Sunday, March 31, 2024

Two Poems by Jay Passer

It Feels Like

she's gonna be

my last

great love;

just like

she was

20 years




that time

same kinda thing


this one's


the same

age as

that one was

back then 


that's right,

just a

poor kid



this time

I'm not 20

but 40 

years older,

give or take

a minute or

a thousand





galaxies, or 

on some rainy 



by Picasso


this time,

that time,

in fact

both times,

she's a



what a



she might as

well be an




from the 

shtetl or

on a



its always

back to



same thing

that time


this time,

in fact

all the damn



hard landing,

soft touch






same tiresome


same glorious




rainy morning,

her red hair 

wet, her 

cold white



in mine

Not Even Malpractice

Theres nothing wrong with me other than an overactive libido. The chronic pain, apparently, is psychosomatic. And all the bloodwork on Gods green earth wont make her answer my texts either.

Bio: The poetry of Jay Passer first appeared in Caliban magazine in 1988, alongside the work of William S. Burroughs, Maxine Hong Kingston and Wanda Coleman. He is the author of 14 collections of poetry and prose and has been included in print and online publications worldwide. A lifetime plebeian, Passer has labored as dishwasher, barista, soda jerk, pizza cook, housepainter, courier, warehouseman, bookseller and mortician's apprentice. Originally a native of San Francisco, Passer currently resides in Los Angeles, California. His latest collection of poems, Son of Alcatraz, released in February of 2024 by Alien Buddha Press, is available on Amazon.

Wednesday, March 27, 2024

One Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Aswan Willie Dixon


Aswan Willie Dixon

took the power of Egypt 

with him wherever 

he went.


Dealt dime bags

out front this Bloor West Village 

head shop 

in a tri-coloured beanie.


Went home to the same woman 

every night, and this half-blind

rescue dog named Horus 

that never learned to 

play fetch.


Ate frozen peas from the ice box 

with a generous stick of butter.


Over all those scratchy records.

Promising he wouldn’t go back.


Come raging cannon

or fodder.


That was Aswan

Willie Dixon.



Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.

Friday, March 22, 2024

Two Poems by Daniel S. Irwin

Bug Juice

He'll sleep thru his whole incarceration.
Twelve years in prison loaded up on drugs.
On his release date, he'll be taken off drugs.
He'll find a different world, a changed world.
He'll look and see a stranger in the mirror.
Free, at last, from the iron bars and stone walls,
The escort picks him up and drives him to the
Mental Health facility, where he'll be held,
Doped up again, this time as 'treatment'.



Death Called Me

Death called me.
Fortunately, I have
Caller ID.
I put him on 'hold'.

Bio: Daniel S. Irwin was not raised by wolves, just the notorious naked apes (not Tarzan)in the hills of Southern Illinois. Artist, actor, writer, Dudeist priest. Work published in over 100 magazines and journals world-wide. Seventeen books of questionable value.  Once worked in a prison for the criminally insane, now retired misses his friends.Latest work can be found in Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Beatnik Cowboy, Cajun Mutt, and on some fine shithouse walls.

Friday, March 8, 2024

Three Poems By J.J Campbell

Like Teaching an Infant Algebra

another night where the first 

jack and coke quickly becomes 

your fourth


where the overs aren’t hitting

and the unders aren’t either


explaining a parlay to your date

is like teaching an infant algebra


your patience runs as thin

as her tolerance for alcohol


eventually, you’re smart enough 

to change the subject completely


compliment her looks


crack a joke, make her smile


fuck, i needed that three 

to go down


any chance of this night going 

well will only happen if we get 

the fuck out of here


check please


no, i’ll take care of the tip


just wait until your sexy ass

gets in the car



Natural Causes


you ever wonder about death


about what will be said when 

you are found prone, lifeless


who knows where the gun 

will be


or is it just me


natural causes doesn’t have 

that sexy ring to it like suicide 

or dancing with a train


of course, there is the asshole 

on my other shoulder


the one more geared toward 

logic, practical thought


he tends to believe my death 

will be mundane


in bed


probably with a belt around 

my neck trying to reach climax


it is always those straightlaced 

fuckers that have the most 

perverse thoughts resting 

under that comfortable 



the brain i use most often 

never thinks about death


he would simply like it if something

other than my hand would slide 

down there from time to time


A Night of Doing Strange Drugs


she had the taste of dr. pepper 

with a hint of a clove cigarette


i was in one of my underground 

music phases


she, for some reason, thought 

i was cool


i would prove her wrong 

soon enough


but this was a night of doing 

strange drugs


making out on a shitty couch


taking her home and her laughing 

when i asked if i could come in


i thought maybe she was flirting


apparently, sleep was more 



but still wired, i drove the night

looking for a hooker to break 

me in two


no luck


a drawback of the small cities 

of the midwest


she forgot i slipped her panties 

off while on the couch


they helped me make it through 

the night


Bio: J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Synchronized Chaos, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.

One Poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A Real Escape Artist  The woman upstairs  ran a tight ship, never let her husband speak out of turn and made him deal weed in the basement: ...