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.
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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

caress.

 

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

comfort

Baby, whirlpool my

Wonder.

 

I want to hear you

Bounce. Destress

muscles ease not

tense.

 

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

Half-Worldly

 

 

 

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,

year…

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

again.

 

 

 

 

“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

relic.

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

one.

 

 

 

 

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

cage.

 

 

 

 

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

popcorn

assassins with bullets named after

Saturday morning cartoon characters

pleading insanity across the

board.

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.

Contest

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.

 

Thx

 

And have a weird day.

 

Stay Weird and Keep Writing!

&

STAY GONZO!

Haho!

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

 

bounced

 

in bars

 

so when

 

I heard

 

he hung

 

himself

 

broken hearted

 

over a

 

girl he

 

was dating

 

I remember

 

thinking

 

 

 

even Billy

 

isn’t tough

 

enough for

 

love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Destiny

 

 

she was

8 1/2 months

pregnant

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

kind

of guy

who gets

hot for

pregnant

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

long

that I

didn’t like

anybody

any more

 

not even

me.

 

 

 

 

Robi

 

 

 

at 14

 

she already

 

knew how

 

to use

 

her body

 

to get

 

anything

 

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

 

funeral

 

 

 

later

 

her kids

 

just

 

swept the

 

bottles out

 

of her

 

apartment

 

and moved

 

 

in.

 

 

 

 

 

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 :

Stayweirdandkeepwriting@mail.com

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