Two things that I wish I understood by Les Bohem

One:  I was told last night that there is a personal trainer in New York City who charges couples $1000 to watch them make love, and then offers his advice on what they might do to improve their lovemaking.

Two:   When people say, “things happen for a reason,” whose reason are they referring to?

Jesus is still weeping.

Les Bohem has written a lot of movies and TV shows including Twenty Bucks, Daylight, Dante’s Peak, The Alamo and the mini-series, Taken which he wrote and executive produced with Steven Spielberg, and for which he won an Emmy award.   He’s had songs recorded by Emmylou Harris, Randy Travis, Freddy Fender, Steve Gillette, Johnette Napolitano (of Concrete Blonde), and Alvin (of the Chipmunks.)  His short novel, Flight 505, was published last year by UpperRubberBoot .   His new album, “Moved to Duarte,” was just released on Jack Rabbit Day Records to much critical acclaim and no sales whatsoever.  

Minutiae by Michael N. Thompson

The pulp and paper mill’s siren
wailed like an old blues guitar

I acquiesced reluctantly
when the only flowers
that I could afford
were Wild Irish Roses

It was only supposed to be
until I got back on my feet

Fast forward a dozen years
and I’m the hiring man now

In the bone silence
of another midnight blue
filled with prolonged tedium,
dragonflies hiss outside my window

They exude a mocking tone
almost as if they know

Inertia clings to me
like ivory on a trellis

Whatever happened to the man
who dreamed of being Elvis?

The minutiae of living
rarely goes as planned

Michael N. Thompson likes bacon, fantasy football and Doctor Who. His poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals including Word Riot, Toronto Quarterly and San Pedro River Review. He is the author of four poetry collections. His fifth, Days Of Swine And Roses, will be released through University Of Hell Press in 2017. Michael is currently at work on a crime fiction novel. http://www.michaelnthompson.com

 

The OAP Corned Beef Pasty Eating Invasion Of Victoria Gardens, 11am to Noon, Monday Through to Friday, Each Week… Barring Jumble Sale Mornings by Paul Tristram

Look at that fucking Myrtle Protheroe
over there by the bandstand
with that dip-shit husband of hers, Albert.
I don’t know who the fuck she thinks she is,
an all, about the place.
New ‘Shawl’ on the skank,
it’s enough to make you fucking spew, mun…
But, she’s from a right line of cunts to start with,
so there you go, Longford scum, the lot of them.
Lives next door to those Jenkins losers,
don’t even get me started
on those bunch of fucking inbreds…
Jesus, give me strength,
I haven’t got enough teeth left
to cowing chew on thinking about them all.
It’s nearing the end of the summer now, ain’t it,
that’s normally when her emphysema
and angina start giving her gyp,
A month or two after that,
when the leaves start dropping like pigeon shit,
his arthritis comes back to town
with a vengeance.
(Couldn’t have happened to a nicer
fucking person, if you ask me!)
Remember? One of those Tristram’s
broke his sodding knee-caps
with a pickaxe handle, donkey’s years ago.
Dew, I can’t fucking wait,
she’ll be a-huffing and a fucking puffing,
holding her chest with one hand
and pushing that useless cunt
around in a wheelchair
for 4 months of the year like a baby
(Aye, there is a God!)
Talking of fucking babies,
did you see the gormless face
on that Great-grandson of hers
outside the main entrance
of the Market, last week?
I had to stop for a gorp.
Face like a fucking slapped arse…
big shoulders on it, mind,
would have needed them, an all,
to help drag itself out of that abortion bucket.
Oh for fuck sake! you’re getting crumbs
all down your clean cravat, David,
and I only ironed that this morning,
I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t?
It’s like dragging a 75 year old child
around the shops with me, all the time, mun.

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 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Coup De Force by Wanda Morrow Clevenger

because of the
autoimmune thing
I can’t take
arthritis meds

those pharms make
my sugars spike
so that’s that

while my bones moan
while my blood
threatens a coup de force
I can however have
all the narcotics
I want
doled out
30 per recycle #4
green plastic bottle
least potent up
until I’m addicted
until I’m addicted
and dead

Wanda Morrow Clevenger is a Carlinville, IL native. Over 369 pieces of her work appear in 132 print and electronic publications. A magazine-type blog updated at her erratic discretion is here: http://wlc- wlcblog.blogspot.com/ She is currently polishing a full-length poetry manuscript.

Solstice by James Babbs

the days are growing shorter again
and I’m still sitting here
thinking about love
still thinking about her
wondering
whom she could be thinking of
living her own life
now
miles from here
in a different kind of town
I’m still sitting here
trying to get drunk again
drinking cold bottles of beer
and watching the sunlight
falling across the yard
thinking about lost dreams
and how they got that way
and what it means to keep living
after everything’s been broken
how to gather up the pieces
and figure out where they belong
before trying to put them back together

James Babbs is a writer, a dreamer, a three-time loser and an all-around nice guy who just wants to be left alone. James is the author of Disturbing The Light(2013) & The Weight of Invisible Things(2013) and has hundreds of poems and a few short stories scattered all over the internet.

The Blissfully Ignorant by Victor Henry

When the power of ten imploded into negative blackness,
Man stopped believing in hope and hunger.

When days lengthened to twenty-eight hours,
Rem dreams mushroomed eternally.

When love declared war on hate,
It spared no one on its path to glory.

When liars were forced to tell the truth,
They prayed for the first time in their counterfeit lives.

When miracles were accepted as mainstream,
Disbelievers repented, wept revisionist tears.

Victor Henry’s poetry and prose poems have appeared in various small press magazines, anthologies, and e-zines, such as Slipstream; The Paterson Literary Review; Nobody Gets Off The Bus: The Viet Nam Generation Big Book; Vietnam War Poetry; The Homestead Review; Red River Review; Dead Snakes, and Misfitmagazine, among others. Image of What They Wanted book cover. His book, What They Wanted, was published, on Veterans Day, November 11th, 2015, by FutureCycle Press.

Two facts that I find terribly depressing: by Leslie Bohem

One: I recently read an interview with an aging rockstar who is putting out a new album, although really for the past 10 years he’s been much more famous for dating famous women than for his guitar playing or his song writing. In the interview he made a point of saying that he was no longer as promiscuous as he had been when he was on the other side of 40, and that now he was confining his dating to — and at this point he said the name of an app with which I was not familiar. The article then parenthetically described the app as a dating service for celebrities. Tinder for the famous.

Two:  As if that weren’t enough to drag my angels from the air, just now, while passing an upscale pet shop, I saw a treadmill called, “Jog a Dog.”  There was a cardboard cutout of a golden retriever on this “doggie pacer.”

Jesus wept.

Les Bohem has written a lot of movies and TV shows including the mini-series, Taken which he wrote and executive produced with Steven Spielberg. and for which he won an Emmy award.   He’s had songs recorded by Emmylou Harris, Randy Travis, Freddy Fender, Steve Gillette, Johnette Napolitano (of Concrete Blonde), and Alvin (of the Chipmunks).  He is currently producing his series, Shut Eye for Hulu.

That Taste by J.J. Campbell

those sweet
lips

all the years i
have dreamed
of that taste

the pain of
knowing i’ve
never crossed
your mind

the romantic
in me wants
to keep my
dreams

the old soul
dying in me
wants to kill
those dreams

watching you
walk away

you’ll probably
beat both of
them to the
punch

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) has given up the farm life and is now trapped in suburbia. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Australian Times, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl and Bad Acid Laboratories, You can find him most days bitching about something on his highly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Look At Me, Trying To Be Wise by Mather Schneider

In an effort not to be ruled by emotion
I hide emotion.

In an effort not to appear stupid
I become self-consciousness and careful.

In an effort to be strong
I only appear strong.

In an effort to believe in one right way
I call all other ways wrong.

In an effort to be an individual
I stand in line.

In an effort to find peace
I cherish comfort and routine.

In an effort to be beautiful
my arrogance flowers.

In an effort to free myself
I make rules and guidelines.

In an effort to control
I kill.

In an effort to love
I parrot.

In an effort to do something meaningful
I run in circles

until I fall down.

Mather Schneider is 46 years old. He has had hundreds of poems and stories published since 1993 in places like Rattle, Nerve Cowboy, Slipstream, Nimrod, River Styx and Smokelong. He has 3 full length books, DROUGHT RESISTANT STRAIN, HE TOOK A CAB and THE SMALL HEARTS OF ANTS, with another, PRICKLY, coming early in 2017. He divides his time between Tucson, Arizona and northern Mexico, where his wife is from. He earns his living by driving a cab.

The Day’s News by Howie Good

A mob passing by your window chants, “Fuck the clown! Fuck the clown!” This is constantly happening. You must change your life. Did you witness the shooting? Do you have any information about the suspect? Everyone is dropping gear, panicking, jumping over tables. I have no clue what’s going on. When I look in the mirror, who’s there? Yeah, a killer angel wiping his bloody anus with handfuls of grass. So you may at times need to close your eyes. These were my rivers, the ghosts of birds all that’s left.

Howie Good is the recipient of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry for his collection “Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements”.