the rules of any society
 
scribbling poems
in the rain
 
like this poor soul
that doesn't play
by the rules of
any society
 
flicked cigarette butts,
empty bags of fast
food trash, and a cruel
car of teenagers and
the asshole dare of
tossing piss
 
he has seen it all
 
nothing dares to ever
come close to surprising
him anymore
 
school shooting
 
celebrity death
 
war in a foreign land
 
he knows what it
really is
 
thursday
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
not made of sugar
 
old bones
screaming
in the rain
 
caught out
in the elements
without a jacket
or umbrella
 
you remember
your father
telling you
you're not
made of
sugar
 
you won't
fucking melt
 
as you got older,
you realized he
was full of shit
 
thankfully, that
fucker is in the
ground
 
it won't be long
now, you will
be as well
 
at least parts
of you
 
i figure most
of the body
will be burned
to destroy
the evidence
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
like failure is not the only option
 
laughing at my perv switch
as i watch a black woman
walk back into the offices
to go clean them
 
should i strike up a
conversation and see
what happens or should
i see if she just wants
cash instead
 
somewhere my mother
is reading this and knows
she has failed
 
like failure is not the only
option available to us all
 
she just caught me staring
at her
 
that wasn't the finger
i was hoping for
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
my answer to john fogerty
 
yes, i have seen
the fucking rain
 
it hasn't stopped
around here for
nearly five days
 
before too long,
i'm expecting cats
and dogs to start
falling from the
sky
 
and between the
drops i'm expected
to shop among
the masses
 
like hell
 
the less i am
around people
the better i feel
 
and i know,
i sound like
the bitter old
fuck that secretly
wants it both ways
 
so be it
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
for days on end
 
dark brown skin
and enough curves
to keep your imagination
buzzing for days on end
 
there's a certain way
the hips shake that you
know that a challenge
is ahead of you
 
but a certain body part
is more than willing to
not only accept that
challenge
 
but conquer that
mountain and plant
a damn flag on it

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently serving time in suburbia, taking care of his disabled mother. He has been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine, Mad Swirl and Terror House Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

“SCREAMING MIME” 

I should speak out when they abuse 
This pasty-faced artist who decided to choose 
Being trapped in silence with make-up queer 
I may not speak, but I can hear 

The taunts, the insults, and the hate 
Towards street performers who refuse the bait 
Of ridiculed anger through vulgar gestures 
Believing performance is a continuing semester 

Of learning to grow within painted smile 
Ignore the assholes, concentrate on the child. 
Who laughs with joy or open-mouthed wonder 
Yet tosses no coins as my stomach thunders 

Breaking the silence, begging for bread 
My intestinal rumblings plead to be fed
A steady diet of human compassion 
Through the clinking of coins in an appreciative reaction 

To my ancient art and enduring hunger 
Selling myself like a common whoremonger 
Hoping to satisfy an insatiable crowd 
In tight fitting Spandex, a seductive shroud 

Ignoring lewd sneers at my exposed anatomy 
That I've twisted and stretched in hopes it would flatter me 
As my muscles contort and my body sings 
A silent song that once entertained kings

Miss Unity is a writer and drag queen from upstate New York. Her essay collection ‘Who Killed Mabel Frost?’ will be published by SF/LD Books in 2023. 
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the flash fiction collection, Hunger Pains (Buttonhook Press).

Protective 

Oh my fucking God

I hope you know 

I truly love you 

Had your...

Physical and mental attributes 

Listed and ready 

To make a mockery out of 

As I roasted you alive 

Despite you hurting me 

In ways no one ever had before 

I still can't bring myself 

To say these things to you 

Invisible girl 

No one ever noticed 

 It killed you 

And when they did notice 

They drove by and barked at you 

Well baby if you think that was traumatizing 

Then the things I could say about you 

Would make you want 

To take your own life 

Of course you're not reading this 

You ghosted me and 

Don't give a fuck how much it hurts

Yet here I am 

Trying to save your feelings 

One more time 

Just in case you ever look back

From the beginning till the ending 

All I ever wanted was to make you happy 

So I don't want to say anything 

To make you sad and upset now

Just in case you ever remember 

That I exist

God’s heart is a Giant Tear: June 1, 2022

I was sad to see Louie’s close, I thought to myself.
At Lands’ End, today’s destination journey.
A place where I can find myself again.
One of the most beautiful sites in the world.
Where the ocean meets the land.
I come here to ground myself and breathe.
This is where the butterflies flutter and lizards sprawl, as families saunter,
near swallows and chickadees, pelicans, and gulls.
Ocean waves leaping and lapping.

Today whales are reported, by a woman with two tawny and white dogs.
She lets my Bella sniff her dogs, while she tells us of the whale spouts sparkling near the surface. “Now I see!”
I see the blowing just at the surface. Some spouts shoot up out of the waters,
others just to the surface. You can see the pod is swimming around the very blue waters.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands so tall and proud amidst the 1000-year-old Cypress trees!
Three young girls, led by a mother, stand on the large cement wall bench to take a selfie.
All giggles, for today we have a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The cars look like matchbox cars.
These are just some of the things our children taken away too soon, by angry teens, barely men, bearing arms.
Shooting at our children, Killing them!

Now, these children will never see these things I see.
Lost to us before they had a chance to choose where, they would journey,
on a free day like today.  June 1, 2022.
The birds chirping; sounds to me, “Please, please, don’t shoot.” 
Over and over. Yes, here at Lands’ End.
Over and over, they sing it again.
I look up to the clouds.  I see God’s arms caressing, admiring, perfectly, tiny babies in the clouds created by He.
He admires each one before they are sent here.
Yet, these days, God’s heart is a giant tear.
 

Apocalypse Not Now

Things don’t look so grim to me at this juncture,
the roving blood goons with veiny neck effort 
and pillows for fists,
believing there is strength in numbers
just as Vegas and the warring armies have taught them,
that fear can be mastered like an obedience school dog
off the chain,
and concealed weapons if 
that fails.

Myself, I prefer a pair of mating ducks in the inner harbour.
Male with proud felt green head.
The female by his side and the young ones in tow.
Or a leaky faucet that refuses to fall in line.

Staring out of windows, I see windows staring back
at me.

Underwear friends 
with spider veins for legs
so you know the fangs of pet store tarantulas 
are real.

 
The Public Has a Right to Know Nothing
	
that is why it is the public 
and the rest of it is 
private,

but such blanket statements 
from the blubbery populist blowhole
go over exceedingly well with 
the idiot masses

which is why that fabricated argument concocted 
by marketing 
as to whether a Crisper was a chip
or a cracker

did so well
according to the people
down in accounting.

 
Axiom Reel

cut the room
cut the floor 

spark an axiom reel

hard the hat
hard the landing

tell that bloody 
pilot Turbulence 

to land this role 
nobody wants 

or ever 

asked 
for.
 
The Hunt for Hairy Movember

I have grown over four inches in the past calendar year.
All horizontally.
My white whale of a belly swelled and distended 
and alcoholic 
as though some handsome shoe polish messiah 
could be cut right out of me.
	
I have been practising my breathing.
Inhale then exhale, seems simple enough.
No more difficult than the divvy up of pub grub
chicken wings on the fly.

While Norway tracks me down.
And Japan readies her harpoons.

I was never long for this world, 
but this is getting 
ridiculous.
 
Duty Free

Quite simply unaccustomed to safe-cracked whistles, 
all stock yard light shows 
of the immersive disk drive blow up 
queen shaved down into one final
ball of incendiary thunder
under silly perched aggrandizement, 
and knowing what I know now, 
I would have never sat in the airport 
that long
in plastic blue bucket seats 
watching clean shaven men drag their 
entire lives behind them,
rushing to catch connector flights
onto places with other blue
bucket seats.
 
Kicking Cans

Kicking cans around long enough,
there is always the threat of botulism.

Explain this to your schoolyard bully 
and they will punch you in the head
a little extra 
for making them feel 
stupid.

There is no advantage to being smart
until you are out of school and 85,
old enough to just not care 
anymore.

The world will always be stupid.
With or without you in it.
 
15 Bucks

for a working DVD player 
seems quite the deal
and we drive down to this 
apartment complex
along Mississauga Avenue
and sit in the parking lot
waiting for the boyfriend
to come down.

Some young kid is smoking by the entrance, 
so we get out and approach.
Asking if he is the boyfriend 
and he says he is.

And he hands us fifteen bucks from his right pant pocket
and we give him the bag.

As we drive away,
the missus tells me she is glad 
I came with her.

It is the first of the month 
and the squirrely junkies 
are looking to 
score.

And I tell her it reminds me 
of buying drugs back in the day.

Strength in numbers,
I get that.
 
Ghost Shows

I’ve seen those ghost shows 
where the orbs of light fly into people,
I am not some hermit.
I have a local cable service provider.

My shrink does not believe in ghosts, 
so I do not believe in ghosts:
go along to get along, right?

And I am sane as folded towels in the shape of dying swans.
I have not laughed at my own armpit farts 
in years.

A learning curve, sure there is.
If you are intent on learning.

Don’t the blowjobs of university wind tunnels 
seem way too easy?

                                                                                               
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

Sirens

When the branch snaps I feel it in my head
dry an orange gorge up licking air from blue
eyes my feet score sleep tones from bird alarms
the minute earth turns over the rock I’m clinging on

The underside of my day drones green deep in
gnash safe breathing the ties I’m on the wheel
against singing flames crush on black wood
cat on the deck snorts upcoming traffic hills

There’s no thrill to balk at in crumpled-up sun
slices tops of trees of grin juiced by my own blood
for the bugs mist down the middle difference between 
my gut and its cousin full with disappearance on the lawn

Your depth horns reed pages into stitched skin
the branch I’m on means holding it to my bones



A pox

In the pinched morning hours thoughts have teeth
that hound with heat blossoms on his gray skin
swallow the creak of a half-broken fan
turning air over to watch what crawls beneath

He rewinds his gaze to savor his salvation
vacated sky streaked with blue boils over
green that clouds the streams with sharp hair
half scalped and left behind to gum the ignition

He’s not going anywhere, at home with tight sighs
breathing in the memory of cleaner Springs
coiled, turning over, saved for the usual fangs
where he bleeds the lake of everything that dies

There’s a sun rolling over calculated hills
There are blankets to cover up what kills



Your hymnal

On her wedding day a white dress full of ashes
blows down an aisle lined with sawdust pews
The music silences everyone and is itself mute

Empty churches possess a psychology
that only the dead can read
This is one way I won’t exist
This is a picture of me, silent dust

another way to save her
They say when he was young he was so thin
they feared the wind would blow him away

and it did, after they’d rubbed him smooth
Empty hymns press a threnody
into my hands, describing how the water whispers

how the boat mutters as it launches in the dark


The goddess of love

With late Spring in my nose the sun through sawtooth leaves
in a chain linked with birds an ivy steps over my open mouth
hums blunt lust of toads when I brush your nipples with cum
to the pond to silence lillies to leave light stains on the surface
popping errors off on trees with latent rise your warm is skin
to my pit in which chills wound an implied gust of wishes

Witchcraft in my noise the stun you thought on me for loaves
over my open mouth talks to mulch you to cover me in chains
runs front of most blood you draw across my thought to strum
along with broke clouds my moving very fast upon culled dust
loping rubs boots to be a parent to the rocks live on us meal
widens as your wise arms siphon freckled with stuffed eyes

Your rain bows only for the planet turns
intravenous sunshine is a goddess of love

Sex

I’m you