You know that it is over when you go

to see him after midnight, dressed

In babydoll pajamas the breeze blows

up on your way inside.  Think how impressed

he’ll be with such a cheeky surprise.  Use

your key and climb in bed, the place he should

be but isn’t, his “early night,” a ruse.

You know what it must mean; it isn’t good.

You leave ashamed his neighbors will get a view

of you, this needy whore without a clue.

For him, you were a good girl, pure and true,

and look at where it’s fucking gotten you.


Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola.  Her sonnets and other poetry have been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Infernal Ink, Occulum, Faded Out, Fourth & Sycamore, Murmur Journal, Moonchild Magazine and many other publications.  Read some more of her sonnet fuckery at  Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.


Vespula Vulgaris

You little…
fucking barbecue bastard.
Faster than the Dukes of Hazzard,
you arrive.

You…airborne disease.
You leave me swiping the sky,
viewed from afar as a
drug-induced dance.

You drunken wee shitface.
Spoiling the joyous surprise
of an Indian summer,
you zoom.

You’re despised.
The opposite of a bee –
irritating, disgracing the reputation
of all those that fly.

You stripey little sod.
Even seagulls pour scorn
on your very existence –
‘pointless’ they shriek from the roofs.

You dementedly buzz close
to the zip on my shorts,
on purpose of course,
you’ve detected a gap.

You’re as welcome as an STI.
Now my craft beer you target,
zig-zagging so close to the froth,
with a swipe of my hand, it’s all gone.

You can get to the shops
and buy me another.
You mother, father, uncle fucker.

You, you absolute prick.
Badgering my Aunt Mavis next,
but her manly touch is far from a caress,
leaving you stunned!

You look so helpless now –

flat out, legs in the air
on a bed of hop-soaked grass.
I almost feel sorry for…

“That’s one of God’s creatures,” she cries.
My hippy cousin Sarah –
do-gooder, must do better,
all jingly bangles and a bamboo sweater.

Back to you. You… vitriolic, alcoholic
excuse for a being.
My cat Max sees you squirm


Jamie Graham is a Scottish writer and Seinfeld fan on the wrong side of 40. He won a BBC Radio writing competition as a kid and won’t stop going on about it. 

Tweet Unavailable

Our love was unmapped,

an unexpected treasure with no x to mark it.

I spent our time together tagging photos

so our entanglement wouldn’t go uncharted,

my conquest wouldn’t be unnoticed.

But when we came undone,

when you came to your senses

and unstuck yourself

and I became once again unloved,

I searched for them.

I found

tweet unavailable,

user unknown,

our history unpicked.



Thanks a lot.



F. R. Kesby is a poet and storyteller from Leeds.  She is a regular on the local open mic scene as well as the current chair of The Leeds Savage Club, the oldest writing club in Leeds (and definitely the best).  When not writing she can usually be found ranting about Doctor Who.


Men’s balls are so commodified.
In sport nuts mount an own-it theme.
How round the world is testies tied.

Tap long balls scoring from behind.
So experts screech on FIFA screens.
Men’s balls are so commodified.

Foot, golf, soft, base, cue, blue, hard, wide
is open game for love machines.
How round the world is testies tied.

Are cheers for balls that fall ringside
more Sontag grab than Craig-stance scene?
Why are men’s balls so commodified?

Venues are built for balls slick-slide.
Fans worship balls with bellarmine.
How round the world is testies tied.

So clap for a sack or hangout with pride
or cream a man’s balls for a baby’s dream.
Man’s bells are so commodified.
How round the world is testies tied.


Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN, where he finds work in special event management. He is a poet, flash fiction geek, and essayist enthusiast. His work has appeared in many literary journals, and he’s also a prize-winning card maker and scrapbooker.


Lost weight


A lot of weight


Place hand on my chest

Find lump

Feel scared



Start to panic

As I do


Am told

By wife

That this

Is my breast bone

I should feel it

I used to feel it

Decades ago


And feel very silly

Richard Harries is a performance poet who had poetry come accidentally into his life seven years ago, has a ball and loads of fun performing all over. He tries to motivate, inspire and help those setting out on this fun path. He writes about life and reality, fantasy, tragedy and fun.


If You Want A Wolf, Get A Dog

We could see the glow up there. We could see it coming over the hill. I didn’t have to have you tell me what was going on. Lots of people and no answers. We found bodies that were nothing more than ash and bones. The most that could be done was to create some kind of a record that they existed, but it was just not enough. There were flies hovering everywhere around me. Then a deputy showed up with a megaphone and started yelling, “Leave, leave!” So panic? Definitely not. We put a fun slogan and a picture on a condom, and presto! I decided to strip off all my clothes.


Howie Good is the author of The Loser’s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize for Poetry and forthcoming from Thoughtcrime Press.

It’s Phillip

Phillip is the bug man, the bug
man is Phillip. Phillip has eyes
a blue to look through you.
So says Mingju

who met Phillip when he came
to inspect my place. Phillip
made Mingju feel weird. So
when she puts on lipstick

before Phillip is due, I say,
“You put on lipstick for Phillip,
didn’t you?” half-joking, but still.
Mingju just says, “No, I put it
on for you,” and

we are on the bare mattress,
peeled of its buggy skin. My
clothes I washed this

morning. They are in garbage
sacks in the middle of the floor;
that’s where Phillip said to put

them. You gotta seal the sacks
good so the bugs don’t get
out. Phillip was supposed to be
here at two. Now it’s three. And

Mingju plays with me. She
yanks her toy around. Her
lipstick smears in her kissing
of it as Phillip, I’m sure it’s

Phillip, makes up the stairwell
to the third floor, me thinking of
bugs. I just know it’s Phillip, but

Mingju peels her pants off, and
plants her vagina all around me.
Phillip now arrives on the landing
with his poison, and knocks.


Opham Denyer lives in New Jersey where he loves life and looks forward to the future. He is poor, but who needs money? His favorite things are dumpster diving and speaking in Korean.


The rain had a head start on everyone, even the man with the American flag whose sickness, amnesia, was a metaphor for everything Mom taught him, cornerstone of his apple pie. At the campground near the river people sniffing camphor tins made everything possible, even myth. Imogene Coca made a mad appearance, married to a Ralph Cramden clone. Their kids hopped, skipped and jumped like Olympians, all chipper. Someone passed potato crisps around, all British. Hope was not lost, although insurance didn’t cover damage from water seepage, cancer and climate-change denial. Liquor helped with that, as did the oily halo round the matron’s spinning head. All of it is a Frisbee toss near a high-voltage transformer. The true fun will start when Ralph decides it will.


Sal Difalco lives in Toronto. His poems and stories have appeared in various journals.

I Was Never Good At Licking Ass

My dad licked ass quite excellently as a youngster.
He licked the asses of the great men of Leftist academe.
Yet wrote a thesis on the innocuous thought of John Dewey.
Got great jobs sight unseen by merely sticking his tongue.
Up the fat mealy asshole of the unified directorship of.
Philosophy. His dad too was pretty good in the arts of.
Sphincter-cleaning, having risen from the ranks of a.
Peon cheese salesman to the president of the Brazilian.
Division of the largest butcher in the world, Companía.
Swift do Brazil. But me, I was never good at this.
Nobody taught me how to lick a man’s ass, not my.
Mother—she was brushing her hair before the mirror—not.
My father—he was writing books on great men—so.
I climbed not the ladder. I was artless and.
Ignorant, though I suppose had some gross man stuck.
His butt cheeks in my face and spread them apart, I.
Might have figured out what to do. Instead I.
Wrote things that offended, made the ass cheeks close.
Instead of open, got myself suspended from the.
Writing program even. I got my Master’s without.
Once having met with my Major Professor, who also.
Happened to be the director, another “Great Man,” famous.
To a degree, who could have lifted the phone for me.
Done for me what my dad’s directors did for.
Him. Instead he slipped me the degree below the.
Table so nobody would see, and sent me on my way.
A static pea in the middle of an eight-lane highway.
When alas my dad retired, I told him I had never been.
Good at kissing ass, an excuse for my stasis, one that.
Made perfect sense. “That’s too bad,” my father.
Said thoughtfully, and farted.


Opham Denyer lives in New Jersey where he loves life and looks forward to the future. He is poor, but who needs money? His favorite things are dumpster diving and speaking in Korean.

Drink, Dance, Fuck, Repeat

You see her.

The girl.  The woman.  The dream.  The one.

She’s got those eyes that sparkle

and that smile that makes bits of you glow

that you didn’t even know you had.

And those fucking tits.

You wait for her to go to the bar,

sidle up beside her,

knock her elbow so she looks at you.

Smile and apologise.  You’re in.

Compliment her hair, her necklace, her dress.

Keep her talking while you check for the signs.

Boots.  Check.  Eyebrow piercing.  Check.

Rubber rainbow on the wrist.  Check.

Sorry lads, this ones on our team.

Linger over the drinks until your friends get pissed,

go your separate ways

but keep your eyes glued to her as the night goes on.

Of course, she looks too.  You’re wearing your lucky pants.

She hits the dancefloor so you drag your mates out,

dance behind her until you’re dancing with her,

until it’s a mess of swaying hips

and air pumping fists

and feet with no rhythm

but fuck it, you look good.

She takes you to the corner to kiss

and her mouth tastes like Sambuca and smoke and you hate both

and she moves her tongue like she has no clue what she’s doing

but you don’t mind

because, well, look at her.

At least she knows what she’s doing with her fingers.

You keep swaying so it looks like you’re still dancing

but her fingers are inside you

and yours are inside her

and it’s dark and sweaty and gross

and there’s a couple opposite doing the same

and one of them winks at you

and you feel sick and drunk and hot and spaced and-

then it’s done.

Lights are coming on and phones are coming out

and she types her number into yours with wet fingers

but you both know you’ll never text her.

She’s already looking rough.

She asks if you’ll be back and you will

but you’ll pretend not to recognise her.

She may have been the one

but tomorrow night there’ll be number two,

three, four, five, six, seven.

Drink, dance, fuck, repeat.

This is the life.

This is the life.

This is my life.


F. R. Kesby is a poet and storyteller from Leeds.  She is a regular on the local open mic scene as well as the current chair of The Leeds Savage Club, the oldest writing club in Leeds (and definitely the best).  When not writing she can usually be found ranting about Doctor Who.