Burn Ward by Mia Bauer

The cup runneth over
Scorned emotions
Scorch the ones standing closest to the open flame
3rd degree burns
Equates to a trip to the infirmary
Get admitted
Get patched up
Get on with it
These lesions and scars will eventually heal
Maybe not
Sometimes the skin grafts won’t take
Sometimes the nerve damage is too great
Most times the hurt is too deep
This emergency room works overtime
Putting back together even the most severe cases

Mia Bauer
Mia Bauer is a poet, author, and makeup artist. Has been featured in “Within Darkness and Light” (London Anthology for Suicide Prevention). Has written short stories, poems, and a cosmetics book. Native Texan, but has been known to call Los Angeles and San Diego home at times. Currently fabulous while in the South. Married to fellow writer Cole Loren Bauer.


Hitchhiking by C.A. Murray

On top of the mesa the sagebrush stains
the hot air and a white jackrabbit darts
across the country road that has no lanes,
and as many ends as their are starts.
The low sun shines in strands out from behind
pinkish billows that pocket white moisture
while swelling in the sky like something pure,
and something that is unreal and somehow kind.
At the edge the road stops as the canyon
begins in a wide plunge with green birch bush,
a passing river below, and its rush
that will return somethings to where they’re from.
A sunburnt hitchhiker walks slow backward

C.A. Murray
C.A. Murray is currently enrolled in the low-residency MFA program at the University of Alaska in Anchorage. He is a resident of Alaska and is an outdoor educater seasonally in New England. Murray writes poetry, nonfiction and fiction.


Underwear Moths by Paul Tristram

I’m as dry as an Aberavon seafront paving slab
in the third week of July.
But, I’m not letting him anywhere near it…
not even a snifter.
It’s coming up to two years, next month.
I caught the dirty little bastard
pulling his plonker
over Kay’s catalogue underwear models
out in the garden shed last month.
You could hear the gormless cunt
grunting away like a bloody pig in there.
It was noon an’ all, for fuck sake!
Our Shirley and her neighbour Jan was ‘round,
I got them both to fling the door wide-open
and I threw a bucket of cold water over the dip-shit.
Oooh, he didn’t like them two
laughing at his little shrinking cock, I can tell you.
Shaking like a mongrel dog out in the rain he was.
Why? He has no backbone, that’s why…
and I can’t go doing the nasty
with a man without a backbone, it’s pathetic.
He had one, once upon a time…
but, I broke that fucker to smithereens years ago.
Now he’s good for nothing except paying bills,
carrying shopping and getting under my fucking feet.

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/

The Missionaries by Alan Catlin

There they are, those Mormon kids,
always in pairs. Bad news always comes
in pairs. Just ask Wild Bill Hickok.
Funny, one time a few years ago,
I was waiting for a bus, watching these
kids work a block which could be described
as “not the most desirable neighborhood
in town” and I thought these guys must be
Fearless. Or really, really stupid.  Probably
both. Nah,  definitely both.  Anyway, I watched
them ring a bell for an upstairs apartment,
over this gyro place, and I thought, man,
are you guys are like a week too late.
Cops hauled some guy’s ass out of there
for murdering some dude and having
the body on hand, you know, like mutilated
and stuff. Might even have been more than
one guy, I forget.  Bottom line was,
there was some talk about cannibalism.
Hushed that right  the hell up.  You know
how the Cable News Network’s loves shit
like that.  Can you imagine if those kids
had been there earlier, rang that doorbell and
a disembodied voice, through a speaker phone
thing said, “Sure boys, come right on up.
I’d love to talk to you.”  And the minute
they got up there, he’d hold the door open,
clock the second one through, and tie the
other dude up before he knew what happened.
By the time the first guy came to, he’d be trussed
up too and all he’d be able to do was watch…..
Didn’t happen, though.  Too bad,. What they
should do, you know, the authorities, instead
of locking those psycho killers up, they should
send them in pairs to some place like Salt Lake
City, make them go door to door and see what
happens then.  Would make “In Cold Blood”
look like soft core porn.  One thing for sure,
it would cut down on all that annoying,
imported-from-out-of-state, door to door solicitation.

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

Kidd’s Work Is Never Done by Jeff Bagato

There’s oranges in them hills
sniffed out by Honeybee in a Tricky
Dick mask, his nose working between
the petals like a complete
breakfast of porno movie never
made, and when Kidd whistles, bee
comes flying into the big house
for a snifter of brandy as sucked
out of the cop’s cruiser on a bad
beat through jungle dark enough
to petrify any cracker in his peanut
butter shoes, and it’s all downhill
from there as Ladylou hits the town,
and Kidd gets wind of a time before
contraception blues, hops the bee
to center square finding lordosis
in progress, and takes his place
like running from the sun setting red
behind cobalt clouds in piles
like oceans dying and being reborn—
“There goes the neighborhood,”
whisper blinded neighbors
in lick suppression psychosis, but they’re
wrong, they’re wrong—it’s not going
but coming, now, like the bee’s
stinger through a brick wall or the
holy bodies of the Civil War
dancing under harvest twilight

Jeff Bagato 2
A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, glitch video, sticker art, and pop surrealism paintings. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, The Five-Two, Rusty Truck, Futures Trading, Otoliths, and Your One Phone Call. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Dishwasher on Mars (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com


The Second Time by James Babbs

the second time I came
it felt like
I was going to have a heart attack
I’m not as young
as I used to be and
it took me over thirty minutes
after my first orgasm
before I was able to
finally make it again
by then
I think she was getting
kind of bored with me
she’d come a few times and
I think she was enjoying herself
but she wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic
as she had been the first time
but it didn’t really bother me
in that particular moment
I was mostly thinking about myself
I know how awful that sounds
but don’t get me wrong
I don’t mean to say
I don’t care about her
for what it’s worth
I care about her a lot and
I can’t see myself
being with anybody else
I probably love her
I know I do
but I’m too afraid to say it
I’m afraid of a lot of things
I remember
she said it to me once
but then she got embarrassed and
didn’t wait for me to reply
when I got off of her
I watched her get up and
go into the bathroom
my heart was starting to calm down
when she came back to bed
I held the blankets for her
snuggling myself up against her
my arms automatically
finding her and
I thought about
how warm she felt
how comfortable it all was
holding on to her
before I closed my eyes

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.

Funeral by Helen Kay

Today there is not enough room –

No more oxygen-tank-Stonehenge
On her paisley Berber, just relatives
in not quite fitting shades of black.
A dying rat pulses on the lawn
outside, its limp tail, a cut noose.

Today is a helpless, staring day.
She rocks on the chair, moults tears,
fumbles to write her love on a flowercard.
A VAC therapy machine lurks in a bag.
its tube suckling her mummified leg.

Gwynn’s sheep choose to escape
just as the hearse snoops up the lane
In tight suits and slippy-soled shoes
we shout them back, half thinking
Tom’ll leap from his coffin to help.

each    little      bird    that    sings
    bellows a            mountainous director

we picture       empty budgie cages

          the vicar rustles up a life we half knew.

Scouse accents walk past a jigsaw of graves:
His name, Evans, will slot in here.

sandwiches are headstones on blue
willow plates in a lichened schoolroom

She can’t believe Tom is in that box.
The fluid snakes out of her leg.

It will take months for her flesh to mend.
There is never ever enough room.

Helen Kay
Helen Kay is sometimes known as the chicken poet because her debut pamphlet A Poultry Lover’s Guide To Poetry (Indigo Dreams, 2015). She has had poems published in magazines including IS&T, Rialto and Orbis. she was a runner up in the High Sheriff’s Cheshire Prize for Literature in 2016 and was shortlisted for the 2017 Paper Swans pamphlet prize.

Precious Thought by Ferris E. Jones

A bard tossed of precious thought,
Awakes each night, eyes distraught.
To feel the words precise and clear,
The days outset he must not fear.
With time and wit, he will not lie,
True penned musings cannot die.

Ferris E. Jones
Ferris E. Jones writes poetry and screenplays from his residence in Seattle Washington. His work has been published in Se La Vie Writers Journal, Write on Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, Degenerate Literature 17 and other literary periodicals. He is the recipient of two Grants from the Nevada Arts Council and published several collections of poetry, including To Burning Man, Oh the Path that Followed and As the Toad Sleeps. You can learn more about Ferris E. Jones by visiting http://www.inquisitionpoetry.com


Love Was Never A Poem by John Patrick Robbins

She said why is nothing ever about me?
One foot out the door and a world away already witnin thought.

A dance so simple ends just the same.
And the image of the page stands a moment caught in time.

I didnt want to cast her truths from my view .
The painter can only show the portrait for what it is the subject portrays.

We spent are time now we simply waited on goodbye .

Somewhere between the drinks it turned into something twisted it was never meant to become.

Love was never a poem.

Just a word over used by many and understood by few .

Love was never anything I cared to recall.

John Patrick Robbins
John Patrick Robbins Is a writer ,Comedian and full time drinker who’s writing is largely influenced by people and stories I here’s around him everyday. Stay crazy .

Island of the Dead Milenko Županović

of future
in the mind
of prophet

milenko photo
Milenko Županović was born in 1978 in Kotor (Montenegro). By profession he is a graduate marine engineer, but in his free time, he writes poetry and short stories. His stories and poems have been published by many magazines, blogs and websites, mostly in the Europe, U.S. and in Latin America. In 2010 he wrote and published his first book, a collection of stories, and he also written and published few collections of poems (ebooks). In 2015 he wrote and published his second book , a collection of stories and poetry. In 2016 he wrote his third book , a collection of poetry (published in USA, project ”Poems for all”) His book ”Martiri”was published in italian language. Milenko is an ethnic Croat and lives in the town of Kotor (Montenegro) with his wife and 3 sons.