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YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless THE SEASON IN HELL BY BRENTON BOOTH I understand the wilting flower the dusty bowl on the shelf all the words ever written about longing: is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry? drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney raindrops dancing on the roof my neighbour still quiet two days after I THE COLOUR MELANCHOLIA BY PAUL TRISTRAM It has many depths and shades. Textures which range from suede and velvet, right over to, smoke and mildew. It’s an experience, a traffic-jammed journey leading absolutely nowhere. Anorexic in its leanings whilst remaining gluttonous in vertigo thoughts. Wallpapers the inside sepulchre womb of that depressive hole you’re crouched and rocking to and fro in. MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AN OPEN LETTER FROM THREE PLENTY OF FISHES BY JAMESON Jameson Bayles is a roving correspondent for Poetrybay and his work has been published in numerous literary journals and magazines most recently in Poems-For-All, Hedgerow, The Ambriel Revolution, Thirteen Myna Birds and on Rumrazor.com. Jameson resides in Kansas City,Missouri.
INTERVIEW WITH PAUL TRISTRAM AT DREAMMINERS PUBLISHING Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AFTER JESSE JAMES FAKED HIS DEATH BY MELANIE BROWNE He couldn't stay in his beloved Missourah, and so he hitched a ride to Texas (Pronounced Tay-Hoss) and was promptly hired by EDS and rose up the ranks of that company and dined with Ross Perot and various members of the Bush Family. He was wildly entertaining at company picnics! (insert weapon onomatopoeia here) and SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. theYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless THE SEASON IN HELL BY BRENTON BOOTH I understand the wilting flower the dusty bowl on the shelf all the words ever written about longing: is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry? drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney raindrops dancing on the roof my neighbour still quiet two days after I THE COLOUR MELANCHOLIA BY PAUL TRISTRAM It has many depths and shades. Textures which range from suede and velvet, right over to, smoke and mildew. It’s an experience, a traffic-jammed journey leading absolutely nowhere. Anorexic in its leanings whilst remaining gluttonous in vertigo thoughts. Wallpapers the inside sepulchre womb of that depressive hole you’re crouched and rocking to and fro in. MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AN OPEN LETTER FROM THREE PLENTY OF FISHES BY JAMESON Jameson Bayles is a roving correspondent for Poetrybay and his work has been published in numerous literary journals and magazines most recently in Poems-For-All, Hedgerow, The Ambriel Revolution, Thirteen Myna Birds and on Rumrazor.com. Jameson resides in Kansas City,Missouri.
INTERVIEW WITH PAUL TRISTRAM AT DREAMMINERS PUBLISHING Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AFTER JESSE JAMES FAKED HIS DEATH BY MELANIE BROWNE He couldn't stay in his beloved Missourah, and so he hitched a ride to Texas (Pronounced Tay-Hoss) and was promptly hired by EDS and rose up the ranks of that company and dined with Ross Perot and various members of the Bush Family. He was wildly entertaining at company picnics! (insert weapon onomatopoeia here) and SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. the THE COLOUR MELANCHOLIA BY PAUL TRISTRAM It has many depths and shades. Textures which range from suede and velvet, right over to, smoke and mildew. It’s an experience, a traffic-jammed journey leading absolutely nowhere. Anorexic in its leanings whilst remaining gluttonous in vertigo thoughts. Wallpapers the inside sepulchre womb of that depressive hole you’re crouched and rocking to and fro in. A WEIZEN GLASS IN VIENNA 1913 BY GLEN WILSON The young stranger nods at the vodka and I am filled and handed over to him, he drinks deep and quick slamming me down and motions for more. The Austrian painter who drank cheap schappes yesterday sits dejected in the corner, only livening up when two of his acolytes enter. He drank sparingly from me, THE WOODEN-PILLOWED HOTEL BY PAUL TRISTRAM Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. WHEN DAD COMES HOME FROM THE WAR BY RUTH Z. DEMING Beth was sitting out on the front porch, glass of wine in her hand, and noisily eating salted pretzels right out of the bag. Barefoot, her blond hair twisted into a bun atop her head, she looked up at the sky, thinking about her husband. Jimmy was somewhere on the blazingly hotplains of Helmland
THE SEASON IN HELL BY BRENTON BOOTH I understand the wilting flower the dusty bowl on the shelf all the words ever written about longing: is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry? drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney raindrops dancing on the roof my neighbour still quiet two days after I INTERVIEW WITH PAUL TRISTRAM AT DREAMMINERS PUBLISHING Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AMERICAN DREAMS BY JOHN (“JAKE”) COSMOS ALLER John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department in ten countries – Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, Korea, India, St Kitts, St Lucia, St Vincent, Spain and Thailand. and traveled to 45 countries during his career. Jake has been an aspiring TWO BECOME ONE (MIRROR SESTET) BY GOODNESS LANRE AYOOLA Rhythms crawl up the lines of strings Strings like springs of comfort in pitter-patter rhythms Hearts beat in bits, saintly shatters by the struck of love Love creeps in concealed groans in ribs after hearts Lyrics sweet and sound rest on the waves of tunes Tunes tranquiltravel
UNNECESSARY POEM # 427 BY WILLIAM TAYLOR JR. It's Sunday in North Beach in August and it feels like it's always Sunday in North Beach in August with the big blue sky and everything pretending that summer isn't almost gone and I'm always at a table like this one with wine or a beer and a tattered notebook like a kindof purgatory
ESCAPING THE WEB BY SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR Now that I have cum my mind is clear yet less focused, less fiery, less whatever. Now that I have cum life and death seem meaningless, the chaos matters not. Now that I have cum the rage is spent but so is all passion along with the urge toward a higher destiny. Now that IYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but QUIET PRACTICE BY WILLIE SMITH I know, standing arms akimbo at the window, outside falling snow, practice. Feel, at a point behind the eyes, between the ears, above the nose, tastes of quiet accumulate. Late grows the hour. Our time comes to us through that focus, while the snow outside the window into the snow grows. I shuffle, unbending elbows, YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. APPRAISAL BY RON LAVALETTE When you find me, here, try to imagine me whole: 52 year-old meat, hairy, leaning on my last leg, grizzly, unbearable; a spectacled sight. Behold before you the aftermath of a half-century of breath; half a million hours, wasted, spent like small change on small changes. These days, if THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. STRANGE DAYS BY ALAN CATLIN “I can hardly wait.” Juliette Lewis Pay at the door, End of the World party or been down so long like up to me losers, for Pynchon‘s whole sick crew, V leftovers and assorted headbangers, spike haired Mohawk millennial monsters, walking wounded mosh pit mauled survivors of blunt forced traumas, adrenaline junkies and light THE HALFWAY HOUSE OF DEPRESSION BY KUSHAL PODDAR This, the halfway house of depression, swirls around her, she in the middle, on a pirouetting stage that reveals her shame how much she may veil herself. This, they say, holds together all the life one leads to nowhere and try to lose it in some blind corner. The walls will speaksoon. The quantum
REMOVABLE FEAST BY WILLIAM MERRICLE At the imaginary banquet the ex-lovers are represented by a bucketful of dove feathers, the cosmic order portrayed in Lucky Charms, unreasonable expectations, syntactical gaffes, infelicities of style, pH imbalances, Official Notice of Change in Terms, cobwebs as expressions of divine justice, the absence of feck, silly putty molecules, ennui, Visine, Elmer’s Glue-All, broken trusts,YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithersYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but QUIET PRACTICE BY WILLIE SMITH I know, standing arms akimbo at the window, outside falling snow, practice. Feel, at a point behind the eyes, between the ears, above the nose, tastes of quiet accumulate. Late grows the hour. Our time comes to us through that focus, while the snow outside the window into the snow grows. I shuffle, unbending elbows, YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. APPRAISAL BY RON LAVALETTE When you find me, here, try to imagine me whole: 52 year-old meat, hairy, leaning on my last leg, grizzly, unbearable; a spectacled sight. Behold before you the aftermath of a half-century of breath; half a million hours, wasted, spent like small change on small changes. These days, if THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. STRANGE DAYS BY ALAN CATLIN “I can hardly wait.” Juliette Lewis Pay at the door, End of the World party or been down so long like up to me losers, for Pynchon‘s whole sick crew, V leftovers and assorted headbangers, spike haired Mohawk millennial monsters, walking wounded mosh pit mauled survivors of blunt forced traumas, adrenaline junkies and light THE HALFWAY HOUSE OF DEPRESSION BY KUSHAL PODDAR This, the halfway house of depression, swirls around her, she in the middle, on a pirouetting stage that reveals her shame how much she may veil herself. This, they say, holds together all the life one leads to nowhere and try to lose it in some blind corner. The walls will speaksoon. The quantum
REMOVABLE FEAST BY WILLIAM MERRICLE At the imaginary banquet the ex-lovers are represented by a bucketful of dove feathers, the cosmic order portrayed in Lucky Charms, unreasonable expectations, syntactical gaffes, infelicities of style, pH imbalances, Official Notice of Change in Terms, cobwebs as expressions of divine justice, the absence of feck, silly putty molecules, ennui, Visine, Elmer’s Glue-All, broken trusts,YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithers STRAIGHT UP TO THE STARS BY RUTH Z. DEMING A search committee, saddled with the usual bureaucracy, finally settled on Albert A. Wolf as the new warden of San Francisco State Penitentiary. The prison was the newest one in the United States . Few people cared. Lock them up and forget about them. The usual trife. They were not humans. They were animals incapable MOUSE BY RUTH Z. DEMING Mouse by Ruth Z. Deming. December 5, 2017 youronephonecall. This new pope we have makes quite an impression on everyone. To me, he is a great man. Not everyone thinks the same way. “Too radical. Too forgiving. Too humble.”. Not to mention he loves people of all nations, all religions, all sexual orientations. A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's APPRAISAL BY RON LAVALETTE When you find me, here, try to imagine me whole: 52 year-old meat, hairy, leaning on my last leg, grizzly, unbearable; a spectacled sight. Behold before you the aftermath of a half-century of breath; half a million hours, wasted, spent like small change on small changes. These days, if THE HALFWAY HOUSE OF DEPRESSION BY KUSHAL PODDAR This, the halfway house of depression, swirls around her, she in the middle, on a pirouetting stage that reveals her shame how much she may veil herself. This, they say, holds together all the life one leads to nowhere and try to lose it in some blind corner. The walls will speaksoon. The quantum
YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and HUMAN HAND BY CHRIS BUTLER My opposable thumb devolves me from apes. My pointer finger displaces all the blame. My middle finger expresses how I feel. My ring finger stays naked whilst alone. My pinkie finger runs all the way home. And my clenched fist makes me human. Chris Butler is an anorexic starving artist. His latest chapbook in his EROTICUS UNINTERRUPTUS BY DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL I can't walk past a gumball machine without thinking of you, you suck my balls blue. I gaze at rubber snakes in the L.A. Zoo Gift Shop and think of that wonderful numbness when we stop. Every time we lie in bed, we're a sculpture unexhibited, dwelling in our private pleasure palace of being fucking SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. the ESCAPING THE WEB BY SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR Now that I have cum my mind is clear yet less focused, less fiery, less whatever. Now that I have cum life and death seem meaningless, the chaos matters not. Now that I have cum the rage is spent but so is all passion along with the urge toward a higher destiny. Now that IYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS POETRY MAGAZINE Our sister-site ‘In Between Hangovers’ is open to submissions! What have you got to lose? Exactly, get on over there, you hear!YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithersYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's APPRAISAL BY RON LAVALETTE When you find me, here, try to imagine me whole: 52 year-old meat, hairy, leaning on my last leg, grizzly, unbearable; a spectacled sight. Behold before you the aftermath of a half-century of breath; half a million hours, wasted, spent like small change on small changes. These days, if YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper andYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithers STRAIGHT UP TO THE STARS BY RUTH Z. DEMING A search committee, saddled with the usual bureaucracy, finally settled on Albert A. Wolf as the new warden of San Francisco State Penitentiary. The prison was the newest one in the United States . Few people cared. Lock them up and forget about them. The usual trife. They were not humans. They were animals incapable A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MOUSE BY RUTH Z. DEMING Mouse by Ruth Z. Deming. December 5, 2017 youronephonecall. This new pope we have makes quite an impression on everyone. To me, he is a great man. Not everyone thinks the same way. “Too radical. Too forgiving. Too humble.”. Not to mention he loves people of all nations, all religions, all sexual orientations. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and TOO EGGISH BY A.J. HUFFMAN Life is not food, you cannot order it & expect to receive appropriate sustenance. Rather, it is cracked & screaming, dripping into pans of impossibility. Heat turns it to rubber. (Ain’t that the rub?) Homogenization is a thing of the past. Organic is the future, baby, & we are choking on our young. THE HALFWAY HOUSE OF DEPRESSION BY KUSHAL PODDAR This, the halfway house of depression, swirls around her, she in the middle, on a pirouetting stage that reveals her shame how much she may veil herself. This, they say, holds together all the life one leads to nowhere and try to lose it in some blind corner. The walls will speaksoon. The quantum
DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that REMOVABLE FEAST BY WILLIAM MERRICLE At the imaginary banquet the ex-lovers are represented by a bucketful of dove feathers, the cosmic order portrayed in Lucky Charms, unreasonable expectations, syntactical gaffes, infelicities of style, pH imbalances, Official Notice of Change in Terms, cobwebs as expressions of divine justice, the absence of feck, silly putty molecules, ennui, Visine, Elmer’s Glue-All, broken trusts, MNEMOSYNE OR THE UNEXPECTED DEATH OF VIRGINIA WOOLF BY Here she is, here again, that woman you once were, that sum of memories you drowned in purple wine. The nostalgic beast who lurks in the lacery of your mind, opening your still eyes in this last day you are a life, returning you to reality as you enter water. You feel theelectric world
SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. theYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS POETRY MAGAZINE Our sister-site ‘In Between Hangovers’ is open to submissions! What have you got to lose? Exactly, get on over there, you hear!YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithersYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS POETRY MAGAZINE Our sister-site ‘In Between Hangovers’ is open to submissions! What have you got to lose? Exactly, get on over there, you hear!YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithers STRAIGHT UP TO THE STARS BY RUTH Z. DEMING A search committee, saddled with the usual bureaucracy, finally settled on Albert A. Wolf as the new warden of San Francisco State Penitentiary. The prison was the newest one in the United States . Few people cared. Lock them up and forget about them. The usual trife. They were not humans. They were animals incapable A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MOUSE BY RUTH Z. DEMING Mouse by Ruth Z. Deming. December 5, 2017 youronephonecall. This new pope we have makes quite an impression on everyone. To me, he is a great man. Not everyone thinks the same way. “Too radical. Too forgiving. Too humble.”. Not to mention he loves people of all nations, all religions, all sexual orientations. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and TOO EGGISH BY A.J. HUFFMAN Life is not food, you cannot order it & expect to receive appropriate sustenance. Rather, it is cracked & screaming, dripping into pans of impossibility. Heat turns it to rubber. (Ain’t that the rub?) Homogenization is a thing of the past. Organic is the future, baby, & we are choking on our young. THE HALFWAY HOUSE OF DEPRESSION BY KUSHAL PODDAR This, the halfway house of depression, swirls around her, she in the middle, on a pirouetting stage that reveals her shame how much she may veil herself. This, they say, holds together all the life one leads to nowhere and try to lose it in some blind corner. The walls will speaksoon. The quantum
DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that REMOVABLE FEAST BY WILLIAM MERRICLE At the imaginary banquet the ex-lovers are represented by a bucketful of dove feathers, the cosmic order portrayed in Lucky Charms, unreasonable expectations, syntactical gaffes, infelicities of style, pH imbalances, Official Notice of Change in Terms, cobwebs as expressions of divine justice, the absence of feck, silly putty molecules, ennui, Visine, Elmer’s Glue-All, broken trusts, MNEMOSYNE OR THE UNEXPECTED DEATH OF VIRGINIA WOOLF BY Here she is, here again, that woman you once were, that sum of memories you drowned in purple wine. The nostalgic beast who lurks in the lacery of your mind, opening your still eyes in this last day you are a life, returning you to reality as you enter water. You feel theelectric world
SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. theYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS POETRY MAGAZINE Our sister-site ‘In Between Hangovers’ is open to submissions! What have you got to lose? Exactly, get on over there, you hear!YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithersYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. THE DARK BEAUTY OF IT ALL DISTURBS ME INTO MAGICAL Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS POETRY MAGAZINE Our sister-site ‘In Between Hangovers’ is open to submissions! What have you got to lose? Exactly, get on over there, you hear!YOUR ONE PHONE CALL
Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross? An old willow there who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithers STRAIGHT UP TO THE STARS BY RUTH Z. DEMING A search committee, saddled with the usual bureaucracy, finally settled on Albert A. Wolf as the new warden of San Francisco State Penitentiary. The prison was the newest one in the United States . Few people cared. Lock them up and forget about them. The usual trife. They were not humans. They were animals incapable A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's MOUSE BY RUTH Z. DEMING Mouse by Ruth Z. Deming. December 5, 2017 youronephonecall. This new pope we have makes quite an impression on everyone. To me, he is a great man. Not everyone thinks the same way. “Too radical. Too forgiving. Too humble.”. Not to mention he loves people of all nations, all religions, all sexual orientations. YOU’VE STOPPED BEING MY FRIEND, FRIEND! BY PAUL TRISTRAM You traded in our Brotherhood of many years for traitorous envy, anger and petty bitterness, after failed attempts at emulating my personality. Cutting off your own selfish nose with the dull blade of your pathetic true nature whilst showing the entire world what a cringing, whinging Cunt is. Shaking and crying in vile temper and TOO EGGISH BY A.J. HUFFMAN Life is not food, you cannot order it & expect to receive appropriate sustenance. Rather, it is cracked & screaming, dripping into pans of impossibility. Heat turns it to rubber. (Ain’t that the rub?) Homogenization is a thing of the past. Organic is the future, baby, & we are choking on our young. THE HALFWAY HOUSE OF DEPRESSION BY KUSHAL PODDAR This, the halfway house of depression, swirls around her, she in the middle, on a pirouetting stage that reveals her shame how much she may veil herself. This, they say, holds together all the life one leads to nowhere and try to lose it in some blind corner. The walls will speaksoon. The quantum
DECAY OF WISDOM AT 4:27AM ON A SUNDAY BY DANIEL ORTIZ There are times when eternity seeps through the cracks in the ceiling, and through the cracks in my mind, Filling buckets full No questions left unanswered No spaces left void, Whole areas of darkness illuminated by light & love. And just as soon as that REMOVABLE FEAST BY WILLIAM MERRICLE At the imaginary banquet the ex-lovers are represented by a bucketful of dove feathers, the cosmic order portrayed in Lucky Charms, unreasonable expectations, syntactical gaffes, infelicities of style, pH imbalances, Official Notice of Change in Terms, cobwebs as expressions of divine justice, the absence of feck, silly putty molecules, ennui, Visine, Elmer’s Glue-All, broken trusts, MNEMOSYNE OR THE UNEXPECTED DEATH OF VIRGINIA WOOLF BY Here she is, here again, that woman you once were, that sum of memories you drowned in purple wine. The nostalgic beast who lurks in the lacery of your mind, opening your still eyes in this last day you are a life, returning you to reality as you enter water. You feel theelectric world
SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. theYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless THE SEASON IN HELL BY BRENTON BOOTH I understand the wilting flower the dusty bowl on the shelf all the words ever written about longing: is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry? drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney raindrops dancing on the roof my neighbour still quiet two days after I THE COLOUR MELANCHOLIA BY PAUL TRISTRAM It has many depths and shades. Textures which range from suede and velvet, right over to, smoke and mildew. It’s an experience, a traffic-jammed journey leading absolutely nowhere. Anorexic in its leanings whilst remaining gluttonous in vertigo thoughts. Wallpapers the inside sepulchre womb of that depressive hole you’re crouched and rocking to and fro in. MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AN OPEN LETTER FROM THREE PLENTY OF FISHES BY JAMESON Jameson Bayles is a roving correspondent for Poetrybay and his work has been published in numerous literary journals and magazines most recently in Poems-For-All, Hedgerow, The Ambriel Revolution, Thirteen Myna Birds and on Rumrazor.com. Jameson resides in Kansas City,Missouri.
AFTER JESSE JAMES FAKED HIS DEATH BY MELANIE BROWNE He couldn't stay in his beloved Missourah, and so he hitched a ride to Texas (Pronounced Tay-Hoss) and was promptly hired by EDS and rose up the ranks of that company and dined with Ross Perot and various members of the Bush Family. He was wildly entertaining at company picnics! (insert weapon onomatopoeia here) and INTERVIEW WITH PAUL TRISTRAM AT DREAMMINERS PUBLISHING Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. SEARCHING FOR HOOKERS ON 79TH STREET BY OMAR ALEXANDRE Searching For Hookers On 79th Street by Omar Alexandre. December 20, 2017 youronephonecall. and have you ever had the urge. the desire to just fuck. it doesn’t matter whom with or where. you just need to fuck. to pound on some flesh. theYOUR ONE PHONE CALL
execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides. on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but ABOUT | YOUR ONE PHONE CALL ‘Your One Phone Call’ is a literary zine based in Wales. We only want Top Notch poetry, obviously. We’re not interested in your ‘Readers’ Wives’ scribblings, sen MY BRAIN WITHOUT DRUGS BY MICHAEL MARROTTI This is my brain without drugs. Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless THE SEASON IN HELL BY BRENTON BOOTH I understand the wilting flower the dusty bowl on the shelf all the words ever written about longing: is this why Rimbaud stopped writing poetry? drinking bourbon fast on a Saturday afternoon in my unit in the roughest part of Sydney raindrops dancing on the roof my neighbour still quiet two days after I THE COLOUR MELANCHOLIA BY PAUL TRISTRAM It has many depths and shades. Textures which range from suede and velvet, right over to, smoke and mildew. It’s an experience, a traffic-jammed journey leading absolutely nowhere. Anorexic in its leanings whilst remaining gluttonous in vertigo thoughts. Wallpapers the inside sepulchre womb of that depressive hole you’re crouched and rocking to and fro in. MATT BIANCO, YOU’RE A BUNCH OF WANKERS! (A LITTLE WELSH Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. AN OPEN LETTER FROM THREE PLENTY OF FISHES BY JAMESON Jameson Bayles is a roving correspondent for Poetrybay and his work has been published in numerous literary journals and magazines most recently in Poems-For-All, Hedgerow, The Ambriel Revolution, Thirteen Myna Birds and on Rumrazor.com. Jameson resides in Kansas City,Missouri.
AFTER JESSE JAMES FAKED HIS DEATH BY MELANIE BROWNE He couldn't stay in his beloved Missourah, and so he hitched a ride to Texas (Pronounced Tay-Hoss) and was promptly hired by EDS and rose up the ranks of that company and dined with Ross Perot and various members of the Bush Family. He was wildly entertaining at company picnics! (insert weapon onomatopoeia here) and THE COLOUR MELANCHOLIA BY PAUL TRISTRAM It has many depths and shades. Textures which range from suede and velvet, right over to, smoke and mildew. It’s an experience, a traffic-jammed journey leading absolutely nowhere. Anorexic in its leanings whilst remaining gluttonous in vertigo thoughts. Wallpapers the inside sepulchre womb of that depressive hole you’re crouched and rocking to and fro in. QUIET PRACTICE BY WILLIE SMITH I know, standing arms akimbo at the window, outside falling snow, practice. Feel, at a point behind the eyes, between the ears, above the nose, tastes of quiet accumulate. Late grows the hour. Our time comes to us through that focus, while the snow outside the window into the snow grows. I shuffle, unbending elbows, A WALK AROUND THE WORLD BY LESLIE BOHEM There's a story that Buddhists tell that always kind of creeped me out. In the story, the Buddha tells two of his followers to walk around the world. The first one to come back to him will win the blessing of eternal life. One follower sets out immediately, not even waiting for a good night's CONFESSION BY GALE ACUFF I'm in the first grade and falling in love for the first time. In alphabetical order we sit--I'm the first A of A's so that she's sitting next to me, both of us at the vanguard of the first two rows. I love her because she's near--I don't know that then but have figuredit
APPRAISAL BY RON LAVALETTE When you find me, here, try to imagine me whole: 52 year-old meat, hairy, leaning on my last leg, grizzly, unbearable; a spectacled sight. Behold before you the aftermath of a half-century of breath; half a million hours, wasted, spent like small change on small changes. These days, if WHEN DAD COMES HOME FROM THE WAR BY RUTH Z. DEMING Beth was sitting out on the front porch, glass of wine in her hand, and noisily eating salted pretzels right out of the bag. Barefoot, her blond hair twisted into a bun atop her head, she looked up at the sky, thinking about her husband. Jimmy was somewhere on the blazingly hotplains of Helmland
UNNECESSARY POEM # 427 BY WILLIAM TAYLOR JR. It's Sunday in North Beach in August and it feels like it's always Sunday in North Beach in August with the big blue sky and everything pretending that summer isn't almost gone and I'm always at a table like this one with wine or a beer and a tattered notebook like a kindof purgatory
READING BAUDELAIRE’S ‘THE EYES OF THE POOR’ WHILST There are a chorus of street urchins singing ‘You’ve Got To Pick A Pocket Or Two’ inside my gently vibrating mind as I read and re-read Baudelaire’s little beauty. The antique gramophone is purring Bach Cello Suite No. 1 Prelude in G Major behind my heavily bathrobed shoulder. There’s a sudden slant of Spring sunshine TWO BECOME ONE (MIRROR SESTET) BY GOODNESS LANRE AYOOLA Rhythms crawl up the lines of strings Strings like springs of comfort in pitter-patter rhythms Hearts beat in bits, saintly shatters by the struck of love Love creeps in concealed groans in ribs after hearts Lyrics sweet and sound rest on the waves of tunes Tunes tranquiltravel
IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS POETRY MAGAZINE Our sister-site ‘In Between Hangovers’ is open to submissions! What have you got to lose? Exactly, get on over there, you hear!Skip to content
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SLOWER BY PAUL TRISTRAMApril 14, 2018
youronephonecall
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There were three of us in a four man Dorm, they brought a new timer in. We were all alright, he’d got lucky. We just carried on with our conversation, when the Screw had locked the door, and let him settle on in. We’d gauged and judged him within the first few minutes, there was going to be no problems, unless he was a ‘Grass’, time would tell, until then he’d only see slight things. He seemed quiet enough, and didn’t blag straight off the bat, but knew what was ‘His’ and how to say ‘No’, I liked that. Straight after Association that evening, once we’d finished shaking hands with Landing Dealers, and got yelled at “Fucking Lock-Up Now!” a few times by irate Officers awaiting their shift-change. I strolled past his bunk, and saw him sat there scrawling a prison calendar mark upon the back of a ‘Dads Behind Bars’ leaflet. “Throw that in the bin.” He just looked at me, questioningly. “Trust me, it’ll only do your fucking head-in. It slows down time, keeps you focused upon each day… and you don’t need that, especially in the beginning or middle. You need to just ‘Be’ for now.” “But I thought that’s what everybody did? You see it in the movies and read about it in books. They scratch marks into the walls.” “This isn’t a film, or a novel (Yet!) They used to do that back in the day, fucking dungeon times, when the cunts told you fuck all and threw in bread and water once a day. You know what ‘Day’ it is today and you’ll know what ‘Day’ it is tomorrow, don’t think about it anymore than that.” He put the leaflet away, and I never saw him fucking about with itagain.
A month or so later, they were shipping me out to a Higher Cat, to start in on my sentence properly. He came up to me the night before and gave me an apple from hisdinner.
“Thanks for that little talk in the beginning, it helped a lot, it took a large chunk of the head-mess away… and I didn’t realize just how big it was until it was gone.” Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/Advertisements
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SCHEMING AND SNOW BY G EMIL REUTTERApril 13, 2018
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Sometimes people will steal anything. For some it is about the thrill, the rush of endorphins. For others it is out of need and yet for others it is about a bigger plan. It doesn’t mean it’s a complicated plan, just a plan to get something for nothing. David and Albert were the type to scheme for what was always a small payoff. Their only concern was to score enough to get food and meth. Today was one of those days, it was 5 degrees out and the day before ten inches of snow had fallen. David and Albert were walking the neighborhood over clean sidewalks and sidewalks full of snow. Opportunity knocked. Two shovels were resting on a porch, they ran up the walkway andgrabbed them.
As they made it to the middle of the walkway a large bang alarmedthem.
“You bastards! Drop the shovels!” A large bulky man in long johns and no shoes was rumbling down the porch steps toward them. The guys ran, he was hot on their heels but gave up after 20 yards or so. They ran through the alleyways until arriving a few blocks over. Winded they discussed their plan. Get someone to agree for them to shovel their walkway and when getting paid grab a purse or wallet and get out of there. They found a house with no footprints on the walkways. Albert made his way to the front door and banged on the screen door. An older small framed woman answered the door. “Do you need your walkway shoveled?” “Yes young man I do. How much do you charge?” “Ten dollars will do. We’ll give you the senior rate!” “Oh thank you, yes clear the walkways.” Albert returned to sidewalk along the street. “Let’s do this David.” “How much did you ask for?”“Ten bucks.”
“Dumb ass! You should have asked for twenty!” “When she comes to the door with the money we can grab herpocketbook!”
They shoveled the sidewalk then the walkway to the porch, shoveled the porch and the walkway to the backyard. Albert and David walked up to the front door located on the porch and knocked. She opened the screen door just a bit and slid the ten dollar bill through the space. Albert grabbed the ten as she closed and locked the door. The woman smiled atthem.
“Thank you boys!” She closed the door. Albert and David stood there arguing with each other. They didn’t notice the man standing at the bottom of thesteps.
“Give me my fucking shovels dumbasses!” Albert swung his shovel at the man from the top step, the man grabbed the end and pulled him down the steps until he fell on the walkway. David dropped his, ran off the porch right into the man, both fell on the walkway. The guys got up and ran to the street, the man was on his back like a turtle on the back of its shell. David looked into the street and saw the man’s car, running. The man got to his feet as he watched the guys jump into his car. “Jesus fucking Christ!” David and Albert looked at the man, hooting and laughing Albert floored the gas pedal. Slipping and sliding down the street the car picked up speed. Albert ignored the stop sign. They never saw the snow plow as it rammed the car crunching it against a car in the street like a compactor at a junk yard. g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories. Nine collections of his fiction and poetry have been published. He can be found at: https://gereutter.wordpress.com/about/ WHAT RIVER IS THIS? BY JEFF BAGATOApril 12, 2018
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Say it again, isn’t there a river to cross?An old willow there
who sheds all the light on your neighbor’s empty blood— you test yourself, reaching into an arm with thirsty fingers and examining an artery minutely, rolling a nerve between two fingers and the blood drips on your leg, the forked end slithers in the air with fanning wind and thus all the voices you hear are quiet and direct If your skin is scraped away on concrete, examine the wound for whispers; these may be your walking papers— your influence to pick upa real gun,
action afforded by the word— that is necessary— action—the death of an enemy, the life of a friend—advancedby a spell
An old willow who matters and there you sell your soul—this river to cross
Crossed in death by the word— and this is the spell,the bridge—
go back desperate to notebookssaying nothing—
looking for a river— in your failure you keep swimming A coin or a word is passed A poisoned river in Guyana—maybe it’s right,
as those who are to blamemay drink cyanide
and also die with the forest— They perform rites to takemany with them,
of the wrong species We’ll never give you a silent world, one that knuckles under— you will have to bring more than cyanide to our banks— we too have our tools—odors and the heat,
the density of jungles to drive men mad until they drink first of the poisoned wells Bastards, stay away from the trees No, I’m just too tiredto fight today:
It will have to come later I wish I could remember A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have recently appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, Gold Wake Live, H&, The New Post-Literate, and Midnight Lane Boutique. Some short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and The Colored Lens. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.com STRANGE DAYS BY ALAN CATLINApril 11, 2018
youronephonecall
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_“I can hardly wait.”_ _ Juliette Lewis_ Pay at the door, End of the World party or been down so long like up to me losers, for Pynchon‘s whole sick crew, V leftovers and assorted headbangers, spike haired Mohawk millennial monsters, walking wounded mosh pit mauled survivors of blunt forced traumas, adrenaline junkies and light show losers, four shades of drunk and disordered, drugged and deformed by unidentifiable pains, internal injuries no X-Ray, no CAT Scan, no magnetic resonance exam will show. Revolutionary roadies, protest signs written in Braille, in day glo orange fighting the front lines of mental exhaustion, of freedom’s last chiming bell descending into the pit of Blake’s most vivid hell, at come as you are parties as characters in documentary filmed Heaven of Earthly Delights: Times Square at turn of newyear celebration.
Cross picket lines at your own risk, drag the body of your dead familiar with you to Armageddon’s firing squad, “let’s do it”, Gary Gilmore style execution of justice American Gothic style: the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides on top of a tank: police work is for pussies, murder is for professionals. Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands, artists and wannabees, decades gone but refusing to admit defeat, knock knocking on heaven’s door with fire axes and riot sticks, let the games begin. Fire bomb burn scars and high water marks on gold paved streets, on the let’s paint all the banks and brokerage firms plague year yellow for the coming economic collapse; even the politician’s jumping. Sex in the streets is only the salvation: limousines converted into makeshift hearses, Cosmopolis made Apocalyptic, all the white noise that fits, we broadcast, the streets are fields that already died. All the bleeding edges, cyberpunk dreams about to implode; all of tomorrow’s parties are filled with virtual light, negativity won’t pull you through. Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine misfitmagazine.net. THE POETRY READING BY ROB PLATHApril 10, 2018
youronephonecall
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all the poets
were so glad
to meet
each other
soft palms
cupping
more
soft palms
hands that
never strangled
the abc’s
that didn’t have
the indelible
black juice
beneath their
cuticles
i walked out
before the
the first reader
hit the podium
those palms
a prediction
of the poems
Rob Plath is a 46-yea-old poet from New York. He has over a dozen books out. He is most known for his collection A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press). He lives alone with his cat and stays out of trouble. See more of his work at http://www.robplath.com NEW ORLEANS #1 BY GRANT GUYApril 9, 2018
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I am coming with my hand outstretched Fuck it I am coming to embrace your virtues and sins Like a naughty lover warmed by the sultry night sky We will bust the windows of our protection Break open a dance made of stars and sweat Straight up Straight down Our song of love will fall between Heaven and Hell We will be the fluid of one We will both wear proudly our grass stains Grant Guy: Canadian poet, writer and playwright. His poems and short stories have been published nationally and internationally. His books are Open Fragments, On the Bright Side of Down and Bus Stop Bus Stop. He received the MAC 2004 Award of Distinction and WAC’s 2017 MakingA Difference Award.
EVENING WEAR/ THREE MASKS BY NATE MAXSONApril 8, 2018
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A dark sky sanctuary/ where they don’t let the light in without apermit
In earlier days the philosophers talked of angels and needles andendangered species
All the self-important people who say they built the world Now it’s all something about: how many ghosts can fit inside themachine?
The first time we ever touched the moonA clown car paradox
While we’re still laughing A still and snow covered field When the sun’s going downWindless
At night
I never feel the cold Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. He is the author of several collections of poetry including ‘The Whisper Gallery’ and ‘The Torture Report’. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. CALVARY GREETINGS IN THE NAME OF OUR LORD BY PAUL TRISTRAMApril 7, 2018
youronephonecall
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She sidewinders and that’s not a sexual technique nor compliment. He’s refusing to ‘Talk To Frank’ until the drugs kick-inproperly…
we could be here awhile and I have nothing to do somewhere else. I finger-scrawled ‘Your Symptoms Are Showing’ in the ceiling dust. How did I get up there? Rage, mostly, and walking over other people. She told me to tie her to the bed and then do whatever I wanted… besides therapy twice a week, she now hates socks and tight sleevecuffs .
He breaks things on purpose and waves at strangers to confuse them. I once etched a Francis Bacon portrait onto a Vim container and gave it as a Valentine’s Gift… I haven’t clapped eyes on hersince.
You were obviously born to be a ‘Cold Caller’, take that as youwill.
“It’s exactly thirty three and a half steps down the gardenpath”
explained the blind man “But, I never ever go that way myself. How do I know? I’ve been informed by the people I’ve sent downit”
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/ HARD KNOCKS BY STEVE CARRApril 6, 2018
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Waves of pig stench flooded over the nine foot tall wood fence. Heated by the mid-afternoon August sun, Jake’s back yard smelled like cooked rancid pork. On the plastic fold out lounge chair, Jake rolled onto his back and placed his arm across his nose and inhaled the scent of the coconut oil on his bare arm. While sniffing, he stared up at the cloudless sky and counted in his head the number of days that it hadn’t rained. Forty three. A chorus of squeals from the pigs was carried into the air from the other side of the fence followed by a series of loud thuds, thensilence.
Jake sat up and with both hands wiped sweat from his enlarged stomach. A thin layer of the oil had collected around the waistband of his Speedos. Feeling the tingle of sunburn on his back and the back of his legs, he suddenly remembered he had forgotten to apply lotion to any part of his backside. He grabbed the bottle of water from the white plastic table next to the chair and unscrewed the cap and tilted his head back and poured water into his mouth. He quickly spit it out and grabbed his throat. The water’s temperature was near boiling. He put the cap back on the bottle and hurled it over the fence. Several pigs squealed, followedby thuds.
“Poor bastards,” he said. Rising out of the chair, he placed his left foot on the sun baked concrete of his patio and let out a “yelp” and quickly raised it and sat back down. He looked at his watch. It would be three hours before his wife got home.*
As Claire rubbed sunburn ointment on Jake’s shoulders she looked out their bedroom window and watched the pigs that were squeezed into a small square of bare dirt surrounded by a low metal rail fence. She kicked aside the empty green beans can at her feet and kneaded the ointment into Jake’s skin with renewed vigor. “That hurts,” Jake said. “You’re just supposed to apply that stuff, not fuse it with my body.” “Do it yourself then,” she said, dropping the ointment tube into his lap. Kicking empty vegetable cans aside, she walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, crossed one leg over the other and began to hum. Jake squirted some of the ointment into the palm of his hand and unsuccessfully tried to reach around to the middle of his back. “What’s got into you?” he said. She stopped humming for a moment and said, “Pigs,” then beganhumming again.
Jake glanced out the window. Two men carrying sledge hammers were entering the pig enclosure. “I wonder how necessary pork is to anyone’s diet?” he said, watching the men. “If you’re Jewish it’s not necessary at all,” she said. One of the men opened a small gate and led a large pig into a narrow separately enclosed walkway that extended off from one side of the main enclosure. He closed the gate and the other man raised his sledgehammer and brought it down on the pig’s skull. The pig immediately fell to the ground as blood squirted from its eye socketsand snout.
Jake quickly re-swallowed the vomit that had shot up into his mouth. He turned away from the window. “What I find a true mystery is that some living things are born pigs and some are born spiders or goldfish. If things had worked out differently that could be me or you down there getting our brains knocked out so that some slob in New Jersey gets bacon with his eggs in the morning.”*
Sitting in a green lawn chair with a rose colored handkerchief that had been doused with perfume to her nose, Claire stared up at the star-freckled night sky and hummed. Jake came out of the house with an open can of peas in one hand and a large spoon in the other. He sat on the lounge chair and shoved the spoon into the peas and brought out a spoonful. “The ointment didn’t help,” he said. “Blisters have formed. I can feel them busting and the liquid inside them running down my back.” He put the spoon in his mouth and sucked the peas into his throat. “We have to do something,” Claire said. “About what?” Jake said as he put another spoonful of peas in hismouth.
“The pigs,” Claire said. “We have to stop the slaughter.” Jake took the spoon out of the can and laid it beside him. He raised the can to his mouth, tilted his head back and poured the peas in. Without chewing them he made loud gulping noises as they slid down histhroat.
“I’m pretty sure someone already thought of that and whatever they tried, failed,” he said. “Besides I like the cans of pork andbeans.”
Claire stood up and gazing at the fence, said, “I don’t think I can take hearing another pig being knocked on the head.” She wentinto the house.
Jake threw the empty can over the fence and shivered as a stream of blister juice slid down his spine. Claire came back out of the house carrying a shovel and a bandana. “What are you going to do with that?” he said. She went to the fence and tied the bandana around the lower half of her face. “Getting the pigs out.” She pushed the shovel into the dirt at the bottom of the fence.*
Sunlight began to break through the morning cloud cover. Jake pulled the tab on the top lid of a can of okra and tossed it on the heap of dirt Claire had shoveled from under the fence. Using his fingers he took out a single okra and put it in his mouth and ran it around on his tongue before swallowing it. Claire stuck her head out from under the ditch she had dug under the fence. “I think even the biggest pigs will be able to crawl throughthis,” she said.
“How many pigs are there?” he said.“About fifty.”
“What do we do once they’re all over here?” he said. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” she said. She withdrew her head and a few minutes later a squealing pig was pushed through the hole. Then another one. Then another. At last, when Claire crawled under the fence she sat panting on the edge of the hole and said, “Quick, help me fill this hole in before the head smashers arrive.” The pigs were busily scrounging through the piles of empty tin cans. They had brought their stench with them. Pinching his nostrils, Jake said, “I’ve been up all night and the blisters on my back are killing me.” She glared at him as she stood up and grabbed the shovel and began to fill in the hole. Just as she patted down the dirt, making sure it was firmly in place, the sound of one of the men in the slaughter yard was heard, saying, “I could have sworn there were pigs in the pen when we left last night. Oh well, bring out the next bunch.”*
Sitting at the open bedroom window and watching the pigs bathed in moonlight squealing loudly and fighting with each other for a few piles of canned vegetables, Jake held a washcloth drenched in aftershave to his nose and said, “They’re noisier and stinkier up close and on this side of the fence.” On the edge of the bed and dabbing iodine on a bleeding wound, Claire said, “I never knew that pigs bite.” Jake shut the window and turned. “What you and I learned from the school of hard knocks didn’t include anything about pigs,” he said. “They’re getting pretty worked up out there. Are there many cans of food left?” “A few,” she said. She took a large bandage from its wrapper and placed it on the bite then stood up. “We better feed them again or they’ll keep us up all night.” Going down the stairs to the kitchen, Jake moaned several times. “What’s wrong with you?” Claire asked. “My sunburned skin feels like it’s being ripped apart every time Imove,” he said.
Claire flipped on the kitchen light as they entered it. She kicked aside empty cans and grabbed a tin baking sheet from the drawer at the bottom of the oven and placed it on the table then retrieved the can opener from the sink drain board. Jake went into the pantry and came back out a few minutes later with his arms full of cans. He placed them on the table. “This is it,” he said. “I hope they like squash, artichokes and Brusselssprouts.”
Claire began opening the cans and pouring the contents onto the baking sheet and tossing the empty cans on the floor as Jake shaped the vegetables into a volcano. After tossing the last can into a corner, Claire said, “That’s not a lot of food for fifty pigs.” Jake groaned as he lifted the tray. “We saved their lives and have fed them all the food we have in the house, what more could theywant?” he said.
Going out the back door, Claire followed Jake down the back stairs. He had the baking sheet held above his head. They walked a few feet into the crowd of pigs before the animals started to attack. “They smell the food,” Jake yelled as he dropped the baking sheet which was quickly trampled on by the agitated pigs. “We have to get back inside,” Claire yelled as several pigs beganbiting her legs.
Jake grabbed her hand and tried to pull her to the steps. His foot slipped on an empty tin can and he fell to the ground, pulling Claire with him. The pigs consumed them. A half hour later the pigs were hungry again. _Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over a hundred short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies. His plays have been produced in several states. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee. He is on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100012966314127 and Twitter@carrsteven960_
DON’T MESS WITH OUIJA BY JEFF BAGATOApril 5, 2018
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Ouija you maniac, you fiend, how can you keep spittingwords on the table
like that—pure, harsh words that numb some minds and make others uncomfortable— you should be more polite, more considerate, perhaps more dainty or just more sweet, and when I ask Ouija to spell me a fortune, some slim contact with a destiny of desire, all I get is noise, a string of letters like Z-Z-Z-Z-Z or K-K-K-K-K, like snoring or choking on herown vomit and bile,
‘cause Ouija’s a wild thing, independent of mind & clearly in touch with a bad mojo, staring too long into the wormholes of time, the lairs of demons and failure and pain, ‘cause those who consult the oracle should already know they were born to lose from money to sanity and all success in between— Ouija lays it down hard with a screech of stiff legs on lacquered wood: can’t see the forest for the fire; can’t see the firefor the smoke;
can’t see the smoke for the retina burn of raw ego need shining with an inner glow of a soulin hell
A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have recently appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, Otoliths, Gold Wake Live, H&, The New Post-Literate, and Midnight Lane Boutique. Some short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and The Colored Lens. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.comPOSTS NAVIGATION
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