Alice’s Dolls

She undressed the intruders down to their brittle alibis. Ultimately, they refused to confess to the silencing of the mute-color despair, the cries of the second hand dolls. One intruder stared down at Alice’s favorite doll, the one with the feather boa and a missing foot. When Alice questioned him, his eyes, tiny dark planets shifting away from light, remained obtuse. Was he a serial monster? she thought. Or a reborn one? The other man, perhaps blinded by drought and dead heat, complained of bee stings everywhere. Alice disappeared and returned with two glasses of ice water. They both reached but she stepped back. “Tell me, she said, “who tore off her foot.” The first man pleaded for clemency, begged to be hung in a noose made of feathers. That tickled Alice. Then, it made her cry.

Kyle Hemmings has had work in Otoliths, Ink in Thirds, and elsewhere. He loves garage bands of the 60s. 

Click

from the bottom of the bottle a
pair of eyes glared up, emanating
disappointment, judgment, sorrow. 
the tears were drowned
as the final sip was downed
and the cries were muffled
by the echoes of the night. 
nowhere else to run to.
under the sea of bourbon
they lay, forever, 
with no way ever to reach the surface. 
a pair of bright, green eyes shedding
tears intertwined with the final drops
of bourbon,
the stars above laughed and mocked,
endlessly, remorselessly.
one final sip, the
click came. 
the eyes remain at the bottom,
sadder than ever before.
no more tears for me. 
finally a good afternoon
despite the rain. 
only the endless river of
broken promises remains, and the
white powder on the moustache
burned the nostrils. 
the eyes were gone, 
I felt alone. 
once more, losing
fights to win the war, and as another
retreat was conducted, the heavy weight
crushing my shoulders brought me
close finally to giving up.

Currently residing in Greece, George Gad Economou has a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and is the author of Bourbon Bottles and Broken Beds(Adelaide Books), Of the Riverside(Anxiety Press), Reeling Off the Barstool (Dumpster Fire Press) and The Omega Of Us All (Anxiety Press).

I’m Too Fucked Up

To speak, let alone reach out.
My eyes are red as the sunsets promise.
The bottle is a truth I cannot resist, no matter if it’s killing me.

And your memory too perfect to be real, so I cherish the truths of loves imperfection.
Sorry is an overused word, so I will spare us that bullshit.

Life is a rented room left behind for others to view and just as easily close the door with their
hearts.

Compassion is a beautiful theory, as so is some salvation from this hard-luck tale that we all
know cannot exist.

I was written off long before the ink did dry upon these last sad lines.

When it gets dark, so shall you forever remember me.

I was too much, for even myself.

John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer. His work has been published here at Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Piker Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and the Dope Fiend Daily.

His current book is Midnight Masochism from Black Circle Publishing and is avaliable on Amazon.

His work is often dark and always unfiltered.

Breakdown

Privation rives the centrality
of the self-image pivot.
Words are let on to pinch us
as if pain fills the caldera.
Haptic maneuvers don’t end 
the hollowness.
 
Indigence apart,
neediness is a condition.
Replenishment
of the catchall isn’t a cure.
Balsam lies in the brain.
Ministering emotions perfumes the perimeter.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. Published in over thirty-five countries, he is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. Highly commended inerbacce-prize 2024 for poetry, UK, with over 9000 submissions worldwide, Sethi lives in Mumbai, India.

PHILOSOPHY 101

The dream never varies.
I wake the morning of the final
thinking I know nothing.
I missed so many classes;
even when I slouched in the back row,
I felt I missed everything.
I read some of the books
on the reading list
but remembered nothing of them.
I sat the exam,
somehow filling the pages,
and got roaring drunk that night.
The B+ told me everything
I needed to know about philosophy.

Gregg Norman is a Canadian poet whose work has been accepted by Lothlorien Poetry Journal,
Dark Winter Literary Journal, Borderless Journal, and many others.

Enter the stars

I am lamb
cult of the twin 
consuming thy future-tense gemini
vengeance 
on the tribe
retribution upon
the god
follow me
unto holy blood devastation
blue moon harvest crescendo

Mike Zone is the Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press, co-founder of Deadstar:Control,
manager of the band Tail From the Crypt and producer for the record label Paranormal Vinyl
Cassettes & Hair Xtensions. He is the author of: Wonderful Turbulence, Fuck You: A Fucking
Poetry Chap, & The Earth Was Shaking For Days and Shedding Dark Places (almost) along
with being the co-author of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to: Alien Buddha
Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Horror Sleaze
Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos and Cult
Culture Magazine.

Why Harbours Become Regattas When the Rich Come to Town

Bought four jugs of paint stripper last week.
In a metaphorical sense, though I am no fan of the device.
For the ego, and all that comes with it.
Why harbours become regattas when the rich come to town.
Bosom babies large as heaving church bells knocking together.
Those many fishing nets of diminishing returns.
 
And I hold her hair over a motel toilet.
That Do Not Flush Feminine Products sign
on the wall like a commemorative plaque
to honour the newly fallen.
 
And a man will be called many things in his lifetime
other than his name, best get used to a diversity of attack.
Stretch out on the bed like a trucker’s manifest
for the long haul.
 
Falling asleep to the sound of my own breathing.
The resident hypnotist would have a field day with me.
Have me playing air guitar on some monstrous 
purple veiny sex shop dildo for the roaring crowds.
 
And you wonder why I drink as much as I do.
Climbing into trees after the age of ten should not be
frowned upon, but it is.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

The Disgruntled Elite

The Right before those Buggers
clapped me in wrist-irons
… I hurdled the counter
and yelled the word
… “Malcontent!”…
in a questioning manner,
over the Tannoy system
… and, over 20 people
in the Waiting Room…
raised their (Defiant) hands.
The ‘Truth’ is Adaptable,
a mere ‘Skirting-Lane’,
not a final Destination…
they’ll use your ‘Honesty’
against you… unless,
you ‘Outmanoeuvre’
their vile ‘Snakiness’
… with silent ‘Ladders’
to Stonewalled ‘Frustration’.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. His novel ‘Crazy Like Emotion’ is now available by Close To The Bone Publishing.

ignite scholarship semi-approval

tent beckons mesquite farce
bluish torch magnetized formula
fiendish tollbooth phantom red tide
agitprop crab legs ooh la la photosynthesis
cracked seminar theoretical snow plow
drift resolute unsolved oblong sniffer
short of policy intelligentsia busking veil
affair explicit anniversary socialite
unrealized aquatic futuristic sponge
wake cadres wince plutonium
directionless breathalyzer assault rent
dated due passed b/t lingerie candles
wieners horns tumbling fructose
syrup splashing gilded age bubble bath
manifested glory hole loveseat mob
court plea membrane dalliance
zoned pretense alabaster smoke
fill branch neat tidy torque
operatic shortcoming optional
clashing cash n’ carry hairy
scaly diving board scooter coat
clogged cab foot dimple leash
rigid discursive paradigms
bracket apocryphal unapproachable

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books O! fragmented glories (Argotist Ebooks), Prismatic Fissures (C22 Press), and peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

PERMANENT, GROUNDED, PAINFUL— PLASTIC MOLD, DISCARDED DEBRIS

Plastic mold, discarded debris—
The most youthful, impressionable 
Years of my daughters’ lives
Fated betwixt black garbage bags,
Twigs, worn furniture, curbside dust—

A spattering of murky mud
Symbolizing thy stinging sentiments,
Mimicking extremities wrapping, 
Trying to conceal 
The abundant, 365-day gift, simple joy—

The thin, primary-colored mirror,
Bulky, off-white Fisher Price kitchen set
Where my eldest daughter once
Served imaginary pancakes, coffee,
Tangible memories with a stutter

Has been treated like leftover grass
After the lawn gleams freshly cut—
A piece of the past necessary for new
Growth yet permanent, grounded, painful—

Plastic mold, discarded debris.

Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning poet, filmmaker and screenwriter. His short dark comedy/horror script Dead Air! won Best Original Screenwriter at the fourth edition of The Hitchcock Awards. A noted critic, and author, Buckner runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com.