John D. Robinson



I heard him crying
one night, alone,
I crept downstairs
from my bedroom
into the lounge,
he wasn’t aware of
my presence:
I crouched down
and watched my
father weep, drunk,
confused and
for several minutes
I remained silent
and then I
returned to my
bedroom and wept,
I didn’t know why
except that
I had to.



Write something down that’ll
kick-hard between the world’s
legs, let it know you’re
around and that you’re not
fucking-around for applause
or pages in books:
write something down that’ll
seize readers by the throat
and will force the heart to
beat faster, to take away a
breath, to leave a scar, give
no mercy and fuck the
write something down,
scribe the truth
and don’t be afraid.

Ross Vassilev

you gotta keep writing to keep from going insane


sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

no one ever goes inside

(I once went in there …

you wouldn’t believe the garbage I saw)


sitting on the steps of an old white building in the hot sun

doing nothing

wondering why I’m here and

not somewhere else

as the sweat crawls down my hairy back


sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

doing nothing

admiring the thighs and asses of young girls

as they walk by in their summer shorts

(did you know that the age of consent in Mexico

is 12?)


sitting on the steps of some old building in the hot sun

doing nothing

as the benches burn

the parking meters boil

and the world gets ready to explode.




Jonathan Hine

The Buddha Wisely Advised…


…wholesale cosmic



flower image

dream machine

everywhere exploding,


the gleam


lense cracked

film assailed




the god of biomechanics

loveables as



built this house

the beams


the dome


the whole






Previously published by Pyrokinection




J.J. Campbell

the unwashed masses


lost in the rhythm of

the unwashed masses


we were born to lose


to serve our godless

parents until they

reaped everything

from the earth


to bow down to the

rich and make sure

there were no spots

left on the cheap

ass crystal


the edible panties

taste like cardboard

and smell of boredom


parade around in a

tiny purple pair lip

synching to george

michael’s i want

your sex


of course, you know

someone is watching


that’s part of the fun


cast off and always



there’s a land for all

the freaks, they call

it los angeles


i hope you don’t mind

living in a tent


you’ll have an incredible

view of the ocean just a

few blocks away


with such hunger


i think i have

figured out why

i look at nurses

with such hunger


those damn pants

always make the

ass look so damn



somewhere freud

pipes up and reminds

the room my mother

was a nurse as well


i’ll take a drink and

proudly exclaim


that’s not the mother

i’m looking to fuck


the most elusive woman on the planet


think of tears as a reboot

for the soul


think of pain as a friendly

reminder that you still



think of hatred as a tool


think of love as a unicorn


think of happiness as the

most elusive woman on

the planet


think of dreams as the



think of nightmares as

the world


think of truth as the

dividing line for



think of lies as the

currency for humans


Dan Grote

Room 212


A twenty dollar bill

and a two dollar

bottle of wine


Drinking from one

snorting through the other

chasing happiness a

gram at a time


We talk about the streets

We fuck and I mention

that if she got a tit-job


she could raise her prices


I know how to talk to a lady


She says I’m a good man

once the money changes hands

in here, under her, I want

to believe she’s right


But it’s quite a different story

beyond and outside of

that wafer-thin

motel door





This is Not For You (Unless It Is)


Would you rather I describe

the beauty of the tree upon

which a starling sits, perched,

it’s twig- like, tiny talons of feet, or

would you more enjoy witnessing

me unravel myself, one syllable

at a time?


I could tell you about the silver

sky of sunlight in a Faulkner story

line or I could bring you the dark,

the rain falling uninterrupted

inside my head, watering dead memories,

nurturing what should never live

to see the light of day


Why don’t you just write happy poems?

Why don’t you mind your fucking business?

I’m not doing this for you, I’m not

doing it for me-I do this for the one

not yet sitting where it is I stand


The one who might still have

the glimmer of a chance


Luke Kuzmish

old soul
gypsy bones

momma quit the booze
back when

poppa grew herb
in mylar closets

Omaha teeth
and menthol cigarettes

no bra
her midriff reveals piercing

her body is sex
her mind: bad decisions

I wonder how her spirit
moans in the dark

Dr. Randall Rogers

Like Woesville daddio! I can’t write. I do, but I can’t. Oh well, I’ll play more guitar. Start to get holy, and right with death. And live. And write. But I can’t write. I mean I know how – See Spot run – but that’s about it. So I’ll keep this short. To the point. We at the Transgender Lesbian Cowboy, queer as we are, are now searching for a groovy collection of poems to publish. By not us writers. By someone like you. Call it a chapbook if you must. Chap my hide anyhow. I’ll fork over the dough. Print it under the imprimatur of the Beatnik Cowboy Press. It will be our second printed collection of poems. My, “Cambodian Poems”, is the first. Nobody would print, “Black Tits”. We will try to sell some at the local bookstore here, give some to our contributors, subscribers. You, the author, get the rest. Please send collections to: Or mail hard copy to:

R. Rogers

3410 Corral Drive, Apt. 208

Rapid City, South Dakota,

57702 USA

Send Self Addressed Stamped Envelope if regular mailing (and enough postage)

Will print fifty. All rights are the author’s except for first time use for us.

Good luck,

Randall (Phony Bones) Rogers