Robert Beveridge

How To Write Poetry

Crucified, Jesus
spoke the world’s
most poetic line:

Heleva, the second:
“There is no poetry in that.”

Nail yourself 
to a cross built
from other dead girlfriends
and their suicide boyfriends
(preferably in mahogany)
glued together with blood
taken from the heart
with a 14-gauge needle.
Whisper the first thing
that comes to mind,
Aramaic optional.

Wash your hands in urine,
dry them on the stuffed
carcass of an armadillo.
Pink fairy is preferable
but giant will do in a pinch.

Touch someone beautiful,
fall in love, commit
suicide, repeat the cycle
as often as possible.
Don’t forget the urine.

Trim your adverbs.
Trim your gerunds.
And don’t be cynical,
whatever else you do.

Michael D. Amitin

free ballad

shooting up raggedy winds
blood crimson frost
faraway nights,
Montreal, she’s there
tender eyed

walking lightstreaks ahead of me
I stumble shiny stockyards into 
morning future fogs
yesteryear tattoos fading on thin dreamrail hearts 

she never liked to walk as a kid
ice creams summers along the Seine

she loves me,
gotta fly

wwoz on, funky as ever
in the midnite boil

a lot of me in her
torn tender grasses, blue moon trances

as lampposts gleam broad street
endless roads await her hot tire rampage tracks

purr, run the engine
it’s all yours baby

Donna Dallas

White Collar Gods

When you said ride or die 
I didn’t realize you would
expose every pore
every crack
bore your wisdom
into my very core
these kids today–
what do they know
about hovels 
walking to and from the bus
in the rain
snow a foot deep
panting steam as we walked uphill

I learned how to chew
my food slow
while we rode fast
without seatbelts
through Milano
into Paris
across to Bordeaux

I longed for this life
but the price was
every last drop

You called my name
it echoed into the empty
hull of my body
sometimes it feels good just to pee
when 4 hours sleep is all I get
or the calls
at 2am from India, China, Tokyo, Russia

The endless flights
home is in my head
a hearth with a warm fire in my chest
strong loving arms
I know nothing about
because I raced through the years
with a laptop
extended resume

I missed the turn
for lovers and babies
this womb has dried
to a crackled

My bank account
is my daily orgasm
after 8pm you can find me
slugging a flawless martini
that’s taken years of perfecting
with Dolin Vermouth

I cradle the bottle

Matthew Borczon


PTSD is an unfinished
symphony played
on the screams of
wounded Marines
and the cries of
Afghan children

The percussion
is a helicopter
the woodwinds
are all wound vacs
it’s free to come in
and listen but it will
cost you everything
if you ever hope
to leave

PTSD is the space
between my wife
and me in bed

The space she fills
with pillows
and two dogs

The one I fill
with sweaty sheets
fear and the desire
to once again
be the man
she married

PTSD is the look
on my pharmacist’s
face when I don’t
want my anxiety

It is the note
my mother sent
asking me when
will I get over
all of this

And it is the taste
of vomit
in my mouth
when anyone
thanks me for
my service

John D Robinson

The Ass of God

Patricia stabbed Ronnie
3 times in the stomach
but he survived and
they got divorced

Texas was a one eyed manager
of the ‘Dripping Spring’ and
after 3 years he hit the road
with 18 months of takings

Ruby was held hostage for 48 hours
and forced by a fuck-freak into
sex acts her modeling career
had never anticipated

Julian was a junkie and bisexual
and a talented artist who
committed suicide by heroin
after his partner had died of AIDS

Monkey Dave, the hash dealer,
died of a broken heart after
learning his beautiful wife
was being fucked senseless
by his friends and customers

Linda, also a pot dealer,
was sexy and wore short skirts
and tight white panties
and low cut blouses and
died of cancer aged 45

Niko was a junkie
and we all assumed
that he’d die of O/D but
cancer beat his ass aged 44

Ricky was a sweet kid
but a methamphetamine
induced heart attack
took him aged 29

Sailor Al was stabbed
to death in a hovel,
Gordon froze to death
on the streets, and
Mick the Karate survived
4 gunshot wounds and
even lived to take
his revenge

Tony, the street drinker,
told me he was going to
shove this life up
the ass of God

Swan Dive, By David Boski

These poems by David Boski hit hard and punch you in the face like the narrator in the opening poem ‘Thanks for Asking’. Confronting the demons found in sickness, death, relationships and simply walking his dog, Boski is unafraid to spit out the truth. Although some poems have been written in the times of Covid-19, Boski reminds us that there has always been suffering, isolation and fear. Difficult things to deal with, and Boski asks on more than one occasion “What’s the point?” I would say it’s that we need to endure and face the demons and Boski’s words show us we are not alone in doing so.

Adrian Manning, Poet and Publisher: Concrete Meat Press

For copies, please contact: or

Dustin King


This poem is about the prowess of our sexual organs.
We know just how to slap them together.
It’s a gorgeous rhythmic sound.
Our orgasms are regular and simultaneous.
We are never ambivalent,
least of all our loins.
They’re furnaces down there.
I could get it up right now!
Sure, I don’t mind a condom but
I was tested last week.
I’d love to hear your confession
but i must confess something first—
someone is calling on the other line.
Also, I am out of town.

John Maurer

Quiet Master

Like the cellulose encased chunks of Einstein’s brain
They want my prose in rows, my poetry about a gust through the trees
My poetry doesn’t give a singular phonetical fuck about your doctor of philosophy
There is no healing for those who wound themselves

‘Art School Drop Out Aficionado’ and a roach clip on my desk
Taxes require income, poets only know the inevitability of death
I’m digging a mine shaft with my fingernails and a fountain pen
The artists’ creed, I blink therefore I am
For what is thought without vision?

I am your favorite writer’s favorite writer to plagiarize
At school, they told me to explain more but when I did, they understood less
I don’t interfere with my peers when they sell their souls to paperback presses
When they give eighty hours a week to a job they hate to pay for their chic Soho loft
So they can ‘be on the scene’
When we speak two years later they say they haven’t written in a couple of years