Sunday, May 19, 2024

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:
nothing serious, just dime bags in a pinch,
but she didn’t want to see or hear about it,
a real escape artist,
but she loved the money that came in
each week like the plague –
you just knew this one was setting up
the crying unspoilt virgin on the rocks: 
she had no idea 
and would cooperate fully
with the authorities 
about all those people 
that were lesser than her
and had a problem.

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.

One Poem by J.J Campbell

Nothing Better to Do

out looking for hookers 
at three in the morning


nothing but the homeless 

and cops with nothing

better to do

 

these are the nights where 

cheap wine would flow

along with a few cheap 

cigars

 

a flash of lightning 

in the distance

 

plenty of miles before 

that fresh slice of hell 

gets here

 

back home

 

put a little music on

 

break out the watercolors

and see how insanity 

looks on a blank canvas

 

i used to paint naked 

out at the farm

 

i would laugh when 

the body hair ended 

up mixing with the 

paint

 

just another animal

waiting to be caged

 

left to his own devices

 

and all the chaos within



Bio: J.J Campbell (1976-?) is trapped in the suburbs wondering where all the lonely housewives went. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, Disturb the Universe Magazine and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, Evil Delights

Wednesday, May 8, 2024

Four Poems by Dave Roskos

I staggered across

the boardwalk w/

a six pack of beer

I lowered it over the fence

onto the beach & then

tumbled over the fence

into the sand

I walked a few feet

& the cardboard six pack

holder fell apart

& the beer bottles

fell in the sand.

I pulled a piece of tinfoil

out of my pocket

unwrapped it

& ate a hit & a half of

gelatin-like LSD

which was stuck to it

then I gathered up

my beer

& continued walking

toward the ocean

a cop blew a whistle

& told me to stop

& drop the beer

they escorted me

off the beach

across the boardwalk

to the street.

one of the cops

set me against

a cop car

& began interrogating me

he kept telling me to

stop spitting

I didn’t get why

he cared if I spit

or not until

I looked down

at his shoes

which were covered

in spit

(& I wasn’t even

aiming for them!)

I burst out into laughter

 

by the time we got

to the Seaside Heights

police station

I was feeling

the effects of the acid.

 

the cops made me

take all of my clothes off

& threw me in a small cell

where the acid

continued

to kick in

hard

 

a little while later

they brought me

out into a brightly

lit empty room

& stood me

against the wall

which was covered

w/ blood splatterings

dripping red like a

Jackson Pollock

painting

 

the cop who arrested me

whose shoes I had spit on

started poking a nightstick

into my chest, yelling

spit on me now, tough guy!

there were a dozen

other cops in the room

they formed a half

circle from one side

of me to the other

on the wall

they all had nights sticks too

& were slapping

them into their hands

waiting for me to make

the first move

Come on! Hit me!

yelled the cop--

I said, I’m not crazy

& did not make a move

I asked one of the cops

who looked like he

was in charge if he

knew my father

he said, yeah,

& it looks like

you are following

in his footsteps.

 

they put me back

in the cell, still naked.

 

some time later

they gave me my clothes

& drove me to the

juvenile jail

in Toms River

 

That was the worst acid trip I ever had

 

-


When I was a teenager

I hated cops

& used to spit on them

when I was drunk

 

my father was my first

drinking buddy

we smoked pot together too

 

he liked fords for some reason

had several 1965 mustangs

& a few falcons (a 1960 w/ 3 on the tree)

but mostly he drove dodge darts

 

everybody drank & drove back then

the cops would take yr car keys

tell you to sleep it off

in the backseat

come back a few hours later

at the end of their shift

& give ya your keys back

 

once me & my dad

& a bunch of our friends

as many as could fit in the backseat

got pulled over by a cop

in the pine barrens

 

I had been in a black out

the last thing I remembered

was being at a party in the afternoon

all of a sudden it was night time

& we were all standing

on the side of route 70

with the red lights revolving

into the trees around us

 

there were 2 or 3 cops

“Dover Rovers” we called them

on account they were from Dover Township

 

one of them questioned me

asked for ID & when he

was done, moved on to one of

our friends who was standing

next to me. they had us

all lined up in a row against

one of the police cars

 

one of the gals

had a big bag of potato chips

I stuck my hand in the bag

& stuffed a bunch of

chips in my mouth,

chewed them up,

filling my cheeks

like a chipmunk.

 

I tapped on the cop’s shoulder

when he turned to look at me

I sprayed the potato chips

in his face in a long

continuous spray

 

all of my friends laughed

& the cops handcuffed me

& threw me in the back

of the police car

 

my dad was already back there

his hands cuffed behind his back

Ya gotta stop spitting on cops Davey,

he said, one of these times

one of em might kill you.

 

my step-father Storm

picked me up from the jail

in Whiting

I was only 15 so they

released me into his custody

 

we didn’t speak on the drive home

(I think they took my dad to ocean county jail)

 

As we walked into the living room

Saturday Night Live was on TV

& the Grateful Dead were playing

Bob Weir was wearing bunny ears

It was Saturday April 5, 1980,

the night before Easter


-


Another Time / Another Traffic Stop


another summer night

coming out of a blackout

being questioned by the police

my hands cuffed behind my back

cop says blow in my face

(he wanted to see if he could

smell alcohol on my breath)

I twisted my mouth

into a sarcastic smile

my friends burst out laughing

the cop kicked my legs

out from under me 

& I landed on my back

on the asphalt

my father yelled

Don’t you fuckin’ touch him!

& lunged toward the cops

but they already

had him constrained

 

 

Poem For The Police at Seaside Heights

 

At sixteen I was arrested

for spitting on a policeman’s shoes.

A copy of Allen Ginsberg’s Planet News

in my back pocket.

They called me the philosopher king

and applied several tactics of intimidation.

They stripped me naked & threw me in a cell.

I had planned on traveling to Tennessee

to visit Stephen Gaskin’s Farm.

I wouldn’t have lasted a week;

Drug addicts make terrible hippies.

Angry young men make bad lovers.

 

Life is so much better,

since I’ve been off booze.



Bio: Dave Roskos is the editor of Big Hammer Magazine & Iniquity Press/Vendetta Books. Currently editing a mag called Street Value, a print zine which is online at: www.outlawlibrary.blogspot.com He works as a life skills specialist for a non-profit independent housing program for folks recovering from mental illness & addiction.

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: ...