Shut Down by Ian Lewis Copestick

Sometimes life, and
the people you have
to share it with just
bring you down so
much that the only
thing that you can
do in psychic self
defence is neck
back a bottle of
whisky. Or take any
drug that you can
lay your hands on.
I know that these
things are stupid,
and won't help you
at all, but every now
and then you just
get so low that you
need to shut your
brain down for an
hour or two.
I can feel a shut down
coming on.

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.

Glib Minions. By Kevin M. Hibshman

I shall never be one of the glib minions, perpetually comatose, lying prostrate at some so-called 

leader's feet.

Happily deceived, they pledge their feeble allegiance to HE who promises to smite any enemy their 

rotted imaginations can conceive.

I wonder if when future generations gaze back upon our blemished history, 

Will they shake their heads in utter disbelief at how we once allowed a cowardly mob of madmen

to rob us of our pride, purpose and dignity?

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).

THE SLOW COLD REEK OF SUSPICION by Jay Passer

I can’t think while the mice are listening

my only companions although they disgust me

waiting for me to leave by the door or by dying

in either case, revolution is on their tiny minds

savvy their infinitesimal Hitchcockian urges

gathering en masse behind undulating walls

in noxious league with other species of vermin

I can’t even tiptoe around the room, thanks to

broken shards of psychic warfare littered about

I put on my Kafka mask, shut tight all the windows

as an insidious karma corrodes the cancer within

I can’t abandon the proscenium for fear 

of demolishing the fourth wall for good

Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. He is the author of several chapbooks and has appeared in a bunch of anthologies. His latest collection, they lied to me when they said everything would be alright, from Pski's Porch, is available at Amazon. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.

86’ed. By Dan Provost

Barred from Wonderland

with an idea of poetic license

stuck to my calamity.

Billowing hopelessness stalks the

ground with the horizontal

homeless.

Before I go, I’ll take three of what she’s

having and call it a life.

Be patient, as I count the

pennies to pay the tab.

You’ve got nowhere to

go Captain America…

Being 86’ed forever is a

title I’d welcome

           warmly…

I can sit on the curb

all day now

and portray my pitiful

mistake.

As passer byes lean against my

new home.

Trying to lift gum off

their shoe.

Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years.  Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily.  He has two books coming out in 2020.  Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press.  He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.

Saplings by Susan Tepper

Watch a sudden flash 

fire absorb the ground

weeds bunched 

like yarn

you worked into 

a fragrant sweater

carry flames

rushing to finish

for him

Everything tall is bending

The strain—

The saplings before 

their time to silver 

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

From the Fountain by Susan Tepper

Do you walk 

to make light

through your arms

tree limbs 

hanging.

In Paris 

when the rain stopped  

the buildings

breathed out heat.

A young man

emerged

greasy hair swept back

a sheen to his 

unwashed face and

cheap rumpled suit.

I pictured him 

entwined with a stranger 

all the night before.

Industrious 

he emptied a knapsack

filling empty 

water bottles to sell

to tourists later

from the fountain.

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

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.