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just another old man with a ponytail and a beard in san francisco on a saturday night

just another old man with a ponytail and a beard in san francisco on a saturday night

Poetry
John Grochalski
they come into vesuvio’s cafe
right after my wife and i order our second beer
.
otherwise we would’ve left
.
there are twelve of them
cramped around a table meant for six
.
they look like a fucked up last supper
.
or the type of shallow trolls
who have to go out drinking
with their dozen closest friends
.
it’s saturday night in america
and i’m not made for saturday night anymore
.
but i’m all the way on the other side of the country
and i feel like i need to get my money’s worth
.
before it’s vodka on ice in the hotel bed
watching MSNBC and FOX News duke it out for ...
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Official Radio One

Official Radio One

Poetry
Kevin Higgins
That time of the week
when bachelor farmers decide,
on balance, not to string themselves
up in the outhouse, bravely
switch on the wireless instead;
.
on Official Radio Marion the defunct
feminist-to-a-moderate-extent
has a few old pals around
for two thrilling hours
of cream tea and general
consensus. Last month
one critic unfairly hissed
.
that the show increasingly sounds
like the occupants of a mortuary
in one of the more horrible parts
of Donnybrook, each in turn
rising up in ecstasy to second
what the last speaker said ...
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Screamers and Crooners With Clint McClean #3 - Squarebearderry Interview

Screamers and Crooners With Clint McClean #3 – Squarebearderry Interview

Video Interview
Scum Gentry Radio
In episode three of Screamers and Crooners, Clint McClean sits down with outsider multi-artist Squarebearderry from Derry City, Northern Ireland (hot tip for the geographically-challenged: London is that way =>) for a bag of cans and a frenzied, foul-mouthed drunk talk on a broad range of issues facing the delinquent artist in modern Northern ireland—from nationalism and the arts establishment, to the perils of drug culture and more…
Crack a tin and watch it now. It’s almost like you just walked back into the room after throwing up in the kitchen sink ...
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An Alternative Tale

An Alternative Tale

Short Fiction
Druther Monkard
I believe that over time, stories become truths. Original realities confused and mainly removed.
Hyped and transformed into more fantastical versions and forms, the more times they are spun.
I’m guilty of this too, turning the most embarrassing things I have done, where I have hated myself most, into yarns that create laughter, where there was only self-pity, shame.
I’m a liar, I never meant to be one. Everyone is. I don’t think anyone plans to be in the goodness of their heart. Small white lies, caring for someone else, letting things slide, not telling them what they truly did last night, years pass…I forget what the origin was even, but oh well. This is what ...
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The Crusty Old Man

The Crusty Old Man

Poetry
Name
hushed confessions
screamed into the
pillow each night
before you cry
yourself to sleep
.
no one wants to
become the crusty
old man
.
it’s much more
romantic to die
young, full of
promise and
potential
.
but on the other
side of those
myths are
nothing
.
a vast crease
of time built
on nothing ...
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Little Jackson’s Batha-Ventra

Little Jackson’s Batha-Ventra

Short Fiction
Jim Meirose
Cassie Bash told me that on vacation she and hers were in the town square, out Bath England, we think, milling the small square outside the roman show.
Eh okay, but we’re just about there. Hold it, slow down—I got to watch the numbers.
Okay but anyhow—she said there were four or five artificial romans standing stock-still enticing bored tourists to snap their pictures with them all together, but. The only sensible kind to take were stock-still single pictures like the kind that end up backdrawered in too hot upper unused mothballed bedrooms showing such as brothers in law or similars tight into the leftside, and stepsisters or similars tight into the rightside, the robed rump ...
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To Georges

To Georges

Poetry
David Piersol
Dear Georges,
Dearest sweet mystic of mine, you saint.
My boy Venus, philosopher of purest love.
I’m cute so you’ll feed me lesser animals,
& that makes you the animal-killer here.
You talk about “violating” this or that,
but you’ve got it backward: killing is
the parody of fucking, and you are
just a pervert. But latter-day libertine
of mine, don’t repent of your delusions,
your petty sickness and obsession—
kill, if you can indeed, by fucking.
.
Translation of dying from castration
into dream-speech: sailor is a sad
surgeon. Iron fists couple low &
slips squeals or noises pop apart.
What noises? Pleuronaut red lines,
ant colony grown in my frontal lobe ...
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Burn, Burn, Burn...

Burn, Burn, Burn…

Flash Fiction
Mark McConville
Rampant murder scenes and dreams flood her mind. The clock is ticking, which is a sickening sound like that sound when you hear your heartbeat through the pillow at night. She’s writing down her feelings of despair on crisp white paper. Written in red pen, it reminds her of the bloodshed on the news and in her visionary brain. News of grit and death, an American dream gone wrong. And she knows the future is uncertain.
Beauty is forever removed and this young girl feels a rage inside her. Embers and fiery intentions. This room is a capsule of black, the walls are charcoal, there’s no vibrancy or warmth. Even her skin is colder than most ...
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