J.J. Campbell

proletariat

ever since i have
been an adult, i
have preferred
cats over dogs

i’m pretty sure
this makes me
a communist
to most people

actually, i’m just
another of the
proletariat that
has a dream

wondering if one
day the princess will
include me in her
games of love

that maybe one day
the neon will let us
rise to a celestial level
where pain can no
longer touch these
broken wings

but, who am i kidding

i think there is a bit
of heroin left from
the night before

oblivion can’t get
here fast enough

i put out a little
milk for the cat

in my fantasies,
she’s the one that
cooks up the shots

 

Alan Catlin

Strawberry Blonde

Busty blonde from a bottle
buys cosmetics from CVS
store flashing a wad of bills,
serious cash, acting casual,
tells the thin pixie cut girl
behind the counter,
“The boys would like you,
you’ve the face for it.
Nice, trim athletic body.
Seriously, ever think
about it? Dancing, I mean.”

“I’m too flat chested.
Don’t know how to dance.
I’m not flash like you.”

“It’s just a pole, some hot
rock music and moving
like you mean it. Work out
a routine. I’ll show you
around. You can make
some serious cash. Tax free.
More in a night than you
can make pushing keys
in a CVS drug store in a month.”

Two weeks later, the new
girl is talking to some sleaze bag
in a polyester suit that was
never in style about making
movies. Who knew? CVS
stores as stepping stone to
the stage and screen.

 

Anggo Genorga

My Self-Styled Lost Weekend Cheap Imitation

Yoko’s the wife stayin’ overseas. Harry Nielsen
can be my brother whose bitch I fucked as he
believes. Ringo can be the dope runner living
in my house, always tryin’ to get inside my head.
Keith Moon’s his wife gone wild and ballistic with
our dirty laundry and I’m with May Pang, undressed
on a queen sized, her legs nicely spread wide
and still wearing her stupid fucking glasses.

 

(Midnight Lane Boutique, August 2015)

Scott Manley Hadley

talking to a friend about our polyamorous friends

One of our friends says
‘They will end up as killers,
Like Fred and Rose West,
This is how they started.’

In shock at his words and the venom with which he says them,
I tell him that Fred West used to eat onions as if they were apples,
A fact I heard on a podcast.

But the friend continues his disapproval
And says
Over and over and over again
‘Well, me and my girlfriend
Aren’t bored
Of fucking each other.’

I do not think
My bisexual polyamorous friends
Are bored of fucking each other
I think they are so
Excited
By sex
They want more of it.

Fred and Rose West
Had a homemade neon sign saying “cunt” above their bed.
They lived in Bristol.
They were good at DIY.

They are nothing like my
Tasteful
Middle Class
West London
friends.

Sex
Is not
A moral failing.

Killing people
Is.

But if we’re getting Catholic about it,
Envy’s just as bad as lust.

Stare Down The Gods, by Adrian Manning

Stare Down The Gods

Stare Down The Gods
By Adrian Manning
Holy&intoxicated Publications

Adrian Manning is a UK poet whose work has appeared in print and online the globe over:  his voice is sincere and delicate and he is a poet who is unafraid to let the pen scratch the truth into paper. Manning writes with a resonance that permeates humanity and its flaws and beauty and has the ability to knock you into next week with just a few lines. He has published over 20 chapbooks, he has established a strong presence in the small press for the past two decades, and ‘Stare Down The Gods’ is a testament to this respected well-deserved reputation. For Holy&intoxicated Publications, it is with a sense of honour and excitement to release this collection. If you are familiar with Manning’s work, this book is a must-have, and if you are unfamiliar with his work, then this is a must-have book.  — JDR

Paypal £5:00 / $5:00 plus p&p to johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

James D. Casey IV

Hand Snakes & Fingernail Soup

maggots in the meat
puking reflections
dreaming dreams
of becoming flies

heads up
duck
goodbye and thanks
for all the fish

plastic mountains
under mind control
wooden bones
creaky souls

human teeth boiling
in cat bile
mind and body
blown away

alligator feet around
hand snakes’ necks
French kiss
pig parade

scabs on the dog
brewed into beer
turn turds
milky missiles

three cheers
for dead youth
mushroom cloud
confetti

coffee in a
crystal skull
pointing at our wrists
asking for the time

suicide notes
as paper airplanes
aurora borealis eyes
swollen and blind

angles mistaken
for parabolas in
the business of living
never follow the crowd

fingernail soup
testing the water
not all good things
come to an end

Alan Catlin

Dirty Girl Scout

When God made cut-off
jeans and specially modified
wife beater tees and put them
on a woman with a Daisy Mae
body, you knew there was a
reason and a purpose to life.
That she could pound flaming
shots of whatever you put
in front of her and swear like
a stevedore, didn’t diminish
the package, actually added
traction, among the guys she
hung with in after hour, no
close bars. Used to claim
she was a girl scout in her
youth, the kind scout leaders
warned all the other girls about
and who was envied by all.
Was asked by one of the bar fly
mountain men she hung with
if she’d ever been a brownie
and she said, “Wouldn’t you
like to know.”
The way they were looking at
each other it wouldn’t be long
before they found out all there
was to know about each other.

James D. Casey IV

The Neverending Nothing

painted faces
painted on the faces
of a triple-headed frog
walking through the rain
whispering to itself
things no-one can hear
that only come out
at night

pagan free wild
ripped apart
for less than a dollar
trees stripped
bone dry
lissome beings
crying
under satin sheets
torn away

strange chords play
stars dance
asleep
inside the deep
everybody
wants to rule
the world
but the nothing
lasts forever

walls of amber
behind blank stares
black eyes
broken dreams
glowing embers
forgotten

too many things
too little time
great feast
rotting promises
smoke filled lungs
taken
chance by chance

odds and ends
stolen away
better safe
than sorry

Lee Kirk

Bad Pill

Rose poured
from her friends’ nose
as he pulled his fist back.

Near midnight,
halfway up Sauchiehall Street.
Under a neon casino sign,
he came towards us.

My screams were louder
than his shirt,
more feminine than
the girl hiding behind my back.

I used her handbag
like a shield,
defending us both.

The windmill for insignia
kicked in,
making my jaw sloppy,
my eyes rolling backwards.
Feeling sunburnt under
tungsten lights,
I felt something,
stir from my belly.

As he got closer,
you could see the coke
around his noseholes,
flaring like a mad dog.

Throwing a punch,
clipping my left ear.
I was about to strike back but
Instead I was sick, sick, SiCK!

Projectile, steaming hot,
all over his chest,
looking like an SVQ level 1 art
abstract island.

He stopped
as sirens got closer.

Looking down
at his shirt,
then back up at us.
Then he ran away!

She thanked me for saving her.
My breath pumping harder
than any muscle in my body.

I said
you’re welcome.
She said
her name was Lisa.

Two fire engines zoomed past.
I asked Lisa for her number.

‘Naw, you’re alright’.

So I walked away in slight defeat,
towards the smoke of where
the fire engines went.

The art school was on fire.
The universe can protect you
In the strangest of ways
sometimes.