Fuck Your Fucking System! by Paul Tristram

I’ve seen proud, family men
shamed, slaved & chained to poverty.
Single mothers in Soup Kitchens…
I’m going to say that once again…
monkey-carrying dirty, hungry babies
to their weary backs and breasts.
There are fatter, fitter and healthier dogs & cats
living just three streets away
from our Council Estate
than 99% of the poor bastards
who are socially imprisoned upon it.
My neighbour splashed out
and got a ‘Taxi’ home from the pub
because it was his fortieth birthday…
he lost 3 teeth within 24 hours
for rubbing every other poor cunt’s nose in it.
Joke Shops for Jobcentres,
revolving door Jails & Mental Institutions.
Magistrates who ‘Fine’ the skint and unemployed…
where’s that fucking money coming from, eh?
You’ve already robbed us all…
of everything… except our fucking FIGHT!

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/

Screaming Orgasm by Alan Catlin

For a double sawbuck she’ll be
a good listener, someone pleasant
to have a cocktail with in dark, barely
lit lounge, might even pretend to care
what is being said and maybe offer a
kiss goodnight.
For half a yard, she’ll pretend
the Ladies is a tomb in winter with
a door that can be latched. Perform
services no matter how insistent
pleas to open up are.
For a hundred, your car or mine, is
on offer. Fold down seat action a
Go: choose your parking lot, secluded
For half a grand, you can have it all:
the whole Chinese menu from Column
A all the way to Column Z, plus
breakfast in bed or out of, and hot coffee
Says she took acting lessons from a
life master, Christy Canyon, who
taught her everything a girl needs
to know to get ahead in The Life.
Has aspirations to play Vegas on her
back. After that, the sky’s the limit.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

Femme Fatale by David Spicer

I gave you close comfort.
Please don’t grovel.
You loved yourself
too much to see my true beauty:
it destroys dreaming fools,
stupid men not thinking with their heads,

and I didn’t give you head.
If it’s any comfort,
I’ve met sillier fools.
They snivel, cry, grovel
at the sight of my beauty.
Morons like yourself.

Claim you weren’t yourself,
sweep me out of your head,
find a brilliant beauty
who’ll give you physical comfort,
but don’t let her see you grovel,
lest she, too, think you foolish.

Stop making foolhardy
choices, find your witty self,
or do let me live in your head,
and make a habit of groveling.
You won’t receive any comfort,
least of all from a beautiful

femme fatale. This is what’s beautiful:
like all men, you’re a crotch-thinking fool.
Deny that, if it makes you comfortable,
or, better yet, be selfish
like I am, escape your head
and trick women to grovel.

Make them think you’re lovers, Groveller:
then they’ll line up for your beauty.
Shake your curly blonde head
and they’ll pursue you more—the fools—
convinced you’re self-
less enough to give more than comfort.

Again, don’t grovel, you naïve fool,
know that beauty isn’t self-
less. Clear your head, give some comfort.

David Spicer
David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and four chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books and is scheduled to have Limbs From a Pear Tree (Flutter Press) released in the Fall of 2017.


Cow Eyes by James Babbs

this morning
I saw the cows watching me
they were standing next to the fence
when I stopped to put the mail
into the mailbox
before I turned the car around
and headed back the way I came
I thought about a girl
I once knew
and I remembered
how I called her cow eyes
but not to her face
and as I drove down the road
heading toward the next box
I wondered
whatever happened to her and
sometimes I think about
how it wouldn’t be so bad
if I were one of those cows
out there in the pasture
living with the other cows
standing around in the sun
with plenty of grass to eat

James Babbs-Author Photo
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.

Mundane by Robert Beveridge

I remember
being in my parents’ house
the routine of it. Work.
Drink. Write. Sleep.
The constant clamor
of sameness.

Wake up.

Robert Beveridge
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Borrowed Solace, Dodging the Rain, and Twyckenham Notes, among others.

Pissing On Your Parade by J.J. Campbell

it’s a delicate
dance with

two left feet
don’t make the
best scene of
the evening

another drink
to loosen up

or simply
wallow in
yet another
chapter of
your life
pissing on
your parade

you’ll look
back in years
and realize
all your

yet wonder
why it never
got any easier

J.J. Campbell
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 Dead Snakes, Easy Street, The Stray Branch, Pyrokinection and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days bitching about only the things he cares about on his highly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)