Thursday, October 20, 2016

Two Poems By Andrew Hubbard

Andrew Hubbard was born and raised in a coastal Maine fishing village.  He earned degrees in English and Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and Columbia University, respectively.

For most of his career he has worked as Director of Training for major financial institutions, creating and delivering Sales, Management, and Technical training for user groups of up to 4,000.

He has had four prose books published, and his fifth book, a collection of poetry, was published in 2014 by Interactive Press.

He is a casual student of cooking and wine, a former martial arts instructor and competitive weight lifter, a collector of edged weapons, and a licensed handgun instructor.  He lives in rural Indiana with his family, two Siberian Huskies, and a demon cat.


I lie in long grass
With the spotter behind me.
He smells.  Probably I do too.
“Don’t be a judger,” my wife would say.

We are watching the doorway
Of a pretty, bamboo cottage
Eight hundred yards dead ahead.
I’ve adjusted the rifle on its tiny tripod for the distance
And a fitful breeze from the east.

The light couldn’t be better.

Mosquitoes and firebugs bore in
There’s nothing to do but take it.
It’s 100 degrees.  I hydrate
From a backpack and pee
Into the special pants they give us.

The worst thing is the time.
We know that going in, but it is very difficult.
Eight hours, then ten, then twelve,
Fourteen.  At about eighteen
He appears in the doorway
I know him by his medals.
Why are they so stupid to wear their medals?

The spotter with his sixty power scope
Says, “target confirmed, take him.”

I squeeze the trigger as though I were touching my wife.

The rifle whispers, “phut.”
There is an agonizing, eternal, two-second pause
And then the man’s arms fly out sideways
And he hurls back into the cottage darkness.

“Confirmed,” says the spotter
And we shimmy a mile back
To the river.  I have R and R in Bangkok
Where the most beautiful girls in the world
Cost fifty dollars a week,
Introduce you shyly to their family, 
And cry when you leave them.

By then the nightmares have stopped
And I’m ready to do it
One more time.

Poet Andrew Hubbard

Not Hiring

When TJ Maxx closes
And re-opens as Payday Loans
You know your town has a problem.

The want ads used to fill three pages
In the local paper.  Now—
Barely one.  I stopped reading them
Three?  six? months ago.  Most of the jobs
Are commission only, or they don’t exist,
Or they have a catch, like you have to take
A thousand dollar training course,
Or buy a franchise.

Thank god my wife works!
At the donut shop downtown.
She got the arthritis in her hips.
It hurts so bad, on her days off
She usually doesn’t get out of bed.
But the donut shop won’t give benefits
So what are we gonna do?

The wife, she found a way
To steal donut dough from the shop.
She brings home a two pound baggie
Almost every day.

She jokes, “thank god I’m so fat
I can hide the bag on me
And nobody thinks nothin’ of it.”

At first we were ashamed.
Now we’re just glad to have the dough.

She found some way to bake it up
Into loaves of something like bread.
We eat it with lard.  Or crabapples
I get from the run-down farm across the way.

I used to spend my days
Watching television and shooting pool.
The television is long gone
And the poolroom is out of the question.

Now, I swear I don’t know
How the days go by
But somehow each one ends
And then another one begins.

I used to worry a lot,
Now I don’t even care
Enough to worry.

Poetry By A.J. Huffman

A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses.  Her most recent releases, The Pyre On Which Tomorrow Burns (Scars Publications), Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers.  She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2600 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Of Martinis and Madcap Religion

            -- after Last Martini, artist Michael Godard

An olive, a pretzel, and a handful of garnishes
walked out of a bar and into a local church.  The stained
glass mistook the pimento pit for a stigmata,
shattered instantly.  The others
gathered the pieces, built an arc
over the hot tub, decided to stew in their own liquid
sin until the sun came up, or God decided to peel
their skins off.

Poet A.J. Huffman


You keep me, like a jewel, in a box,
lucky, priceless, but full
of deathly curse.
If you touch me, I win.
If you sell me, you lose.
So you choose to bury me
between your bed and the floor.

My Mother Should Have Named Me Catastrophic

Despair is my favorite color. 
I tie it like a bow in my hair.
My smile is a noose.  I do not try
to disguise.  Touch
me three times, and I will find
a million ways to make you

Electric Spiders

reign from terror strings dripping
nightmare shades of fried.  Velocity
stutters its own
                          language.  Panic
is a precedent.  Dance dissolves
revolves around the center cell.  Just
don’t call yourself.
                                Fly . . . 

Welsh Poet Lynn White

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem ‘A Rose For Gaza’ was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been published in recent anthologies including – Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates – Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and many rather excellent  on line and print journals.

Welsh poet Lynn White

Frogs That Can Fly

Three rooks flew over loudly
The frogs below were intrigued.
“How do we fly?”, they croaked
in reply.
“How do we fly?”
“How do we swim?”
croaked the rooks in response.
“If you fall from the sky
we’ll teach you to swim,”
united and loud the frogs croaked
in reply.
“ So tell us, please, won’t you,
how do we fly?”


Bobbley Things

Those knobbley, bobbley things 
are marching forth across,
covering the sidewalks 
in a pavement proliferation
of ever wider strips,
ever steeper ramps,
ever stranger cambers
determined to catch you out.
I know that they are only really designed 
to trip up those who can’t see very well,
but they are a problem for everyone
those knobbley, bobbley things.

I wonder, was the man designing them 
bitten by a vicious guide dog, out of control?
Or perhaps he was floored by the too eager 
waving of a white stick?
I think something has caused him 
to bear a grudge.
But it can’t be justified.
when they are difficult for everyone
those knobbley bobbley things.

And yes, I know it’s a ‘him’.
No woman would endanger 
her high heeled strut
in such a way.
They are a male invention,
those knobbley, bobbley things.
Man made and increasingly
creating problems for everyone.
Seemingly unstoppable
in their forward march.


The Stack of Stones

The stack of flat stones
was piled much higher once.
It formed a rough stairway
all the way to heaven,
till someone took it down
to pave their patio.



Little paper people
eating oranges.

Big paper people
eating oranges.

Brown paper bags
full of people

eating oranges. 

Poetry By Glen Armstrong

Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.)

The Woman with a Thousand Heads #14

It's like drinking gin 
that drinks you back.
She says your name 
and it glistens, still moist

from being reborn in her mouth.
It’s like being startled
by a silence that’s always been
there instead of a sudden

loud noise and jumping
into each others arms,
but your arms are now the same
arms in the manner that a Mobius 

strip turns two surfaces 
that never meet into a single path.

Poet Glen Armstrong

Slash for the Lowlands #8

Mars is now a little closer.
The bubbles that you blew never
popped, and I took Hell for that,

your breath like a floral grenade.
It was as if I’d used the word “she-goat”
repeatedly or replaced

the term with a number of lexemes
that all wore the cruddiest of plastic
Halloween masks, their DayGlo colors

barely designed, their elastic bands
detached to either the left or right.
It was as if I’d done all of this

to defame you and our relationship.
I see now that bubbles take breath hostage,
and words shamelessly beg for sweets.

Depending on the season, what is most important may not be most relevant. The reveal would have us believe, but belief is a commitment, revelation a rarer animal, a more complex threat.

On Time

Please be on the superficial. 
Please be on the fashionable. 
Please be on the waterfall.
Please shut the door.

Please be on the public road.
Please be on the head
of a politician.
(Not our leader but that other one,
the one who causes trouble
on the nightly broadcasts.)

If you need to be on Jessica,
please use something.
Enough is enough already.

Grandmother feeds the birds.

Please be on the surface.
In the varnish.

I swear I have a mind
to celebrate,

but please be on the mindful.
Please be on the hour.

Outlaw Poetry By Paul Tristram

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) 
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope 
You can also read his poems and stories here!

For Fuck Sake!

“Oi! Stop being a cunt here, mun.
Do us all a fucking favour
and ban that idiot sat over there
who keeps crying into his beer
whilst mumbling ‘Debra’
under his breath like a fucking loser.
That’s the 20th time he’s put on 
‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.
I swear… one more fucking time
and I’m a head-butt the pool table
into quarters
and lamp the twat with the largest piece.
He’s ruining ‘Giro Day’ for all of us!” 

© Paul Tristram 2016

Amphetamine, Alcohol & Anarchy

He’s a one man affray.
A walking blinking, blinding
slot machine
upon trouble-seeking legs
and the jackpot is Mayhem.
An insult for each question,
scornful fists as answers.
There’s no heart upon his sleeve
only bloody gang colours.
Doesn’t comprehend 
queues or patience,
the only waiting he does
is for drug dealers,
the off-licence to open
or duty solicitors to turn up
at the police station.
Doesn’t give two flying fucks
for the rules & system,
has a code all of his own.
Takes life as it’s thrown at him
and throttles its irritating throat.
Laughs at Heaven, Hell & Valhalla
and every other thing
not here… right now… before him.
Juggles ‘Playing It Loose’
& ‘Keeping It Fast & Tight’
with perfect animal instinct.
And when Her Majesty
hasn’t got him at her pleasure,
he’s wherever the noise is in Town.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Aggressive Walking

I was talking to that new guy
up on the 3’s
a couple of nights ago
in the canteen queue.
Yeah, with the scars, 
that’s the fucker.
He’s a sandwich short of a picnic
that one, ain’t he.
Fucking out there like… Pluto!
Does a lot of snarling,
a bit disconfuckingcerting
when the cunt’s 
standing right up behind you like.
Anyway, I played it safe
and swapped places with him.
If someone’s getting it
from behind
then it’s gonna be me
holding the shank & blindsiding,
know what I mean, mate.
We got to nattering,
as you do like.
Well, in between him
arguing with himself?
I asked him what he was in for?
I was more than a little curious.
He answered ‘Aggressive Walking’
can you Adam & Eve it?
Is there even such a thing?
And he claimed to be a repeat offender.
Mad as a bucket of frogs, that one,
stay well clear if I was you, son.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Horrible People Smile Too

But it’s not their faces (Either one of them!)
that you should be concerned with.
You can’t ask a nasty Bastard
to listen to sense and reason… they have none.
Or expect a sneaky, snaky, cowardly scumbag  
to start playing fair… they don’t play fair.
Don’t be drawn in by false flattery
it’s just part of their deception.
What’s going on beneath that calm, friendly surface
is a different story all together.
They are leading you ‘Down The Garden Path’
with sweet, insincere butterfly voices,
setting you up tidily for an unpleasant fall.
You are a victim in the making,
they are tuned into your niceness, honour,
sense of justice and fair play.
And they are going to try to use 
your own strengths and good character against you.
By trying to put out that ‘Light’ shining in your soul,
why? because they have no substance of their own.

© Paul Tristram 2016

The Last Laugh Isn’t For You, Fuckface… But It Will Be About You!

The best end to a prison phone call
I ever heard was 
Tommy Two Ribs from Ystalyfera
“The last laugh isn’t for you, Fuckface
… but it will be about you!”
I’m waiting to use the Landing’s
dog & bone next, I laugh and say
“You know them things are monitored?
Careful how ye tread.”
“Fuck ‘em, I’m just finishing up
an 8 for malicious wounding, mate…
what they gonna gate-arrest me
for threatening words & behaviour?
A Mickey Mouse public order offence?
What’s the most can happen, eh?
28 day imprisonment cooldown.
You’re having a laugh ain’t ya,
I’d do that standing on me head
and have to ask for another 28 days
just to get me back on my feet again.
Nah, fuck ‘em and their bollocks, son.
That wasn’t no threat anyway…
it was clairvoyancy,
I was doing the slag a favour.
Besides, I should be getting him nicked
not the other way ‘round…
cunt didn’t cross a gypsies palm with silver,
I’m the victim here… I’ve been robbed!”

© Paul Tristram 2016

The Bareknuckle Bantam’s

You can try fighting a force of nature
but that shit’s going to get you down.
As heavy as a New Orleans Summer
and thirteen notches up from grazing.
The bars around here are splinter palaces
come Friday and Saturday night.
Pool table change, beer money,
switchblades and old school brass knuckles.
There’s a pecking order everywhere,
downtown gangland lines are being crossed.
The Boys in Blue are screeching
grown up schoolyard battles 
upon every major inner-city corner.
Everyone’s high and drinking ‘Gun-Ho!’
and ‘In Like Flynn’ 40oz bottles.
Dressing razor-sharp, tattooed colours,
turf-strutting with your 25 man pride.
It’s the modern day gladiator arena,
barbaric, caveman and bone to bone.
It’s where you earn your rank and legend
where a warrior’s scars are traded blow for blow.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Outlaw Poetry By Wayne Burke

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has appeared in a variety of publications. his three published poetry collections, all from Bareback Press, are WORDS THAT BURN, DICKHEAD, and KNUCKLE SANDWICHES. His chapbook, PADDY WAGON, is published by Epic Rites Press. He lives in the central Vermont area.

The Joint

so drunk I could barely stand,
Mahoney held me up
at the bus stop in Cheyenne
after dark
after the bars
with big elk and antelope heads
on the walls
their sightless stars of eyes
and some guy who
said hello
said he remembered me
from being inside the joint--
the bus driver said I could not board
Mahoney spoke silver words
to get us on
I fell asleep in the seat
my head fell on Mahoney's shoulder
he elbowed me
like a punch
and I straightened
for a moment
then went back
into the blackness
and the cell in the joint
I had never been.

My Car, My Life

my car stalls in the road
and I pull it over
into a gas station
a big guy inside
wearing a gas station uniform
I tell him my car
but can't think of it's name
"like a Porsche"
he tells me to follow
and we go inside the garage
my car up on a lift
wooden scaffolding around it
guy on scaffolding says "transmission"
and the big guy hands be a bill for 6000$.
I ask about a trade-in deal
and Pat, my old boss from
my old job in mental health,
shows me around the lot
I can't make-up my mind
and announce I will pay the six grand
and take my car back
and the gas station guys and
customers wildly cheer
my decision,
I feel good about.


A drink was always the
answer to
whatever problem:
bad childhood
"have a drink, you will feel better"
"have a shot, it will help you out"
myocardial infarct
old age
"have a drink, it will fix you up."

Outlaw Poetry By John D Robinson

John D Robinson is a published poet; ‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016)  Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Publications 2016); a contributor to the 2016   48th Street Press Broadside Series; his work appears widely in the small press and online literary journals including Rusty Truck; Red Fez; Outlaw Poetry; Degenerate Literature; Haggard & Halloo; Beatnik Cowboy; Boyslut; Anti Heroin Chic; In Between Hangovers; Your One Phone Call; Down In The Dirt Magazine; he is married and lives in the UK with his wife; 1 dog ; 3 cats and swallows copious amounts of wine.


I was crouched down in
the back-yard inhaling
hash and looking up into
the beautiful clear dark
skies of early September,
gazing mesmerised by
the stars and thoughts
of the speed-of-light and
other wondrous
when my wife bent
over to kiss me goodnight
exposing her breasts
beneath her thin
looking at the marvel
of stars one moment
and then the sensuous
image of breasts the next;
it doesn’t get better than
 I thought,
feeling like a lucky
bastard once again.

Poet John D Robinson


‘You don’t remember anything
about last night do you?’
‘No’ I said
‘So you don’t remember
trying to smash your way
through one of the tiny
porthole windows?,
you don’t remember 
trying to escape from the
‘No’ I said
‘You don’t remember
dancing with that 
beautiful black girl with
long beaded hair in the
‘No’ I said
‘So you don’t remember
that some of her friends
didn’t want her to dance 
with a white guy?’
‘No’ I said
my friends looked at one
another and they began
laughing and grinning;
‘It was one hell of a 
fucking night because of
one of them said,
‘Was it?’ I said.


Crackling from the Sunday 
radio came
“Now let us pray for the
broken hearted and the lost
souls of our world,
the alcoholics and drug
addicts, the ghosts of our
towns and cities that have
wandered far from the
path of righteousness and
now walk the roads of
sin; let us pray that the
gates of heaven open up
for our brothers and
sisters, for these wretched
spirits let us pray”
after I had finished
rolling a joint of powerful
weed I felt thankful
and good that somebody
was sparing a little time
and a prayer for me
without expecting a return


He was one of the most
prettiest cats I have ever
seen; splattered with
white and cream and 
freckles of black and
ginger fur; large soppy
yellow eyes and he
had one of the most
loudest of cries ever
given to a cat;
and we didn’t have a
and he’d scream to be
let in and he’d scream
to be let out
and it was a shrieking
ear stabbing cry and it
could piss-off people
very quickly;
one afternoon I was
with a book and radio
when I heard Jazzy
wailing outside;
I got up and opened up
the door
as I did
I saw his lovely fluffy
white arse run down 
the path;
moments later he 
returned screaming,
I got up and opened
up the door to see
his little ass disappear
down the path again;
this was repeated 2
or 3 more times
and then finally, I
pulled back the door
and shouted
and then looked up 
from the vanishing
tail of Jazzy into the
face of my neighbour,
Slobby Bobby
and he looked back at
me shocked and hurt
like he was a victim of
some terrible fate;
I scrambled a smile
at the fat fuck,
stepped inside,
slammed the door shut
and then turned
up the volume on
my radio.


After nearly an absence
of  3 decades
I think of you again
and of that night
when you fished out
your dick and pissed
into the water-fountain
feature in the middle
of the bar
and the barmaid
pointing and screaming;
a few weeks before
you’d cold-turkey’d
kicking junk and I
was there for you
though we were
our friendship was
brief and intense
and beautiful and
then you left;
a week or so into
rehab you checked out
and came looking
for me and didn’t
find me;
I was on a 3 day drunk
and 4 days later
your body was found
dead of heroin OD
60 miles away in a
wet red bricked alleyway;
the morning city sun
stumbling across your
cold lovely face
as I took care of
another atomic 
hangover and then
later, finding the note
you’d slid beneath
the door; and I held it
like it was something
alive and precious
and I read your words,
again and again; 
and then
I let the
paper slip from my fingers
and looked out of the
waiting for something
to happen.