the above piece of rubbish shamefully wrought from my fifty plus shades of petrified grayish (comfortably) numb skull materiel, who, like that kid in Deliverance, a banjo he doth “FAKE” to strum.

 

As an arboreal bonobo, cereal dumbo, and ethereal fondue

oh…and an American of LVIII skittish scuttles salutary hoo

ha slip shod journey round mister sun,

and becomes Crispr than any 23andme and during Jew

if fie venture to close,

thus hastening a rush to water closet to extinguish fire loo

ping all around me – asper resembling a mulberry bush,

moost likely severe burns will into a new

lee reincarnated carbon based life form,

or if lucky aye will buck hum a rolling stone –

as the jagged key cornerstone laid for a sin a gog

 

 

 

or other non denominational church pew,

that bore witness to political ambition of one hog

in daas ice cream addict, and indulged without letup,

thus necessitating being rolled like one bump on a log

so mud dear wanton Downton Abbey dwellers,

I present a synopsis of Jacob William Rees-Mogg

(born 24 May 1969), and evinced a craving for deluxe

top of the line pie ala mode posse sub bull being nursed on egg nog

which left no rum for any contrition,

hence this mollycoddled, pampered

non heir oh gent, ex spoon non chilly unscrupulous Brit did slog

his way as a Conservative Politician of Parliament

for North East Somerset at the 2010 general election

success predicated on his birth in Hammersmith, London

educated at Eton College, he got along swimmingly with pollywog

wharf air he superseded his piers (plow man style),

who many Thames thought himself tubby

the moost salient resplendent cog.

 

 

 

Matthew Scott Harris was born in Cincinnati that fuckeye state

January 13th  – unknown+ years to date

a tangle of arms & legs testing lungs, sounded great

in the garden of Eden, he kind of resembled

a misshapen octopus under the sea with an oval pate

glowering inxs deep purple moody blue, and quite irate

thrust out womb of Harriet Harris whom Boyce did date

after courting this youngest Kuritsky whose   

(fast forward half a century) met her ill-fate

whisked by grim reaper, which demise she did hate

trademark persona imbued with vim and vinegar til illness ate

je nais sais quois personable maternal trait

evident during my boyhood reflected by this sole son

inches closer to mortality and Hades gate

aware each day ought to be cherished as the topnotch rate

In my lifetime I’ve performed over 9000 sins

Pick a religion, any religion, and I have sinned against it
Sins that have been catalogued, weighed, and indexed
Each sin, a heart pockmarked, flamed, shamed
 
The universe is voracious, a vast sin-eater
And allowing me to sin more, for its feeding pleasure
No remorse, no heat death, sin without end
 
My sins are not new nor shiny, and cannot be seen
By more than a select few, sinning with me
A sinful conspiracy, beneath a blind complacency
 
My sins have claws and fangs, dragon-sized
Trapped in its sinful cage with no means of escape
Scratching the innards of my sinful brain
 
Sins within sins, nested and hatched
Before I leave, some questionable future sin:
Can one sin in their own personal hell?

 

Jake Tringali (jakethepoet.wordpress.com) has lived up and down the East Coast, and then up and down the West Coast, and is now back in his home city of Boston. He runs rad restaurants. He thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers. He was first published in 2014. Journals include Catch & Release, Boston Poetry Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and thirty-five other fine periodicals.

Questions

 

You ask me if I care for you

I look at you suspiciously

Hesitate, and then respond

You doubt the sincerity of my reply

 

You ask me if I want you

Yes, like a cat desires a mouse

You eye my smirk with concern

I picture you, mouse, tail hanging from between my lips

 

You ask me if we’ll get married

I fake a stroke, stumble to the floor

You see through my theatrics and

ask the question again

 

You say that you are leaving

Bags packed you linger at the door

Half-heartedly, I attempt to stop you

You quickly give in and stay

 

You ask me to meet your parents

Faking another stroke just won’t do

I crap and wet my pants

You ease off of your demands for the day

 

You place a ring on my finger

An invisible noose tightens around my neck

My vision blurs, my tongue feels heavy

I sign 911 as I crumble to the floor.

 

 

 

 

 Toni G. had dreams of becoming a rap artist (Hence the name Toni G.) but due to life struggles (such as being an old fart and not having enough money to buy gold chains or gold caps for her teeth) she decided to forgo that career and become a poet. As you can tell by her piece being published in WFP, she hasn’t made it as a poet either. 

 

 

 

A Sunday Drive

I think that we have driven many miles:

paved surface prior to a country road,

the crunch of gravel grinding under tires,

the earthy smell of fields just freshly mowed.

The loud and rolling cries of sandhill cranes

compete with engine revs, rubato notes

and him, his laughter. Damp with coming rains,

the air is muggy as it swallows, bloats.

His hands were strong when he first held me tight,

his breath against my cheek both sweet and hot.

I dropped my phone as I just tried to fight

the dragging by hair through the parking lot.

 

 

I’m guessing he is still profoundly drunk

by how I’m tossed around in this dark trunk.

 

Karen Shepherd lives with her husband and twoA Sunday Drive teenagers in the Pacific Northwest, where she enjoys kayaking, walking in forests and listening to the rain. Her poems and fiction have been published in riverbabble, Literally Stories, CircleShow, Sediments Literary Art Journal, Dime Show Review, The Society of Classical Poets and Poets Reading the News.

Attention Deficit Disorder

There’s lots of shops in Selly Oak

and I’m writing down their names

KwikSave

to show the wife when I get home

that I’m trying hard to change

New Look

I’m on the number 61 bus

after visiting a therapist

       Barking Mad

I’m on the 61 bus because

I’ve got an Attention Deficit

Focus

I discovered it last Saturday –

well, my missus found it really

       The Treasure Trove

when she came home unexpectedly

as I’m sat there watching TV

Homebase

I’d got horse-racing from Sandown

and James Brown on a CD

Sports Direct

Online Football with the sound down

and I’m reading Dostoyevsky

Busy Bodies

She wore the dress that she’d just bought

and her hair was cut and dyed

Posh Pets

when she asked me what I thought

I unthinkingly replied

Body Shop

that the Villa are still winning

James Brown’s the King of Soul Music

Top Banana

I’ve just lost in a photo-finish

and  Raskolnikov has blew it

Selly Sausage

without bothering to glance up

as a frown replaced her smile

The Gun Barrels

I confess, I hold my hands up,

I didn’t praise her new hairstyle

Gaf Collection

She reckoned that I needed help,

counselling or a therapist,

Let’s Talk

says I’m in a world all by myself

and I’ve got an Attention Deficit

Bohemia

When I proclaimed my innocence

she exclaimed that’s just a symptom

Shapeshifters

of Oppositional Defiance.

I watched the 3.15 at Kempton.

       People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals

But I went to see the therapist,

there were six of us – Group Therapy

Small World

and told them about my deficit

but the wife got all their sympathy

        Get Stuffed Cafe

An intensive course of CBT

was the therapist’s suggestion;

Alternatives  

how to focus on reality

and pay it full attention

Acropolis Now

Curbing selfish tendencies

would enhance my whole prognosis,

Forget Me Nots

then the others aired their grievances

but I didn’t take much notice

People  

And so I’m writing down these notes,

while on the bus returning,

Specsavers

of all the shops in Selly Oak

I’ve passed by on my journey

Thomas Cook

to show her I’m cognisant of

the things that are important

 Hallmark

like brand new dresses, shoes and tops

and the shops where she has bought ‘em

         Fashion First

and as we’re coming to my stop

I feel relaxed and yet alert

Ali Baba Lebanese Coffee

but as I’m waiting to get off

my inner harmony’s disturbed

The Nail Bar

The driver of number 61

uses elbows for the steering

Mamma Mia!

and his hands to turn the pages of

the novel that he’s reading.

Omar Khayyam

All the way to town and back

he’s weaved a path by magic,

Persian Rug and Gift Centre

reading On The Road by Kerouac

without glancing at the traffic

Dotcomicide

I wrote my therapist’s address

on the back of the driver’s book

          Little Shop of Favours

you’ve got Attention Deficit, I said,

take my seat in therapy group.

Costcutter

My need is not so great as yours;

you’re not safe to drive this bus

Juggling and Kite Shop

he opened automatic doors

without bothering to look up.

Next

 

 

 

Ray Miller is a Socialist, Aston Villa supporter, and a faithful husband. His life has been a disappointment.

GOOD GIRL GONE

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 http://medium.com/@lolaandjolie.  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.
FLY AWAY FROM THAT BURGER.

 
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
AND GOODNIGHT.

 

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

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.

Lump

Lost weight

Deliberately

A lot of weight

Pleased

Place hand on my chest

Find lump

Feel scared

Fright

Dread

Start to panic

As I do

Then

Am told

By wife

That this

Is my breast bone

I should feel it

I used to feel it

Decades ago

Relief

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.