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

Heath Brougher’s “Your Noisy Eyes” book Amazon.com NOW!

noisyeyes full Kindle1.10 1.22.17 - Heath Brougher.jpg

Got some exciting news.

The book I’ve been working on, is on  Amazon.com NOW!

ITS The ebook version.

The print version is not far behind.
It’s sure a labor of love. But finally finished it.

Also, in the near future I will have all the other chapbooks on Amazon for kindle ebook. So everyone can access and pickup your favorite poets chapbook.

Those who get a print version, will get a discounted or free ebook version . Still working on the details.

I can finally unleash them.

Also. I’m doing all of this work.

Creating and designing the book covers, editing , printing (mostly), making, formatting and converting to the Amazon Kindle versions.
All that stuff it takes to get a book made.

I do not have the expensive equipment that the big publishing company’s have to make their books. I hand make every single one of them.
So they will not look like a “regular ” book.
My hope is that they are different. That you tell a person has made them, not a machine.
There’s my blood, sweat, and tears into them.
I hope you can appreciate that.
It’s not about the bottom dollar.
I’m not in this to make profit.
I’m a registered not for profit company.
The profits, if any, will be passed to those who deserve it.
Mainly the poets and writers. The artist themselves.
This is for them, as much as its for you.

I shall try my best.

Remember to. ..

Stay Weird and Keep Writing!

Patrick Jordan

Your Head Weirdo.

(Keep an eye out for the updates.)


Your Noisy Eyes https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N4QNFB4/ref=cm_sw_r_apa_GaxHybMT8GMP6

Rory McMaster

The Train


Fuck. I hated that feeling of ‘what the fuck happened’. The dreaded unknown of memories stuck in your alcohol and drug soaked brain plasma.

Jeff looked over and started laughing.

“How you doing big guy?” he asked.

“Fuck dude, what the hell happened?” I embarrassedly moaned.

I looked around the bus amongst a sea of stares. Anger. Sadness. Bewilderment. Pity.

I felt like a piece of fucking shit. Oh well, status quo.

I didn’t even know where we were currently located. I embarked on this journey from good ol’ Barrie Ontario via greyhound bus en route to Calgary Alberta, where I met Jeff, a pot smoking Whitby, Ontario native. Accompanying Jeff was Brian, a wiry and weird east coaster from Glace Bay Nova Scotia, who had more teeth than brain cells; 17.

“Rory, you almost got pepper sprayed by Princess dude. I just stopped her man, it was pretty fucking close” he laughed hysterically.

I looked over to her seat and fucking died inside. How did I always find myself in these fucking situations? Especially already, as I was only 15 years old. Oh heavy alcohol and drug use, that’s how.

I was 15 and busing across the country by myself. 3,141 km of Canadiana sans supervision.

I imagined it was going to be a shit show. And it was.

“Well what the fuck did I do” I asked?

Jeff replied “Well you polished off that two-six of rye. You kept on falling into the middle aisle and that nice British fella Nigel kept on picking up and putting you back in your seat. At some point you went to the bathroom and when you came back out you went to the wrong seat and sat on Princesses head and she woke up in a panic grabbing for her pepper spray. I narrowly stopped her. You’re welcome little dude.”

“Thanks brother” I replied.

Princess was enroute to the University of Alberta to meet her starting fucking QB boyfriend. So my anxiety fueled, post using paranoia kicked into high gear for the rest of the trip, imaging all the ways this physical specimen was going to remove various appendages from my svelte, girl like frame.

Apparently we were in Brooks Alberta so I was close to my early departure from Earth at the hands of a modern Gladiator. I also learnt, due to my inability to responsibly manage intake of substances, I had held up the whole bus 45 minutes in Saskatoon because the new bus driver required a new section of my ticket and I was too drunk to wake up.

Proud, proud young man moments; with many more to come.

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round





The Ward



I stared at the ceiling for hours. The mosaic tiles had become my sky. If I stared long enough, they’d start swooning back and forth like it was 1995 and I had just eaten a gram of magic mushrooms.

“Would you like to hear a funny story?” my roommate Kevin asked.

Kevin was a 60-year-old schizophrenic. I kind of did want to hear a funny story. I knew it was going to be terrible though.

“So this French guy is selling tea and I ask how much and he says 10 bucks and I says ESTE!” he exclaimed amidst a sea of cackling.

I liked Kevin. He was severely mentally ill but he was alright.

Nice. And he always offered me his Apple Juice.

How the fuck did I end up on the 5th floor of the Ottawa General on the Mental Health Ward. Oh, life. That’s how.

I didn’t plan on waking up.

When I opened my eyes I groaned emphatically.

Well, that didn’t go as planned. 
Was out for 40 hours and felt like shit. But alas, was still this side of Hades.

Perfect. Let the self-loathing commence.

  1. 2. 1.

“So what you in for” Kev asked.
Like it was a sentence. 
I’m here on a suicide beef.

5-7 days for observation.
You know. The usual.

“I tried to eat heaven. I failed” I explained.

What the fuck had I done. Man. This feeling was terrible.

I just wanted out of my skin. And I had nowhere to go.

Just then a 90-year-old Punjabi man showed up at my door and pointed at me. Held out his hand.

“That’s Mr. Bubashank, he must like you. He’s holding out his hand because he wants to go for a walk.” Kevin informed me.

So off I went. I stood up in my hospital gown and little blue booties, still filled with enough medication to kill an elephant and began walking around the ward holding holds with Mr. Bubashank.

He didn’t speak English.

But he didn’t need to.

He’d come to my room 5 or 6 times a day for the duration of my stay, holding out his hand. And no matter my mood or mental state I would get up and walk around the unit with him.

Sometimes that’s all we really need you know;

a helping hand.



The Bartender




My Grandaddy was a hollerin’.

At my Ma again.

She didn’t come home last night after her shift at O’Tooles, where’s she’s worked ever since I can remember.

Probably started at the bottle and went home with one of the regulars.

If I was a gamblin’ boy, I’d put my money on smooth talking Jimmy “the Snake” Stevens.

He’s always at O’Tooles.

Most middle aged man in this dust pocket mid-west hell hole hung out there.

My Mom has probably been friendly with 83% of them. That number is under-gratuitous.

“THAT BOY NEEDS HIS MOMMA, HE AIN’T GOT NO DADDY”, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Thanks for the reminder, pops.

Jackson, Kentucky had been affected by the opiate scourge. Our family was not unscathed.

My Mom was an addict.

And my grandfather hated her for it.

It was quite the conducive environment for love.

In all my 15 years on the planet; this one was the worst.

The only thing that made it livable was Kelly Growganski’s smile.

It lit up every room she walked into. She epitomized girl next door, wholesome.

Alas, she had a somewhat functional family. And probably didn’t even know I existed.

“YOU’RE A TERRIBLE MOTHER AND A WHOOR”, my granddaddy bellowed.


I begged for sleep to steal me for the night.




The J-Word




I woke up in another smoke tinged motel room.

It smelt of day old whiskey, broken dreams and 3 hours worth of lust filled desire.

“Morning ‘andsome” she offered from her side of the coin operated 1970:s relic.

My head pounded. I couldn’t remember her name.

“Mornin’ sunshine” I offered in fear of guessing wrong. Jessica? Jennifer? J-something? J-Lo?

Low. Low like my esteem of the self variety.

Where were my cancer sticks?

“You’re quite the party animal darling. Rocked my world Pontiac.”  She quipped before walking her perfect bare ass {the sunshine bouncing off it in a most agreeable fashion further solidifying her newfound namesake} into the ridiculously small and unevenly lit HoJo bathroom.

Of course I did. Too bad I couldn’t remember. Never did.

Amazing experience, these blackout escapades in forgettable places and spaces.

Where were my fucking cigarettes?

I needed a brain cleanse and some whiskey for breakfast. It went well with the shitty instant coffee in these proverbial waiting rooms for degenerates.

Waiting for what? Love? The big break? Life to suddenly go your way? The cloak of darkness to magically lift?

“You have any smokes sunshine?” I implored. I guess that was officially her new name.

“Yes doll, in my jacket pocket beside the bed.” She responded.


Thank fuck. I needed to make this room as cloudy as my head.




Concrete Forests




i could smell the sweet and putrid defeat

as it exuded from every pore(


the birds started singing again, signifying another end to the dark:

the addict begged for more, but the body begged for yore


who needed sustenance,

when chemical bliss was

willing to kiss?


time to go for a walk,

to the only place,

ive ever truly

felt at home


the wildly colourful)



of north americas

concrete forests


sirens, horns, gridlock and screams;

are often the sounds


accompany my






Aboriginal Canadian, Spent 10 years in the Military Industrial Complex as an Intelligence Analyst and now full-time BA student at the University of Ottawa, Canada.