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Wednesday, May 31, 2023

Latest Releases: Holy & Intoxicated Publications (2023)




The Woman Who Loved Floppy Hats (14 pages) 

John D. Robinson (words) & Danny D. Ford (illustrations)


This is a hilarious, explicit romp into a young woman’s bedroom antics and her peculiar sexual hat fetish. The story is clearly told and unfolds in an interesting and highly entertaining way.


Danny D. Ford’s four illustrations add humour and bonk to Robinson’s inventive frolic. 


The short story first appeared in the e-zine ‘Horror Sleaze Trash’ and was later published in Robinson’s collection The Dirty Sacrifice & Other Stories (Alien Buddha Press, 2021).


The story begins simply and graphically and entices the reader to continue:


Loretta Blissful was a very attractive and sexy twenty-seven-year-old and had an untamed and insatiable appetite for the opposite sex. She had been married and divorced nine times; a commitment to just one man was impossible for her. 

One man was never enough. 

Loretta liked to think of herself as a sexual vampire with an unquenchable thirst for cock. No matter how deeply Loretta’s love for each of her nine husbands, she could simply not resist the urge, the opportunities, the lust to pursue other men for sexual conquests and adventures. She simply could not help herself; her passion was her demon and she loved her demon well.




Sunday, May 14, 2023

Featuring Morley Cacoethes

Greetings to My Fearless Simian Editors of the Poetry Variety,

My name is Morley Cacoethes, and I've got three poems to lay among the incense of your altar. Real hip stuff, beat inspired ditties punctuating the holy dumb saint beatitudes and inoculating the population against the language virus one glazzie at a time. I'm telling you, these poems are coming straight from the ice box and ready to serve. I hope you dig them.

BIO:Morley Cacoethes currently resides in Northeast Ohio where he attends "the people's university" while trying to stay warm and find a more permanent residence for himself and his cat. 

Go in peace,
Morley Cacoethes



Pebbles Upon the Narrow Road IX 


Such a one is near to what although he was.

Ignorance saw that because I am so honest,

everything is strong and simple, and I am 

of the mountain. Thus, the innkeeper informed us. 

My name is near to what I am so on.

Buddha had appeared in everything simple 

and that kind of heart was ignorant of foulness,

so make yourselves at home. Curious as to what 

he was—most admirable. and corrupt to speak.

On one such night, please relax and clumsy beg,

pilgrims, as to what kind of Buddha had appeared. 

Even if you are stopped at home, just one is near

Pebbles of Desolation VI


I will thin the high air, without having 

and right from that I’ll do the leaving 

for the city’s shades ache snaky in the void

mountain, revealing my dish rags, my litter, 

my various things sat in the silent glitter.

But wait, breathing is still early in my pay.

I pace, water and still my stove sticks. 

That little window and upped shoes weep, 

collect my debts, and buy a bottle shack.

Why does firewood crack without having 

the day and leave next morning in the night.

Three City Haikus

I sit to ascend

into nothing. I sit to

become everything.   

after closing time,

this bottle passed between us…

cracks in cinderblock


weeks without laundry…

in the library, a mom

pulls her toddler close

Sunday, April 30, 2023

New Poems: John D. Robinson



Typer silent, gazing into the

garden, the short grass blades

move and somewhere 

murderous bullets are shot and

blades pulled, hand shakes

and kisses exchanged,

love made,

bombs made,

pacts made,

fragility made,

birds fly and mate,

the traffic stalls and

stagnates as I sit , the typer

silent, gazing into my back

yard, the rain falls and

laughs like choking sand

and winds lean into

conversations of sterile

banality, that is a

life-line to many souls

as they look away as

freedom is hood-winked

and kidnapped in the

name of safety and

security, as nails are

driven into flash and eyes,

pipes, tunnels and cables

rip the world’s veins as slaves

work the factories and

production lines, as the slaves

own the factories of passion

and illusions of misty

promises and I look, with the

company of a silent typer, into

the gentle arena of my garden.






have torn

the wings off

angels and

wrestled with

the dragons

of diablo

but those

clashes were

a fucking


compared to


and speaking

to some

asshole with

a hint of

sense and


from a 








He hasn’t a memorial stone

or shrine of any kind of

remembrance of his existence,

nothing to note his life here,

except his digital birth and

death certificates,

his time was never captured 

in photographs, 

though the Police may have

a claim on this,

an illiterate poet, unaware

of words and of their

wonder and power,

he danced and drank

a life with a 

mischievous spirit,

clutching at

society’s senseless,

alien conventions

and not with any


he let go early on

and staggered into




John D. Robinson's latest book of poetry THE UNCHANGING PURPOSE is available through Uncollected Press.

Sunday, April 2, 2023

Featuring John Grey




on her doorstep,

suitors and their flowers

tremble like grasses after a storm- 


her bedchamber

hi the big blue room

is happy to see them -


she is beloved, besought

but men's tongues are not

always to be believed—


they're younger than her children

some of them

and their skins

are inevitably copper-brown


with bleached hair, 

imprint of surfboards on their under-arms,

and a lie to air-brush

every wrinkle of her fading looks -


thanks to gigolos and wealth,

and an avoidance of mirrors,

she can imagine herself

still twenty five -


yes, she knows money

can't slow the passage of years

but she likes the way

it get time's attention -







You’re in no endless sleep

from which some prince’s kiss

can wake you.


You’re merely lying on the couch

on a Saturday afternoon,

sweating with boredom,

mindlessly flipping channels on the television.


And you’re not in this condition

because some wicked fairy

cast a spell on spindles.


There’s no such things as fairies

and you’ve never sewn

a damn thing in your life.


The responsibility lies

with you and reality.

It’s like a dare.

Who will be the first to budge?

No, this is not a story

like your mother once 

recited at your bedside.


It’s “get off the damn couch

and do something”,

the tale she reads from now.



I would

never have been satisfied

with just anyone.



I needed to be smug

as well

as happy.



He was always looking down -
at the sidewalk, the grass, the road.
He collected cigarette packs,
empty ones,
boasted, to anyone who'd listen,
that he had at least a thousand brands.

Most people avoided him.
Some reckoned there never were
a thousand different brands
of cigarettes.
Even the diehard smokers
could only name you five.

No one knew his name.
They just called him cigarette pack guy.
One day, kids broke into his apartment
and stole his Luckies Go to War
and Buffalo Cigarrillos.
They left behind his pension check
so the cops never took it seriously.

When he knew he was dying,
he tried to donate his collection
to the local college.
They shook their heads
and smirked behind his back.

After his funeral,
a cleaning crew tossed
every last packet into the trash.
They were buried.
He was burned.

"Ashes to ashes," the pastor said.
But nothing about what they came in.






Where folks are awoken nightly 

at 2.00 a.m. by complete silence.


And where the possible seldom happens

and the impossible never does.


And no kid who graduated from the local high school

ever showed up for a 20th reunion.


And nobody gets funky.

And there’s at least three guys, 

living on the same street, named Cameron.


And there’s nothing about a cow that the people don’t know.

Sheep, however, are a different story.


And the mayor is always willing to honor someone 

with the ceremonial key to the town, but no one’s ever 

taken him up on the offer.


And everybody takes just enough pride in what they do

so that they don’t have to aim higher.


And life goes on as before

and before that as well.


And there is shame in being depressed

but not in voting to shutter the library.


And average parents nurture average offspring.

And no one fears change because there is none.


And people only volunteer for tasks that can be

accomplished within a half-hour.


And no one is considered morbidly obese 

until their hearts explode and, even then, only in passing.


And young men shave off their beards before 

anyone suggests they do.

And some of the women let theirs grow.


And the highway is fifty miles to the east.

And it was just forty miles away a week ago.

Bio:John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books, "Covert", "Memory Outside The Head" and "Guest Of Myself" are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.

Wednesday, March 29, 2023

Submissions to Bullshit Lit's Second Anthology close soon


Submissions to the Anthology close in 2-3 days. Their standards of bullshit are very high. Haha! My submission below reeks of it but fell short of their mark:

A Shithouse Narrative


‘The most beautiful flowers grow out of shit but it is shit alone that helps us create’. 



This is a poem about shit/ is shit- 

you be the judge.



The Greater One Horned Rhinoceros 

produces about 25 kilos of dung per day

they are the ultimate loners-

while foraging in the wild

they use their keen sense of smell to sniff

out the freshness of droppings of their own species- 

only to head the other way.



At Sutherland Railway station on platform 3

face the eastern wall under the bridge-

if you look closely

you will find the collected excrement

of several generations of pigeons-

layered in waves of muck

4 by 2 metres in size.



The great late Canadian poet Al Purdy 

was fascinated by shit-

he wrote about it often in his work.

In ‘When I Sat Down to Play the Piano’

he describes how Eskimo dogs had a wild

appetite for human excrement. In another masterpiece,

‘Death by Numbers’ fearing the approach 

of death, he describes

how he daily inspected his faeces 

for traces of blood.



In Kejimkujik National Park in B.C.

there is a warning sign in a hemlock forest which reads:

‘A free standing tarp is recommended

to avoid falling frass (larval faeces) from

the Pale-Winged Grey Moth’.



When my eldest son Abel was 2

I took off his nappy

to air his bum out in front of the TV.

When I returned from the kitchen

he was smearing the boob tube with poo.

Was this a pubescent act of anarchy, or simply,

a natural disdain for mass consumerism  ?



In Swift’s satirical ‘Academy of Lagado’

a visiting surgeon describes at length 

how human excrement is analysed in detail 

at the academy to determine the original 

composition of the food consumed as a means 

of detecting anti-government conspirators.



During the 14thCentury

the bubonic plague

was seen by some scholars as resulting

from a sort of ‘cosmic constipation’-

the breathing in of some foul fumes

wafting up from deep inside

the bowels of the earth.



Dear Reader 


You can probably surmise from the above anecdotes

that I have collected dozens of other equally ass-kicking ones.


You may also be wondering why I have this obsessive fascination with crap,

and deep down, what the shit I hope to achieve?


I don’t really know. Honest.


Perhaps I am attempting to explore excrement as an emblem 

for human endeavour. As a kind of a universal and personalising 

force which solidifies the artistic process…


Sorry reader, what it you say? 


OK yeah, I admit it: I’m full of it!

In contrast, Red Focks the editor of Alien Buddha Press had no qualms about accepting this previously rejected masterpiece for The Alien Buddha Gets Rejected Part 2 (February 2023). True story:

Bathurst After lunch


We check out

the Visitor’s Centre

to see if there is

a winery nearby.


On the way out

I head to the Gents

for a quick piss.


Opening a cubicle

the toilet bowl

is a mass of

shit & blood


as if the bloke

has blown a gasket.


He must have been in

too big an emergency


to actually turn around

& flush the goddamn toilet!

Then again Red rejected  this tongue-in-cheek satirical work I believed in:

This One Is For Free


Most readers,


want everything

for free

these days.


Newspapers & magazines

are massively shredding

staff. Others have folded. 

Independent presses are drying up.


Most things are available now online

with the click of a mouse.


I tell you dear reader the best 

I can offer you now is this humble poem.


There may not be very much to it

in substance 


or effort-


but you get what you fucking pay for

you cheap prick!