The Fourth Wall by John Patrick Robbins

I now cling to a pillow, where once I did cling to another.
There is little comfort in this last stop-off before oblivion.

It's strange how I feel little to nothing anymore.
Sex is but a moment I can easily do without.

A drink goes down empty, as my thoughts on anything not fixated upon my demise.

There is an odd comfort in these last remaining glimmers of my final days’ existence.

I'm awaiting my sentence like some inmate trapped upon death row.
I am ready to leave, as the reader who has stuck it out for reasons unknown.

I pen their darkness and mutual misery.
They provide a means to pay the tab.
It's a victimless crime I suppose.

I know you're there and I play my role to perfection.
Who's the truly sick one in this equation?

Maybe it makes you uncomfortable and if so, imagine how the shoe is upon my foot.
This odd series is overdue for cancellation.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine.

His work has been published in Impspired Magazine,  Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily , Lothlorien Journal Of Poetry and It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine.

His new book is Are We Dead Yet? from Black Circle Publshing and is available on Amazon.

His work is always unfiltered.

Friday, again by Susan Isla Tepper

Paltry bit of powder—

the first snow.

A peek through the curtain

dawn is on fire

coming up the tree line;

but you are cold, unsettled—

reaching for a coat to cover

your worries rising faster

than daylight and why

is it Friday, again,

every time you turn around.










Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Carlsbad by John Patrick Robbins

I don't remember a point in my life when I was not a writer.

I only recall a time when I was not alone.

I recall when the old folks didn't seem a marker of my life's direction.

As youth wasn't something I had wasted en route to this void, I fully understand now.

In typing this, there is a mouse who does not fear me that comes out late at night.

As I work, or should I say attempt to capture glimmers of that once brilliant fire that was my life's passion and now just resembles a talent that's long eclipsed its host.

I no longer feel at one with anything remotely alive.

The sun's beautiful illumination through the forest's canopy.

The ocean's call to adventure and past regrets of far better men than myself.

I am worn to all new voices, as I am simply serving a fading life's sentence with my own.

My body aches as an old ship creaks upon the seas.

A reminder of my existence as it puzzles even myself as to how it's stayed afloat this long.

I sit penning the last few truths of my worn soul's existence, my new friend watching me with neither fear nor pity.

We understand our truths fully as I pour my poison; he gnaws at crumbs wanting nothing of me.

As I am thankful, for even the page would be asking far too much tonight.

I have little else to give but an all too distant stare and silence; where once my words breathed life, now they merely collect dust.

To realize the best of you has long since left the building, and somehow you were locked within this vacant hall to haunt only memories.

That are slowly fading like the evening’s ever too quickly approaching the setting sun.

We all find the answers when we're too jaded or maybe just too old to care.

When the night's embrace and the fire's warmth replace the comforts of others far better suited for sentimental reflections and ever so tired poems.

Tonight the page sits in wait; it's as vast as the sea, dangerous yet alluring in its possibilities.

I never wanted to reach the top of the mountain, for even a blind man could view this situation and summarize.

It's all downhill from here.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Off The Coast Magazine.

His work has been published by. The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press, Fearless Poetry Zine, Fixator Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Spill The Words, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, 

Impspired Magazine, 

Lothlorien Journal Of Poetry.

His work is always unfiltered.

Stallion by Susan Isla Tepper

Out in the pasture 
we gallop 
the wide grassy undulating bowl—
me & the stallion 
broken to be 
a saddle horse.
Mercurial.  
This softening of men 
so much more difficult— 
an innate need to remain hard. 
We ride them, too,
something they crave
yet find unbearable:
Our soft eyes staring up.
Extracting promises,
lots of promises.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Fraudulent by Susan Isla Tepper

Hiding in the maze of

high green hedgerow 

Alice has been discovered 

Fraudulent: a great big fraud.  

I got my pound of flesh

pulsing right here 

between us 

on the chipped table.

Smoke it out.

Excluded from dreams

both ways

what was the point of

finally catching up with you.

The small amount of blood still pumping.

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Waiting By Skaja Evens

I find myself constantly waiting

Consistently waiting

You aren’t even around

And I’m waiting

You left me

I’m still waiting

I don’t want you back

Yet I’m waiting

It’s always something I grew accustomed to

Always waiting

For you to decide

Whether you loved me

Or if it was loneliness

I don’t know that I ever knew for sure

What the answer was

But I waited and waited

Until I grew tired of waiting

Yet, I’m still waiting

For you

To let me go

Skaja Evens is a writer and artist living in Southeast Virginia. She runs It Takes All Kinds, a litzine published by Mōtus Audāx Press. She’s also been published with Spillwords Press and The Dope Fiend Daily. She can often be found listening to music, considering the impossible, and enjoying her cats’ antics.

Charcoal Heart By Amrita Valan

Charred crucible

Glow of embers

Hidden ashtray 

Warmth lingering.

Can you blame

Or believe, that

I still remember?

Am stoked to recall

It all?

Still stoke 

The foxfires 

Of old.

Liquidated, an entire 

Universe of gold.

Soaking in old sins

No evil too much,

For sunlight to burn.

Purge the cache

Cathartic urge.

Purification

Relive the lust.

Inside deep inside

A warm ray of light

Ignites old embers.

I am from India, mother of two small boys. I hold a master’s degree in English literature.I have worked in BPOs, and as content creator for simulation management entrance examination papers,(deductive logic in English), as well as in the hospitality industry.(As receptionist at a five-star hotel) while awaiting results of my English honours examination. I love life, like tumbling headfirst into it, and then doing a double take to step back and observe it.I have written over a thousand poems on genres including Love, Spirituality, Family, Religion, Current affairs, Human Rights, a few short stories, funny poems and tales for my children.