Closing My Window Before I Masturbate by Steven Allan Porter

I shut my window and pull the blinds,
swaying at me like a morning shift stripper who
looks in my direction and winks at me, desperate
for the last Washington in my wallet.
I haven’t washed my bed sheets for three-weeks.
Crusty remnants from past lonely nights stain my covers.
I don’t use lubricants when I jack-off, I prefer the natural,
dry, rough skin from my own hands.
My computer is down, but I have an old Hustler magazine for backup.
My favorite dates are ones bound to a 7/8 sheet of paper,
smiling at me when I’m vulnerable and there’s always a guarantee
for a second date when all I have to do is flip to page thirty.

Steven Allan Porter

Steven Allan Porter was born February 5, 1992 in Coral Springs, FL to a Jewish mother and a German father. His influences include: Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Bob Kaufman, Steven Jesse Bernstein, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Simic, and Louis-Ferdinand Celine. He currently resides in Los Angeles, California and spends his time reading, writing, playing music, and helping his cat, Maisy, catch flies.


Pale Horse (For My Children) by Matthew Borczon

on mornings
when the
world is
a bleached
skeleton on
a pale horse
and hope
is the sound
of the wind
through its
rib cage

when I’m
like less
than dust
on the moon
or grease
in the fire

I remind
myself that
I was
only ever
really here
at all

I’ve loved


Matthew Borczon is a poet from Erie Pa, he has three Books available, A Clock of Human Bones From Yellow Chair Review Press, Battle Lines From Epic rites press and Ghost Train from Weasel Press. He works as a nurse and a navy sailor in Erei.



I’ll Cut You On The Blades Of The Sun & Moon by Linda M. Crate

don’t need nor want your permission
let me crack open your spine
take back everything that’s mine,
and i don’t care how much it hurts;
let me see you cry
i want to know there is a soul inside that dead
heart of yours
let me see your blood so i know that you’re
indeed human
because i have my doubts—
i will cut you on my every fang of wrath,
crucify you on your doubt;
bury your resurrection
so you can only dance with death for eternity,
and i will give you only lava for a
once i had a dream that made me cry but now it makes
me indifferent because if you choose hell that’s your choice but while
you’re living i will be the sun eroding you in every chaos you’ve
given others
twisting like a knife fight until i hit the right artery
slashing through your vital organs
like the beak of a vulture—
i will come to you in a night where you’re giving others nightmares
simply to scrap your bones from your flesh in an agonizing screech that will
make even you scream.

Linda M. Crate

Linda M. Crate’s works have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of four chapbooks, the Magic Series, and the forthcoming Phoenix Tears.


Tardy by Ricky Garni

There’s an  old Damon Runyan in the bookstore
and the pages were remarkably bright with
an inscription written in fountain pen by a man
named John W. Allgood who was a Captain in
the armed forces and the date was July, 1944.
The inscription read:

A gift from Margaret

If lost, please return to: General Hospital 206, NYC.

Ricky Garni has worked over the years as a teacher, wine merchant, composer and graphic designer. He began writing poetry in 1978, and has produced over thirty volumes of prose and poetry since 1995. His work can be found in many online publications, print magazines and anthologies and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on seven occasions. His dual volumes “The Tablets of Domino” and “Via” are slated for release in late 2017. 


Geek by Wayne F. Burke

I moved up in the right-hand lane
to pass a big truck
on my left
but the truck sped-up
and I floored the Cadillac to get
in front
before the two lanes became one–
I moved to the left and
stopped at the light
and the truck squealed to a halt
beside me;
the driver barked down through
the open sun roof:
“Fuck you!” I said.
“Say that to my face!”
I looked up:
“get fucked!”
He swore a blue streak,
the words raining down on me,
the truck engine growling;
I reached into my pocket:
“I’ll call the cops!”
An empty threat as
I did not own a cell phone.
I saw him get out, jump down,
a big muscled-up geek,
nickname of “Moose.”
The light blinked green
and I made the turn,
glad we had not come to blows
that “fat bastard”

Wayne Burke

Wayne F. Burke’s poetry has appeared in a variety of publications (including Your One Phone Call). His three published poetry collections, all from BareBack Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. A fourth collection, A LARK UP THE NOSE OF TIME, is due out in 2017. His chapbook PADDY WAGON is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives in the central Vermont area (USA).

Autumn-Fall by Paul Tristram

The oranges, reds, browns and golds
visually echoed and slided
into cigarette ash greys
past the shatterproof windows
of her solitary compartment.
A train ride to nowhere,
destination unsure and unknown,
more a journey inwards.
An experience in slowly dying
feelings and emotions.
A broken eggshell,
the yolk and life force now dripped away…
waste, left for the mental carrion crows
to peck and laugh at, mercilessly.
Pins and needles of the mind,
and she keeps banging sharply
the un-funny bone of her sighing soul.
The chugging rhythm is nauseating
and for once she’d give anything
for a distraction to her sad plight.
A packed carriage full of families
and screaming, badly behaved kids.
A fire, a catastrophe, a rainbow…
but, there is only her own reflection
which has become far too grim
to even glance in the direction of.

paul smoking - Copy

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) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

Family Tree by Ian C Smith

I’m high on hope, breath held.  Below, my boys,
manhood addicts, yell, ‘Dad, we’ve given up.
You win.  Lunch is ready.  Come on.’  I’m poised
to plunge into their gang, a stunt, to drop
from the sky, a bold paladin’s surprise
ending after eluding their long search,
a chevalier, for once, in their eyes.
My feet balance feet from them on my perch.

Then they hurry off from beneath the bough.
Our stout melaleuca’s papery trunk
shields me, riveted in time.  Too late now,
I planned a gymnast’s landing, a soft thunk,
but their white light moved on before I knew,
transient, soon gone, that long-legged crew.

Ian C Smith

Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in , Antipodes, Australian Book Review, Australian Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two-Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia.

The Novelty Of Being Wanted No Longer by Rajnish Mishra

I miss old times and people;
open eyes and see change envelope them and me.
I miss my little brother calling me to play cricket
on the terrace and I, the elder one, reluctant at times,
with things more important to do saying no
sometimes, and the day we drafted a penciled contract
mutually agreed upon; then signed. Its clauses:
I would not slobber him in public,
I would play terrace-cricket with him every afternoon,
and I would not snatch his chocolate, or samosas.
I did keep to my part of it for some time, I remember,
then, I left. When we met again, he had grown up.
Didn’t need any more his playmate of terrace,
Didn’t play cricket there anymore. I know how it feels.
I know the shock, the pain, the novelty of being wanted no longer.

Then came my daughter demanding, not drafting agreements, that:
I play with her every evening, after I return from work.
I take her to the park at weekend mornings
I don’t force her to learn her tables,
I don’t side with her mother when she’s scolded.
No, I did not make the old mistakes this time.
I enjoyed her company, played with her,
took her to the park most weekend mornings,
only sometimes inquired about the table of thirteen
and only sometimes sided with her mother,
never when she was scolded. I stayed. She grew up.
Doesn’t need her old play mate any more,
doesn’t play those make-belief games any more.
Yes, I know how it feels: no shock,
numbed senses, the practice of being wanted no longer.

I sense my grandchildren in future, demands unchanged,
Eyes bright and fear, once more, being wanted no longer.

Rajnish MIshra

Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India. He is the editor of PPP Ezine, a poetry ezine. He has a blog on poetry, poetics and aesthetic pleasure: https:/

On The Terms Of Immigration* by Julia Knobloch

Dear Bertolt Brecht, I feel for you,
I understand your pain, I do, although
personally? I always had the urge
to drive a nail into a wall in foreign lands,
if only for one print in a cheap frame.
I bought two chairs, I carried them alone,
painted them green, and red, for my guests
to sit on, next to the potted flowers
I found in the hardware store around the corner.
Alegría del hogar: joyful home,
that’s how they are called in Argentina.
I know, I need to improve my accent but
by myself, I don’t master the language,
much as I study grammar and meter.
Let me describe to you my excitement,
when I moved into a larger place,
when I acquired more nails, and more chairs.
Let me describe to you my disappointment,
when no one came to visit me,
when I understood that despite myself
I was an unaccomplished immigrant,
and no telegram implored my return.

*After Bertolt Brecht’s On the Term of Exile

Julia Knobloch is a journalist and translator turned project manager and emerging poet. She recently won the 2017 Poem of the Year prize from Brooklyn Poets. Her writing can be found in Green Mountains Review, Yes, Poetry, in between hangovers, poetic diversity, and with Brooklyn Poets.

Snow by Chris D’Errico

Tastes of fatty liver and kidney failure

Should we buy new underwear
should we quit eating sugar
should we
give a shit anymore

Been driving forever and we can’t reverse

Cursed with ghosts and chalk outlines

Our kitchen smells of victimhood and resignation
our bedroom is a car that’s been winterized
fear has made its weapons and we argue

My chest is a wicked shotgun blast

This cab is a barren cathedral

My ears are a crib full of whining babies
our life is a old dog lost in the snow

Should we go left or go right
should we try and push on straight ahead
should we stay put and keep the engine idling
night oozes sky that goes nowhere

Should we
should we

Chris D'Errico

Chris D’Errico has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker’s helper, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he writes and makes music. For more, visit