Patrick Winters

The Life and Death of Jacoby Fogg

I was born as a bastard on Hallow’s Eve;
Spent my first hour cryin’ for some reprieve.
They wrapped me up and they took me home
To a house of ten, where I was all alone.
I had a cold, cold, black, black nursery—
The color of Hades and half as serene.
Fed on mother’s milk and teethed on silence,
Raised on television, belts, and violence.
I dressed up smartly and I went to school,
Looking like a dapper, sulking ghoul;
Sorta learned my lessons and practiced my tongues,
Climbing that Ladder of Crooked Rungs.
Got me a coffin—it fit from nine to five,
Day-dreaming of when I might wake up alive.
I paid my taxes and I bought an apartment
Spending time passed out or feeling disheartened.
Never walked down an aisle, except in a store—
Just made my love with hundreds and whores;
Never bore a child who could carry my name—
Why rub dirt on what’s already a stain?
My life went on without much further note,
Until a rattle came up out of my throat.
I died on a Wednesday, feeling no pain;
Got buried next Sunday, in the pouring rain.

I sighed in Hell as it poured down rain

Patrick Winters is a recent graduate of Illinois College in Jacksonville, IL, where he earned a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. He has been published in the likes of Sanitarium MagazineThe Sirens CallTrysts of Fate, and other such titles.

Isabelle Marlene Serna


Bed and Fridge



She got me up daily!

Oooh girl, you got me

sprung. You are so

cold-smooth to the

touch. Silver-front black-edges

You burrrrrrrrr me

to sleep. Lay on these sheets that

clothe me. With comfort

Lay on me.


Baby, cool me

Oh, when you spread open

cool breeze. Let me melt

Your ice. You turned on 24/7

plugged in and runnin’ like a

7-eleven. Pull push jump

On me.

I spring I hold I flex

Every edge on you

I will



Oh, you cool my springs

Hungry, I crave

Fill me. Baby

memory foam

Ain’t got nothing on me.


Every crevice corner edge curve

I will plush and

Lull you

to sleep.


Your front is cold

hot in your

Behind. I squish I dip I plush

Sink into my


Baby, whirlpool my



I want to hear you

Bounce. Destress

muscles ease not



Baby, our hearts inside

don’t lie. Half of

the same. Love—

Hallelujah. I pray the Lord

Please just

Stay. Lay on me

We are one of

the same.


Jimmy Tucker

Write Like Burroughs


Everyone is writing like Burroughs.
Trying to write like Burroughs.
My wife wrote like Burroughs.
Toed that line, walked that walk.
Danced that dance, necromanced.
We fucked in bug crawling romance.
She died like Burroughs.









Jimmy tucker is from Charleston, SC, went to the University of South Carolina and would like to thank you for your time.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan





The girls who swallow down a full salt shaker

of Johns in a single evening

think you half-worldly because you stand by the curb

looking down at 3 in the morning.

If you looked up, it would be for god.

Then you would be a fool.

They have no illusions about that.

But a man who eats his $1.50 hotdog

around the carefully folded sides of a napkin

looking down over the dark precipice,

there must be something there.

Some story they have not heard.

Some thrill or mystery or secret

they have not thought of.

When they approach, they do so slowly.

Tapping me on the shoulder like a sheet of heavy rain.

I say nothing.

Because I do not have the heart

to tell them.

Or ask if they haven’t shoved

enough all beef wieners down their painted

gullets already.





Feeding the Machine




That giant green monster

of Scarborough

belting out miseries

so the screeching soprano

could sleep in

that giant binding machine

of sleepless terror

and human components

through the punch clock door

in shifts

I have worked them all –

there are no winners

and I fed the machine

and everyone else fed the machine

and the supervisors would turn up

the speed to make quota

and it was impossible to keep up

but we all tried

feeding more and more of ourselves

away with each shift, month,


bags under the eyes for a pittance

the muling back shot

straight survivalism

eventually I would place the pages in the feeder

unevenly so it would jam

and the machine operator would cuss me out

and the floor super would keep a close eye

but there was a momentary lapse

as they removed the jam

before starting up the machine






“You Feel Me?”



This skinny white kid

just out of diapers

pulls his baggy pants back up

over his waist

makes a curious sign

with his hands

and says:

you feel me?

And I am not

some dusty ancient


I know

this is not a

come on.

Still, I tell the child

I would not even feel him

if he were my wife

who is dead.

And the boy has nothing to say.

Just as I don’t have a wife,

and certainly not a dead






Charlotte Bronte Made Me Pancakes


She lived in affordable housing along the TransCanada

at the Regina apartment complex.

Her name was Charlotte so I called her Charlotte Bronte.

She liked that.

She thought I made it up because I liked her.

The stupid little things men do to stand out.

Her kids had been taken away.

Wards of the state.

They even took one of them right out of the delivery room.

But Charlotte kept getting knocked up.

So the state had to keep coming back for more children.

They started handing her pamphlets about abortion,

but she said she didn’t believe in that.

I liked Charlotte because she was largely honest.

Everyone else were thieves.

She stole as well, but only when she needed food.

And she made the best pancakes.

I don’t know what she did different, but they were delicious.

And the maple syrup from the food bank

was past its best before date,

but it was glorious as well.

The way it coated your stomach and gave you

a sugar rush.

Charlotte Bronte made me pancakes three times a week.

She was into junk that I was not into, but we shared

a love of the bottle.

I don’t think she had any sisters, I know you wanted

to go there.

It was just her and a green parakeet named Dusty.

Who kept crapping all over the newspapers

that lined the bottom of his ill-fitting






Another Spitter of Oral Hygiene



She rolls her tube of toothpaste down

like sliding a condom over

the shaft

and it is hard not to think

of witness protection

of crash sites made safe

as prams

spermicide on the fingers

like the extra butter of movie house


assassins with bullets named after

Saturday morning cartoon characters

pleading insanity across the


The randomness of that.

Chicken shacks on lost country roads.

And my tube of toothpaste

is a straight reflection

of me.

It is a mess.

I don’t know when both our toothbrushes

finally became battery operated,

but it sounds like I’m sticking

a long angled dildo

in my mouth.

Night after night.

Working it around for maximum effect.

And I guess that makes me a spitter.

Washing away the evidence

before it can dry to the sink basin

and stay.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and Horror Sleaze Trash.


For all contest refer to our main nerve. The soul and heartbeat of SW&KW is at our Facebook group “Notes from the Edge ” inspired by hunter thompson, gonzo, Bukowski, and the beats.


Go there, join, and navigate to the events. There you will see which poetry and other writing contest we have going on.




And have a weird day.


Stay Weird and Keep Writing!




Matt Borczon

Billy was




6 foot 2


235 pounds


of muscle


used to


want to


kick box


was a


black belt


and even


his teacher


was afraid


to fight


with him


we used


to drink


too much


and he


would drive


his blue


Camaro fast


and often


over sidewalks


he had


a tarantula


that was


so big


he fed


it mice


swear to


god I


watched it


eat one


once in


his bedroom


under a


black light




Billy moved


to Florida


to open


a karate


school and




in bars


so when


I heard


he hung




broken hearted


over a


girl he


was dating


I remember






even Billy


isn’t tough


enough for












she was

8 1/2 months


drinking a

rum and

coke she

was telling

a story

about a

private show

she did

and when

the guy

stiffed her

the money

he promised

she peed

in his

Stetson hat


later drunk

she tries

to tell

me she

can tell

I’m the


of guy

who gets

hot for


women you

like me

don’t you

she says

this about

4 different

times but

by then

I had

worked in

this strip

club so


that I

didn’t like


any more


not even










at 14


she already


knew how


to use


her body


to get




she wanted


which was


a big


biker with


long hair


who we


all watched


wrestle a


bear in


a ring


at the


Millcreek Mall


he was


10 years


older and


scared all


of us


except Robie


who wore


his jacked


rode the


back of


his bike


he knocked


her up


a couple


times but


never married


her then


left when


she got


old enough


to hang


onto the


baby weight


by 25


Robi was


alcoholic  unmarried


and unhappy


and when


she died


at 40


the biker


never came


to her








her kids




swept the


bottles out


of her




and moved









Matthew Borczon is a poet from Erie, Pa his book A Clock of Human bones is available through the yellow Chair review press, and Battle lines is available through Epic Rites Press. His next book Ghost train will come out in 2017 through Weasel press.






We are now taking Submissions!

We are now taking Submissions for our New Poetry /Short story –Dirty Realism Anthology .

The theme is Dirty Realism. It will be strictly followed. If you are not familiar with it,  look it up.

All pieces selected will get a free copy of the issue.

Submissions for the cover art and other themed art will be taken as well.

Email all submissions to :

With DRA in the subject line.

The cutoff date for submissions will be June 1st 2017.

Be sure to get them in early. There is limited space.

Good luck and hope to hear from you soon.

Patrick Jordan
Head Weirdo
Stay Weird and Keep Writing Print Co
Notes From the Edge