At one point Noah turns to us and goes, “Bees
on a beach.” When we all look, the sand trap 
is full of buzzing with nowhere else left to go. 
We admire their music as we eat grass-fed 
beef sticks. Then we light up cigars in the sun. 

Back during Obama’s first term, I was smoking 
on the McGarrets patio when this drunk guy 
came up to me and asked if I liked golfing. 
When I said I’ve never tried it, he slapped me 
on the back and advised me to pick it up. “We all 
have shit we have to hit down a hole,” he said. 

I remember not thinking anything of it at the time. 
I just went back to flirting with this girl who would 
later disappear in the bowels of Southeast Asia. 
She was cool. She once told me I’m one of the most 
unique people she’s ever met. When we kissed 
in front of the yoga studio she was working at 
I felt like nothing could make me feel dead inside. 

Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Bluesky: @justinkarcher.bsky.social; Instagram: justinkarcher) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). Recent playwriting credits include The Birth of Santa (American Repertory Theater of WNY) and “The Buffalo Bills Need Our Help” (Alleyway Theatre).

https://www.justinkarcherauthor.com

Coyotes chant on Storm King Mountain
pawing their names in the ash
seeping cold-pressed jazz through sea-slug lips
weeping raw-throated dirges,
alas.

A whole new world
over hickory and oak
Princess Jasmine drowning in the Hudson.
Captain Christopher Jones
plucked the petals of the Mayflower
dashing their blooms
against Plymouth Rock.

Lake Tear of the Clouds
a shallow tarn
Peter Dinklage could stand in and breathe
squeaking ballads from the North  
sung by cosplaying pirates
paper mache parrots
dreaming of the sea.

Pinnipeds on Pollepel Island
staking claim to Bannerman’s Castle
Babyfaced buccaneers
cleaning out the chandlery
marauding munitions
and clubbing the pups.

Mermaids with fishfingers
to net any yachtsman
be he staunch as a rock
or feeble as shit.

Hark! Can you hear it?
The moaning sirens
Lord! They are as loud
as a six-inch gun.

Look at these fucks
basking like crabs
so-called artists
graffiti on Scottish baronial architecture.

Leviathans with lidless eyes
Atlantic sturgeon and bass
scoffing at silver hooks
and lures, wondering
where the hell is the bait?

Apes emerge from brownstone huts
descending from steel trees
bad beards and big bellies
saddled on wheeled steeds
“getting sun” or “getting air”
as if one can take these things and seize them for oneself.

James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, X-R-A-Y, Hobart, Reckon Review, and elsewhere. His 2nd collection, Fish Out of Water, is forthcoming from Anxiety Press.

DISASTROUS SELF CUCK

Came in my asshole
Blown out my back wall
Took from rectal muck
Disastrous self cuck

In my bastard hole
Blessed one
Special bun
Using and abusing

My special needs
Making and faking
Orgasmic neoprenes
Out in the Ovary

Wife looks over me


CUNTANUS

Cuntanus
Containus
Andsomakeus
Uranus

Cunt anus 
Contains us 
And so makes us 
Your Seamus

Begottenfoulto
Recklessnightmare
Underthingssoiledtoo
Madelessthanbare

Begotten away 
To your fleshy white stay
Where under your soil you

Make me less than
Every sub taint an
gel 

Crater me baste in
coherent Lee waste en
glish in sallow foul
Bay

Mother me shakeso
And grace me to base o
ball battered in soft water
Stay

Sun to sum
Petuous bare bottled
Neigh

Sum to sun 
Thing then the
That which was not
Okay

Echoes of barebacks who
Rattled the meerkats 
who shuttered all care
less

Away

Cuntanus your
Shame us your
Bedraggled wet stye does not

Stay


ALL ALONG THE SEA

All along the sea
Where but all but she
Here and there with me
A pall upon the need
For anything more than this 
For anything less than bliss
A share of the serious deed 
For all has a lack, if it bleeds

Christian McDonough’s work has appeared in Hobart Pulp, Back Patio Press, and D.F.L. Lit. He is the author of the poetry collection Book Of A Thousand Poems, the novel Cunus, and is the editor of the collection Cunus Response Project.

Heavytongued

I carry my tongue in my hands when it is too heavy for my mouth.
It crusts over and crystallizes in shimmering lead.
The first time my tongue grew too heavy for my mouth I didn't notice at first. I remember: I
woke up one day and brushed my teeth, watched myself in the mirror. applied just a little too
much force. the sun shone dimly on the fogged over surface of the glass.
I stayed this way for a while, in this remembering of a dream reflected in the mirror that meant
very little, until I began to cough and sputter as rivulets of toothpaste and water that tasted of
nothing courses unimpeded down my throat and I realized what I had lost.
I am an excellent conversationalist the times when my tongue does not turn to lead.
When my tongue is too heavy for my mouth I lay it down on the kitchen countertop. I rifle
through the drawers for knives, batteries, circuits and wires.
With a mouth full of blood I make gold

The gleaming

I slept with my knees under my chin fastened in place I mean held fast I mean like how can I explain it like when
I fasten the charms on my sweater and their colors to me and fasten this something rare and fragile to me. That
everything precious in the world spoke to me in the gleam leaving me.

I mean like if I didn’t hold it fast it would leave me. Leave slowly. Full of electricity humming static and in the
spill my arms wrapped loosely around us. I mean he didn’t understand why it was so important to me holding
gleaming .

My hair full of singing and fastening myself folding his body over my body in the dark he would say I’m here
aren’t I here with you I’m here you keep me.

And crying in his ear like I don’t want to keep you from anywhere anyone anything and he said that’s not what I
mean like I mean that you keep me

I mean that you keep me in place I mean like stay the same I mean like the outside doesn’t touch us the way it
does other people and what would they understand about any of the things that are important to us I mean
doesn’t touch us here I mean you keep me here.

My hair falling over us both and wet with my tears.

And I will spend my whole life wondering what makes the something shimmering I mean the gleaming in it. I
mean the gleaming you put in me.

The way tears fall like glass and in their gleaming leave me and the moment breaks open I mean breaks me open.

And coming back shimmering when I cry that I was so happy to give you everything I mean I keep you here.

The waves

My mother
taught me
how to swim
to where the
tide meets forever,
where the mirror
world washes
over me with
silver pale
regretting in
undertow
I kick
to no use,
& I take it
on the chin
Where there
are stitches

now, my
mother was
a star
swimmer
before she
was cursed
by a witch
and her
knees gave
out, out,
and now
I kick shadows so well
I can do it in my sleep.

A short dream of the universe

In a bed filled with electricity
I feel blood on my tongue
so strange at so young
and I feel around what-for
and find the tooth that I lost
and the taste of something to lose,
and when we talk
I wonder how old you were
when you tasted nothing’s presence,
how we said goodbye on the phone.

Tania is a writer and poet whose work has appeared in Hobart, Parcel and most recently Gopnik Press. You can follow their writing under their substack @waifmoding. They are currently at work on their debut novel.

How I loathe the idea of returning. I’ve taken to drinking espressos late in the evening. To consuming various aperitifs and cordials and spritzes I would never drink in the states. I prefer the café lifestyle in Paris, four-hour dinners in Lyon that roll past midnight. Walking the smooth stone beaches of the Cote D’Azur. The Mediterranean in late Spring.  Rugged vistas and frothy waves crashing on jagged rocks. Luxurious Swiss trains moving silent amongst the Alps. Champagne in Chamonix. The skiers on Mont Blanc sliding like ants across the snow. Tuscany the fairy tale. The Czech countryside the dream. Thermal bath houses in Budapest. Posh sky bars in Vienna. The outdoor escalators in San Sebastián. La Concha glowing below. Evenings in Barcelona, soundtrack Spanish guitar. A single sardine on a paper plate in the Alfama neighborhood of Lisbon. Perfectly seasoned and grilled. The finest meal I’ve ever eaten. 

Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His books JADED, QUASI and ROLLING ON THE BOTTOM are available from Main Street Rag/Mint Hill Books, Anxiety Press and Cowboy Jamboree Press, respectively. His fiction and essays have appeared in Wigleaf, Pembroke Magazine, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gargoyle and New World Writing. He is currently at work on a short story collection titled THE MELANCHOLY OF DAD and his debut novel WEDDING CRASHER, MARIN COUNTY. He lives and writes in Marin County, California. You can purchase his books and read more of his work on his website www.wilsonkoewing.com. He is active on X @jadedwriter

_

Have a coffee 
or kill yourself
Meursault is happy 
in the end 
Who said that 
—Camus?  
We spend all day 
watching the girl slaves  
of Morgana le Fay
Europe’s heat wave
like an impenetrable
exclamation 
point
You can smell 
the trash 
for miles 
and all the saints 
drinking Coca-Cola 
with the Lord
It’s enough 
to make one believe 
in the Isle of Apples
Think of the healing powers
the green awnings 
the heart-shaped ashtrays
the small cabin made of clay
Sure, 
we’re leaning 
into minor poems 
Your Maoist period 
is a work 
in progress
Fin

*Eurotrash was originally published at Deadbeat Lit Mag