat over his face to blot me out.

    That big row with Jerry over anti-semitism, neo-Nazis, and guys with bald heads and no facial hair.  They almost came to blows.

    Jerry is bald with no facial hair.  He doesn’t shave it, he has a medical condition called alopecia.  When everything erupted, I tried explaining that but it fell on dead ears.

    “You could stop by the liquor store, the back door is open for inventory.  Explain to Jerry that you’re sorry, you meant nothing personal.  Just that you’re uptight all the time with so much violence.  You don’t know which end is up.”

    My desire for a gin and tonic has reached that level of desperation, that I’m feeding him lines.

    “Is that so?” is all he says.

    Sitting up he flings the straw hat.  Ranger, his dog takes off after it.  “Tell me everything,” he says. “All your new men.  I want to know names, dates, places.”

    “Are you with the FBI?” I say, trying to make a joke.  Except it isn’t a joke and will never be. Even a heartless tough guy like him feels pain, I suppose. 

    “Another iced tea?” I say.

    His lemon slice looking dismal in the glass empty of liquid. 

    “Tell me everything,” he says again.  “Or I’ll kill you.”

    Where shall I begin? Which country?

    



Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.


Sunday, September 5, 2021

Two Different Females Dressed in Red, 1992, 1973 by John Doyle

Purity - 1992

Crowds scraped our streets in hassled feet,
the master-race looming;
one was a strawberry blooming in Hell's garden -
one is all we need, the Rabbi told me, 
look at Heaven glowing through this soot -
shining, everlasting.
Then came the piled-up meat, the red within - 
no more than a stagnant river. 
All these dreams fell like waterfalls from our heads,
trampled on by sanguine streets. 
But look at the beauty, Mrs. Horowitz said, 
all light is everlasting

Evil - 1973

Italia, roasting into the night, 
black like the coal-crisp inferno;
water was his enemy back home, his baby girl
limp like a towel across a door; now she's running
from the screams, from his dreams, 
a halo round his senses; behind the firm logic of steel
there's no getting through,
they tell us don’t look now, not ever;
and so it's the ugliness that prevails - ugly, grotesque -
sin in its favoured colours, sin coloured like his throat




 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.



Wednesday, September 1, 2021

SPLEEN by Susan Isla Tepper

In a plain white number 10
I mailed you my spleen
shrunk to the size of a penny
after all this death
and inescapable
inexplicable misery.
Spleen is spleen
and some people carry it
proudly and righteously
favored possession
ripe and bulging
bursting with puss
straight to their raging end.


Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Wednesday, August 11, 2021

Born a rocker die a rocker by Nick Gerrard


Lee was a rock and roller even at 12 years old. Our school played his school at footy and there was this guy; lanky body and flowing locks, socks rolled down and he was doing flicks and step overs and nutmegs long before Ronaldo was born. We were plodders and hoofers and were told by our coach to nobble the flashy little fucker on the wing. We tried but couldn’t get near him and he took the flying tackles and punches in his stride. We lost 3 nil he scored all three goals. 

Later we went to the same high school and played on the same team and we became friends. 

A lot of people didn’t like him cus he was flash, except the girls of course, but I like his panache, I was a bit that way myself so we hit it off. I remember going on bike trips a lot and playing football of course and scrumping apples from farmers or a little stealing from the paper shop where we worked delivering newspapers in the mornings before school. 

One summer we were allowed to go camping alone for the first time, we were about 13. Me and Lee and the Roberts brothers went to a campsite near Evesham; a riverside holiday town not far from Brum. The Roberts’ were expert thieves and we hit the small town for knives, and a record shop that sold some punk singles and on our best day Nigel Roberts walked out of store with a whole fucking bike! Like I said…top thieves.

Punk had arrived and me and Lee grabbed it with relish. Here was something new, something different. We had both never quite fitted in with the soul crowd, the pub and factory brigade…we wanted out! So it came at just the right time for us. We had our own little punk club, the Irish club and lee was the singer of course in one of the first bands we all formed at 14. And up there on that stage he took all the flash from the footy and posed around; for me a perfect front man. 

Punk was all about doing things different, we were offered no chances to be someone or something from school or parents. There was no University waiting for us, just a factory, a wife and kids and beer and footy. We wanted more and punk gave us the chance to aim higher; to look for other things to become. Looking back at that little den of thieves and strays and outsiders, you can see what came out of the punk DIY ethos. Some became politicians, some fashion designers some professors of sociology, some writers and it was all thanks to punk. And Lee became a rocker, for life!

His story is a mixed one, one of failures, downs and almost there’s.  But it is a story of a kid from the streets of Kiddy who sang his way around the world and had a lot of success. But it is one also littered with almost made it big moments. And he is quite famous, a well known rock and roller in the niche circles of rock, and he touched the stars but never quite managed to hang on. But the question is was he a success? Depends on how you measure success really. Let us look back and try and piece this thing together.

The stories are many so I’ll summarise for you. 

His second band were more post-punk and did well headlining with Pop Will Eat Itself and the Wonderstuff who later signed for Chapter 22 records…Lee told Chapter to fuck off! At the time his sister had died in an accident on a horse and he sat at her gravestone drinking ‘OI! God! Why did you kill my sister you cunt!’ The band could have been big; they got more support slots with The Alarm and Spear of Destiny but Lee just told A and R men to fuck off. Why? That’s another good question. His state of mind, his punk ethics or something else?

The band got another chance. After a gig in Brum a big record company guy offered to sign them. This was it! But the guy drank Lee’s beer and he said ‘Listen cunt nobody drinks my beer.’ The guy left; they signed the Cult instead. The band signed for a minor label and got some cash, but it went the usual rock and roll route. After getting a thousand pound payment after two days in London and breaking his cock (Did you know you can break your cock?) He arrived back in Kiddy with a mike stand and some great stories although fairly blurred. 

The band fell apart; two of its members, brothers, later committed suicide. Was the cost of failure to become famous the cause? 

I had been in a few bands myself but got sidetracked by politics and travel and adventure. But, Lee’s dream was to make it, so he trudged on!

He formed the Ice babies and became part of the Soho Rock, Glam sleaze scene. And this band went more commercial, Lee really went for it, to finally make that breakthrough. And that scene was a wild scene of late night clubs and early morning bars and coke and groupies and orgies. And that band split and White trash was formed again a record deal was got and support to Lords of the New Church and Hanoi Rocks followed as did even more debauchery on the road and around Soho.

And the women came; Angie Bowie and then Jane Dickenson ex-wife of Iron Maiden’s singer. She took Lee to LA where they indulged in drug and drink fuelled nights with car crashes and head bashes and waking up with cowboy boots and hat in a bath after a threesome. 

The LA scene was toxic, guns and toots and boozing and loots. 

The band broke up and a broken Lee left to save himself and went with a penniless Spanish girl and moved the Zaragoza. He drifted into the Gypsy Barrios and mixed it with flamenco guitarists and gangsters and formed a new band; The Last gang. Tours followed supporting the Ramones and Motorhead. They got thrown off the Ramones tour for doing pistols covers after being asked not to. 

And coke and speed filled nights with Lemmy and his Jack, until he got pissed and told him to ‘get rid of that fucking wart you cunt!’

So, back to the UK and White trash UK was formed and Lee got the closet yet to signing a major deal. One hour before the guy who was about to sign them, he lost control of the company. More tours followed with big bands and fights with Slash and more drugs and groupies. Living the rock and roll lifestyle mannnn! They had a minor record deal and radio play and MTV appearances but again didn’t quite make the top.

The music business is a rigged game. And Lee for some reason tried to play the game but something always bugged him enough to fuck it up just at the wrong moment. His punk ideals? His just fucking stupidity or again was there something else underneath the surface going on?

Then in 2003 the last roll of the dice! The Gypsy Pistoleros- they got an instant tribal, loyal following.

The sound was flamenco in a head on collision with punk/rock riffs, pounding bass and thrashing drums. The songs span madly in the best rock 'n' roll tradition! With big hooks, attitude, and sleaze. Yet those flamenco breaks got into your head and refused to leave.

This mongrel offspring of fiery flamenco passion and gritty gutter glam, the Gypsy Pistoleros were born roamin' somewhere between Barcelona and Birmingham, brought into the world to a soundtrack stack-heeled anthems of sleazy '70s America. Standing alone in musical ancestry and slum sound, they were one one of those most rare acts who honestly could claim the tag 'unique'.

They headlined at festivals in the US and made a few albums. Again never really making it mega big but big enough I think. Then there were splits and conflicts and Lee took up acting appearing in a few minor B movies and some great theatre productions. This culminated in his 30-day one man show at the Edinburgh festival. A rock and roll suicide. A big hit. 

In the meantime he was diagnosed with ADHD and a borderline personality disorder.

The questions arise; are these things that made him fuck things up or the things that enabled him to do so much? I believe they are just a part of his personality, maybe they made him be a rock and roller for forty odd years; made him able to get up on that stage whether singing or acting. Did he fuck things up? Yeah of course but that was part of the punk spirit that lived in him. Did he make it? Yeah, of course he did…he performed for years, doing something he loved and believed in. But he never made it famous? What is fame? And who gives a fuck anyway…he did what all we wee punks did...he got himself out of the shithole direction that our lives were destined to follow. Did his disorders fuck him up or his chances of fame? Maybe, but then again so what? The Pistaleros have reformed have a new album out and are gigging again, not a final throw of the dice but a continuation of a spirit living life his way and to the full and living the punk dream. Born a rocker die and rocker. 






Nick writes Gritty realism or social realism or as he likes to say 'Working-class kitchen sink drama! ‘ His short stories, flash, poetry and essays have appeared in various magazines and books in print and online. Nick has five books published available on Amazon and elsewhere. His short novel out last year, Punk Novelette is all about a group of friends growing up with punk in the 70s in the UK and the effect the movement had on their lives. His latest short story collection is Called Struggle and Strife; fifteen short stories covering the political and personal struggles of today, yesterday, and the future. Stories of casual workers, holocaust survivors, refugees, slum dwellers, and trade unionists. Tales of protests and fight-backs against oppression, and the daily battles of ordinary people. https://nickgerrardauthor.wixsite.com/books

Wednesday, August 4, 2021

My Mug By Stephen Jarrell Williams


I like my mug with plenty of pollutants

A squirt of lava from Mount St. Helens

A tablespoon from Peter's morning after



Because coffee and Coke are now illegal

The one world government's latest decree

Led by someone called the Anti-Bottle



Shorelines of sea and rivers burning

From all the dumping of alcoholic beverages

Lit by the pyromaniacs with firecracker fingers



No steaks or burgers allowed worldwide

All cattle exterminated

For we the common people are now the cattle



And even if you like milk you can't drink it

All cow utters have been amputated

And corks have been crammed up their rears



Yes I like my mug with plenty of pollutants

The way this world is going

We're all heading for a mouth full of gargling.









Stephen Jarrell Williams was the founder and editor of Dead Snakes. He loves to write late into the night, looking forward to The Coming Good Dawn. He has published over a thousand poems in back rooms and castle peaks.

Thursday, July 22, 2021

Proposed Monologue for Philip Seymour Hoffman - Should He Arise From the Dead by John Doyle

Everyone knew who Venus was,
a telegraph pole gliding on a lake
in Oriental sheets of fragrance and Apache sundown morse code,
hey tic tac toe.
Everyone knew her
save for the kids playing pool on Chooseday,
who stood in between the wires
looking for fish, firing alibis at the moon.
This is Saturday. Saturday the Nineteenth day of when. 
I look at the unfinished world, the half-built planet
and God's plans for a lazy Sunday, lawnmowers, orange juice,
a postcard Venus sent from Eurasia. The stamp we soaked in water, 
removed like a true-blue surgeon - it may be valuable.
Hanging up my coat, I ask my wife where Venus might be right now,
she gave me a phone number I recognised, 
and the buildings across the sky
shook like little boys grabbing fish in their bare hands;
but it stung so much, all that petrol in the lake,
the words of failure wedged in a telegraph pole above,
with Venus filling her cheeks like a hamster
chewing words that by-passed the moon.
The moon had a postage stamp on it,
passing from galaxy to galaxy like a cotton-suited whore



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.

Tuesday, June 8, 2021

Glance by Susan Tepper

Trouble the darkness
it springs right back
doesn’t want to
know your story
Alive / Unsparing
It blunts your canines
shackles arms
to legs 
in cathartic explosion
from 
just a glance (!)
your ears ringing
church bells 
out of synch
I will tell you this
for the last time



Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books.  Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.

www.susantepper.com

Saturday, May 22, 2021

Bed Warmers Union by John Patrick Robbins

When speaking about me in rumors, often I hear many misguided allegations.

Especially when referring to me as some whiskey guzzling male whore.

When in truth I am just part of the lonely ladies and wayward souls bed warmers union.

Which our company's goal is to make sure every woman goes to bed comfy and preferably wakes up with a smile.

Yes, I'm not on the prowl, simply on the job.
But I see how the ignorant or sober could easily make this assumption.

As I am but almost in a perverse way doing the work of The Lord.
I mean his name is often mentioned during our sessions.

No it's not therapy.
For I view myself as a masseuse.
With more a focus on deep tissue lights off massage, with an ever so happy ending.

I have no office but you can find me at the local bar.
I work on a volunteer basis so no money, no worries my dear.

You provide the vessel as I shall so provide the tip.
I am but a humble servant looking for a home for the night.

Providing service with a smile.
I am truly all heart aside from the rest of me that is.

Toddles sweetheart.




John Patrick Robbins is the editor of the God's.

He enjoys raiding literary kingdoms including his own.
And also drinking from the bedazzled skulls of his sworn enemies.

He runs a fleet of ships better known as ezines which his boy servant Scott Simmons crafts to perfection because to quote him directly.
 he hates these people and enjoys keeping his mighty warlord happy.

When not editing for Odin he runs a Viking retreat for heathens which borders a Christian summer camp which we enjoy raiding greatly.
 
He has been published in many esteemed publications and nominated himself for 5000 pushcarts 1000 Grammys 500 Academy Awards and a partridge and a pear tree.

He is currently building his museum dedicated to himself as he will soon be leaving to fight in the Ragnarok.

He likes boobies and long walks on the bloodsoaked battlefield.

He is also the writer in residence at Dollywood.
And if you read all this and were offended.
Wow! Congrats you're a dumbass.

 Please collect your gold star and cookie from the Dope Fiend Daily.

Check to see when they are open being they never run daily.

Duh it's not like Scott has a life or anything.

Skál. 






Wednesday, May 12, 2021

F O R T Y • S E V E N • I AM • A L I V E by J.C. Hawkes

My appendix is gonna burst
in my in my sleep
and I have
kidney
stones
that keep
me up hourly
to wait and see
if they’ll pass through
like the fire I’m expecting
or hoping will come
before the
surgical knife
is required. 
On top of that
a second hernia
in the same spot
as where
a super wire
type of mesh
is covering
the first
one.

Libido
is a distant
memory
after two
divorces
before
my 45th
birthday  - a celebration
I could not have
asked for
if I wanted to -
but maybe, this is me
and where I came from
- and maybe
I’m where
I am

because it’s me.

I was a yellow B M X
and striking
pair of
brown eyes,
which turned
dark green at the close
of marriage number one.

I was a rag doll -
a testing
post
for the
anger of a parental
guidance which only
encouraged me
to chase a
death
in a creek bed,
a will to run the
fuck away into anywhere
Nowhere and over there, any day
Anything in the context of space time

Anywhere - but, here.

So i picked up a pen,
a book and a cigarette
and a lavish fuck you sentiment
which grew and grew
into the arrogant
k-unt I can be - the
wintertime lover
and a failing green liver
I once was a masculine man,
in a shell of artillery
and fields
of fuck
off
now
before
you see
too much of me
a battery when I closed my eyes
I could never be with her
and she could
only see
me.

So as the corporate world then
threw me down
the stairs
in a
heart
attack
fashion
statement,
I died four time
- that year. Who fucking cares!

Then I found myself  ( - oh what a treat )
I became a psychiatric nurse
to prevent others
from falling
too far,
to use
their heads
instead of their
fists, to stop biting
the walls and
chunks
of flesh
out of the
new workers.

I was good at it
stopping
the
insane
from beating
their brains
against
the walls of
dread of contentment
and hopeless
dreams.
Falling away by the fraying of seams. 

So then I grew a pair of cast iron balls
and threw myself into
the river to learn
how to swim.

So after a few attempts
at building a house
in my field of
vision
I decided
to keep going,
into the headlights
streaming on the
highway -

At 47,
I have the joy of
my kidney stones
which are changing my face
and making me write
the memories
and the
methods
in my madness. 
The dreams
of horses
and the
punishment
Of the storms
and their reckoning.

But I am alive
 - practically speaking,

For the First Time





J.C Hawkes  - is an alien who arrived on this god-forsaken planet in the territory  of AUSTRALIA - in the middle of the decade he’d have preferred to been of age as to party with the poets he admires to this day. The Burroughs’ and the gorgeous Patti Smith, the Ferlinghetti’s and the David Bowie’s ( in his Coke Daze) - yes! the dirty filthy 1970s always suited his fantasies.  He was of age in the 1990s instead and somehow survived, the day that fuckin’ Kurt Cobain died! By discovering Jim Morrison, he never did care for teeny bopping lights. 

Now in his later years, he is approaching 50 and he is quiet and reflective and writes pages of poetry daily about his memories he actually lived. While on the inside he only ever wanted to write books, grow an old man beard and live in the mountains in a cabin built for one.   Grow old and die there - this would be fine  - by me. 






Thursday, May 6, 2021

Forward by John Drudge

When he awoke
It was barely light
The sun rising softly
Over the cove
A lone pelican 
Hunting low on the horizon
Plunging suddenly  
Into the depths
Of a summer blue sea
He ate and walked to the beach
Feeling that certain
Empty feeling
That lingers after loss
And moving
With the singular hesitation
One feels
When there’s nothing left to do
But go on



John works as a clinical social worker and is the president of a national disability management company. He holds degrees in Social Work, Psychology, and Rehabilitation Services and has studied philosophy extensively.  He is an avid traveler and a long-term student of the martial arts holding a 3rd degree black-belt in Kempo Karate. His diverse educational and experiential background gives him a broad base from which to approach many topics in his poetry. John currently lives with his wife and two children in Caledon, Ontario, Canada. 


Friday, April 9, 2021

Absence by Susan Tepper

Old leaves covering the drains
a question of extinction
should the Spring floods
rise to the second-story level. 
Up there windows confused
slap-dash holes cut
almost an afterthought.
You have already stated 
your claim to remain in place.
I would easily squeeze out 
you are too settled.
I would jump into the first
little boat that came by
engine whizzing
calling out my salvation.
Waving to you, the house,
the buried garden,
feeling the goodbye breeze
against my face as
all will drown in my absence.




Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books.  Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.

www.susantepper.com

Thursday, April 1, 2021

Simp by Sanjeev Sethi

After unpacking the journal 
from overseas
I riffle through the pages 
to locate my poem.
I point at the byline 
to my unlettered biddy, 
“My work is over the place. 
I’m not on an ego trip. 
I don’t even brag”. 
She is impressed. 
I can spot it in her eyes.



Sanjeev Sethi is published in over thirty countries. His poems have found a home in more than 350 journals or online literary venues. Wrappings in Bespoke is joint-winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It is his fourth full-length collection. It will be launched in 2021. Recent Credits:  Mad Swirl, Futures Trading, Pomona Valley Review, Life and Legends, Cajun Mutt Press, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.




Tuesday, March 30, 2021

Ever So Slightly Insane by Dennis Moriarty

I am Charles Bukowski resurrected
And bad
Dylan Thomas on a bender pissed up
And ever so slightly mad.

I hate public school types and the house
Of Windsor
Wouldn’t piss on Boris Johnston if he
Were on fire in the desert.
I loathe country music that’s not played
By Cash
And rap is for fantasist, the would be
Gangsters
Bringing terror to the mean streets
Of their minds.
I have fucked up and spewed up while
Sitting alone drinking neat whiskey,
Listening to gun fighter ballads and old
Prison songs.
Sometimes I’m Keith Richards pilled
To the gills and all coked out.
But mostly I am a bar room poet in a small
Valleys town
Spouting words in exchange for applause.

I am a pissed up old fart, an argumentative
Old pain,
Overwhelmingly fragile, and ever so
Slightly insane.


Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.


Wednesday, March 24, 2021

Hollyfuckingwood by John Doyle

For Carey Floyd

Another town
another atom bomb,
another station wagon,
another boy called Jody
sliced in half under its wheels,
another episode of the Flintstones,
another cousin with no face and no name
gathering the petals of her life
in an apple-green shin-length dress.
Another country singer's
head rolling down the highway like tumbleweed,
another Chevrolet mowhawked
by juggernauts driven by Chet
who tells his wife from a nearby phone-booth
he may be late for dinner;
Sgt. O'Malley waits nearby, Sgt. O'Malley
is polite and understanding.
Another rocket built by boys in nearby gardens
frightens horses drowning in technicolor illusions
and the memories of Randolph Scott 
once perched like Julius Cesar
on their spines,
another chief sits unconscious on the white-washed wood
of pretty 19th Century American construction and design,
another war is won by a smaller country
with smaller tits and smaller cocks
and not a single microbe or strain of Rock n' Roll music,
another Irishman who married another Irish woman
stands on the steps of the cathedral
in photographs of St. Joseph's 128 feet high 
and made of stallion-coloured stone and the immaculate
deceptions of priests with robes too loose and morals even looser,
another bullet kills another rusted can,
a different boy called Jody comes back to life
only to die again when another bullet backfires -
another day, another dollar;
Holly would, no she wouldn't, that's what all the boys said,
and the sheriff proud and tall in his pointy boots walked away;
his boys,
all of them;
gosh he was mighty proud




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 ente

Tuesday, March 23, 2021

Decay by Kevin M. Hibshman

Tread lightly
The man asleep, curled up in the doorway could be in
the middle of a very very prophetic dream
He wants to be wax
Climb him carefully
Listen to me
The afflicted will gift you in charcoal, ash and rust
One glance will inflict you voluptuous with its dusty stare that does not rub off
Come this way, you say
What a scream
What a scene laid out before me in blue moon neon
A silver-winged shimmer
A broken-toothed psalm
Burning gold leaf in a dead letter box
You are propped up on the elbows of an obsolete bone structure
Please excuse me
I am experiencing repeating phenomena with all these colliding strangers
collective particles
DNA and the flesh
the flesh is no firmament
the flesh is but a slow decay



Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.

 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).


Saturday, February 27, 2021

Graham by John Doyle

You reminded me of Paul Weller,
somewhere in London
on a winter’s morning,
petrol burning his nose,
pigeons shitting everywhere
and the lovers back to back, haunting those park benches.
Your company van matched his acoustic guitar,
capturing a cold 6am
like a 19th century colonial-type, crunching through Serengeti dust,
revving engine, the punch of gasoline, the dawn’s screeching chorus,
and that final slamming door, last Tuesday.
I’ll miss you Graham, that fire you used to breathe
keeping Winter in its cage,
as I turned over and surrendered to Morpheus





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.


Friday, February 19, 2021

Melting Pool by Susan Tepper

In the snow your hair
scrubs clean
Ice runs down 
into a melting pool
You might die 
from severe trauma
Can a person
survive such extremes
of no consequence







Susan Tepper is the author of nine published books of fiction and poetry. Her most current are a poetry chap CONFESS (Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a funky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019).  Currently she is in pre-production of a play she adapted from an earlier novel about artist Jackson Pollock in his later years. www.susantepper.com

Wednesday, February 17, 2021

Absinthe And Orgies By Kevin M. Hibshman

 


What if I fall into scabrous ruin?

Inveterate degeneration?

Absolute dissolution?

There is nothing else to do.

Saw the city.

Trampled the town.

Slept with the witches.

Hung upside down.

The party was a good one.

It went beyond the dawn.

The party was a good one.

Woke up on the lawn.









Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide.
 In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).

Saturday, February 13, 2021

I Beat Up The Football Team by John Patrick Robbins

And screwed half the cheerleaders just for good measure.

Pulled the fire alarm for lack of anything better to do.
Dated that teacher because I enjoyed driving her car.

I never made state but I have wrestled with more than a few.
Got wasted at prom and spiked the punch.

They really should have expelled me at the time.

Of course I wasn't attending the school but my sixteen year old girlfriend was

Man, I really enjoyed going back to high school in my thirties.

Who said a little do over isn't good for the soul.

I'm always guilty and damn proud of it.

Wink wink.






John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of of the universe .
He controls all time and thought and secretly created the matrix.

He still holds the world record for teleportation to a alternate universe where people still have a sense of humor and aren't such sensitive pussies.

He has been published in the yellow pages for many years and on a special list with his only true friend Scott Simmons which requires them both to maintain a safe distance from sheep farms.

He enjoys playing with black magic and writing bios that are often longer than the write he submits.

He is also the writer in residence at Dollywood.



Wednesday, January 20, 2021

Nina, God and Noah by DAH

It was raining so hard that Noah’s whiskey tasted like downspout water. Nina was watching from the window, dressed in her Saturday night fuck me first and love me later slinky black dress. She watched him standing outside The Soviet Union bar in the parking lot, under an umbrella, with red neon lights blaring like an angry army. Noah had been waiting nearly an hour for God to come with the weed. As usual, he didn’t show. God is the local weed dealer. Nina motioned from the window, making the telephone sign with her hand, for him to come in and call God, again. Noah threw back his whiskey and went inside. 

    “Typical repulsive God, to not show up. And you standing out there like some moronic believer. You screwed up by giving him the cash first.” she was irritated and pacing.                                       

Noah dialed God’s number and got his message service: Hi, this is God. What I can create for you? 

   “Where in the fuck are you?” he grumbled into the phone. Then hung up. 

Across the bar, Nina was warming up to a local lumberjack with a purple patch over his right eye. His left eye zeroed in on Noah for a few seconds. Then the jack bought Nina a whiskey. She threw it back, and whispered in his ear. He looked at Noah again, sat up straight and strong, and belly laughed out loud. Nina kissed him on the cheek and walked back to Noah. 

    “Let’s get the fuck out of here” she growled. They left The Soviet Union and headed for a party hosted by friends, Cairo and Jen. 

    The storm was pelting the windshield, like somebody spitting in their faces. It was dark and eerie and the headlights dripped in the rain. They should’ve been at the party two hours ago. It was already 1:30am. Nina was rifling through her knockoff designer bag manically looking for a joint that may be there somewhere. Her cheap perfume turned Noah’s stomach and made him nauseous. He cracked the window. The cold air settled his nerves. The curvy roads were testing his motion sickness, which was elevated by Nina’s dirt-cheap toilet water. She found the joint, lit it, gave it a puff and passed it over to Noah. Suddenly, it stopped raining and the hour was getting later. 

   Nina met Noah while she was working at a dive bar in Highland Park, Los Angeles. She was the night bartender. Standing a statuesque five-feet nine inches, to his five-feet eight inches, she had been pursuing a modeling career. She’s lean and leggy with long, dark hair, threatening curves, and an attitude that says: Fuck you! She’s of Armenian and Spanish descent. Hot blooded and perpetually livid. She had just fallen out of a two-year marriage. Compounded with a stalled modeling life, and at twenty-nine, she was looking to leave L.A. to start over, to find herself, to find anything. 

Noah was working retail at a cheap shoe store near the bar. One afternoon Nina came into the shop, and it was love at first shoe fitting. Several months into their relationship, Noah got a call from a bank saying that his recently deceased uncle, whom he really didn’t know, had left him a sizeable amount of money and a small, mortgage-free cabin in Northern California. They left their dead-end jobs and headed north to the redwoods, rain, and cold.

    It was 2:00am when they arrived at the party. The house was lit up with multicolored lights, and it was loud with spirited music. Noah saw Cairo through the window dancing to some tribal beats. There were people everywhere. Nina flew out of the car, squatted behind the open door and pissed. She stood up, pulled her form-fitting dress back into place, and shouted, “Fucking relief!” 

    In spiked heels, she stumbled along the dirt path heading to the house, looking like the woman who fell to earth. On the way there some raggedy, middle-aged dude was eyeing her with the blood-hunger of a hawk. He had a sloppy grin, greasy short hair, and was wearing a childish-looking tie-dye tee shirt.

    “What are you looking at, moron?!” Nina shouted, “Go and jackoff somewhere and get over it.’’ She went into the party. 

     Noah sat in the car for a few minutes taking in the cold air. He was still woozy from the half-hour of country curves. Then, in the orange bug light of the rear porch, he saw God standing there in a cloud of smoke hitting a bong with two other familiar faces. 

    A skinny, old geezer, with long white hair, long white beard––God stands about four-feet five inches and strikes you as being a troll. Not a grand wizard, but an enervating troll. He has a hundred and two stories and none of them interesting. Born and raised in the Humbolt area, God is the creator of all things weed––one cannot find weed without believing in God. He was talking to two local Mexican potheads named Gabriel and Jesus. The scene resembled a religious experience with God preaching a sermon while waving the bong around, like an aspergillum, as if blessing the other two. As always, God was rambling on and on while Gabriel and Jesus’ heads were bobbing and wobbling in obligatory responses. Just as Noah was ready to step into the light, to make himself known, Nina stormed out of the back door, like a gorgeous hurricane, with a whiskey in one hand and a joint in the other. Towering over God and spitting profanities; she looked like a wild cat with rabies that had cornered a terrified rodent. The two Mexicans disappeared as quickly as smoke hitting a fan. 

    “We waited a fucking hour for you, you pile of geezer crap. Where the fuck is our weed!?” Nina was, and to not be redundant, livid. 

    “And you’re gonna’ cut us a sweet, fucking deal for wasting our precious time and …” 

The two of them noticed Noah at the same second. Nina threw back the whiskey and stomped into the house. God was shaking like he was about to piss his jeans, but he composed himself, as quickly as a cat falling and landing lightly on its feet.  

    “Dude, brah, you gotta keep that pit bull on a short leash, and let me tell ya what happened. I––I was gonna …’’ 

    Stopping God in midsentence, Noah wasn’t up for one of his epic dull stories, nor his excuses. God handed him the bong. He refused. 

    “Listen, God, it’s hard for me to believe in you when, for the third time, you’ve screwed up and left me short.” 

God hit the bong and his face disappeared in a cloud. When Noah could see his eyes again, he said, 

    “I wanna believe in you, but with all of the misery and frustration you’ve created, especially short-changing me an eighth the last time––ya dig what I’m sayin’?’’  “So, here’s the deal. You’re gonna give me the weed and half of my dough back. You’re gonna take the loss for my frustration and time wasted, or I whistle for Nina, and she’ll jerk you upside down hanging you by your feet until every bud and buck falls from your pockets. What’ll be?” 

    God looked down for a few seconds, then looked up, “Dude, brah, I can’t do that. Ya’all have to learn to play my game, by my rules. When I contradict myself, ya’all have to still believe in me, otherwise, ya’all can go to hell.’’

     Noah knelt down so that he was looking the little man square in the eyes. God stepped back a bit and was shivering. Noah could see Nina through the window shooting back another whiskey and chomping on the bit, while anxiously watching. He motioned for her to come out to the porch. 

    Nina opened the back door so hard that it banged the wall, knocking out the porch light, and the porch itself shook, like tectonic plates had slipped. God was now in the dark, and the inside light behind Nina displayed a startling silhouette. She looked like one of the Apocalyptic Horsemen. God was whimpering, and this time he pissed his jeans. Nina grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the floor and sat on him. 

    “Listen, you grubby creep, reach into those grimy pockets and give us our goods or I’m gonna squat and piss on your face.” 

    Noah backed up, smirking at the scene unfolding before him and thinking, God deserved this a long time ago and not just from us. 

    “Listen to her, God, she’s got evil in her head and she’s burning with temper.” 

Just as he finished the sentence, Nina pulled up her slinky dress, pulled her silk panties aside and squatted over God’s face. “Ok, ok, ok!’’  he screamed. 

    Noah motioned for Nina to stop and let him up. The dwarf got up, beaten and humiliated.  

“You freaks are out of your screwy gourds, and further more …’’ 

    Nina grabbed him by the collar again and shouted, “Only when a swindler like you rips us off!” 

She let him go with a shove. The turd fell hard against the wall, and breathing heavily he reached into his pocket and handed Noah a wade of hundreds; he opened a backpack and gave Noah a quarter-pound. Then, without a word, he hobbled along the dark path and disappeared, like Gollum crawling under a bridge.

    Noah looked inside the house and saw Cairo and Jen undulating to trance rhythms. The crowd had thinned out. He suggested that they go in and mingle with their friends. 

    “Naw, I’m too horny for a dull, socializing nightcap. It’s 2:45. Let’s go home and fuck ‘til the sun rises.” They got into the car and Nina lit a joint, hitting it strong and deep. Noah backed up into the darkness and they drove off.

A minute down the dirt road they came upon God standing there with his head hanging low, like a broken garden gnome. Nina rolled down the window and yelled, 

    “Fuck you, God. I never believed in you!’’, while she reached for Noah’s crotch.  

   This long night of anger and frustration came to a glorious ending. And, to make life more interesting, Nina and Noah had decided that it was time to buy their own Humbolt pot farm and to run that duplicitous God out of business. 




DAH is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee,
and the author of nine books of poetry. DAH lives in Berkeley, California,
where he is working on his tenth poetry collection, while simultaneously
working on his first collection of short fiction.