The Shade on Twitter Street by Tia Ja’Nae


we are gathered here together to celebrate the mess/of folks in the twitter streets showing us their asses/trying to bring beef until you show up at they address/quiet as a church mouse sorry that they reckless/out here being petty censoring the writing best/raising up their profile on their rival’s armrest/who made these people god to decide on whose a guest/the ones throwing shade need the raid they use for pests/playing checker games won’t get you wins on chess/nor more than smoking ganja will bring back hess/slander competition and get nerve to profess/that they are the victims unjustly in duress/is this how certain indies treat their publishing folk/waiting in the wings hoping certain publishers croak/mad as hell when they become a little publishing joke/cuz not every writer writes a checklist of the woke/if you see like I see you can figure out the press/cuz its more than one entity causing the duress/follow your nose and let the censorship caress/if you tweet like I tweet you won’t even need a guess/these woke types of people follow in the same plan/these type of sheeple wallow in the same pan/the pull out method ain’t work for Afghanistan/nor is it working for the literary Taliban/who stepping in the streets touting racial progress/but lacking dark faces on the masthead dress/who fronting new writers that they paying even less/taking violence out of crime cutting creative access/just ask the publishers who feel betrayed/watching folks they gave their start to let them bleed with no aid/watched a lot of cold shoulders claim they got to get paid/is this how certain writers comp literary upgrades/and if that be the case then why they need the Medicaid/it is what it is how you like that shade/cuz a bitch is a bitch no matter how they portrayed/just ask the publishers trying to convalesce/from the competition running rumors knocking their success/mad cuz they wont follow the mantras to oppress/now every other week its indie slander and stress/where I come from that’s called beef/and you step outside you gonna have to knuckle up chief/fucking with folks money you get branded a thief/they would know that if they stopped with the twitter queefs/let me break it down how this will transgress/cuz the shit would be funny if they had some finesse/the entire scene is crashing to hell on the bullshit express/trying to err to the side of olive branches with woke god bless/this a very small pond running out of clean water/once they pull the pin the grenade gets hotter/your sales won’t go father than a fly swatter/run and tell that on your next twitter blotter/right after you cry victim louder than a sea otter/the writers and the fans just won’t even bother/and won’t be nothing left but hack ass squatters/like those weekend cats they call blues lawyers/simon and schuster will be happy for the dollar/cheering another indie thrown up on the alter/you’ll be the last of the first of the rest of the cannon fodder/while you nut jobs celebrate the handiwork of your slaughter/it is what it is I said what I said/this shade needs to stop its become too widespread/it ain’t my fault if that don’t get through your thick heads/maybe you’ll get it once you see the red in your overhead.

Tia’s work has been featured in Pulp Modern, Punk Noir Magazine, Pulp
Modern, Close To The Bone Poetry, Satire has been featured on HumorOutcasts,
ArticulateMadness, PulpModern Flash and the upcoming issue of
Econoclash Review.  Her written work has been featured in Shogun Honey,
Tough Magazine, 45th Parallel Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, Flashback
Fiction Magazine; as of late two of her short stories have appeared in Tough Crime Stories 2
and Shotgun Honey Presents Volume 4: Recoil.

4 poems by Amy-Jean Muller

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

All Dead Men


Your temper blasted off like the confetti on the birthday you told me 

I was nothing. 

Conveniently forgotten during a three volley salute. 

And I think about it as I hear the bullets cut the sky, 

breaking like the fireworks from that celebration 

but flying over as silver sparrows in your mourning.

There where tears on handkerchiefs for sure that day, 

much like this one 

only with quivering smiles at your better memories,

when I wasn’t nothing

and you were alive.

And the thought brings me back to the reality of your casket

the one I picked out for you

in white 

But for me,

your haunting is heavy and dense like the flag they place on your coffin 

which they wrap up tightly in a fold.

Much like the secrets we kept between us

that I shouldn’t speak of 

because all dead men are hero’s 

Road Dog


Grief sits with you like the stink of a dog

who snaps at your heels when you try rescue him from the mud.

You haul him on your back despite the stench

while the sepsis in his skin festers in every good thought you have and every smile you feel.

Because you shouldn’t carry anything but the weight of him.

The sight of him,

his stench,

and the breath of his carrion, 

seeps into you when his sorrow howls 

and plays out scenarios in your dreams of how he got there. 

Hit down on the side of the road

beaten bloody by a life that dragged him there;

behind some car

in a sack,

with rocks that cut him open,

that you now feel. 

Your Hair Woman


It’s not the same 

unless you let him pull it really hard from behind

until there’s an vicious arch in 

your spine. 

For his visual treat.

Long locks are so feminine, and easy to grab, 

and measures your glory when he’s back there. 

He’ll hold it, twist and tug

pressing into you firmly with a

Thud, Thud, Thud.

You sultry woman!

It’s not the same 

on your body unless you 

treat it, or tease it, or tweeze it, or bleach it 

and don’t complain about it please

and smile for heavens sake.

Remember your hair;

can’t be au naturel,

you have to keep him keen 

just slide back sweetly like peaches and cream.


Its not the same 


Unless you’re just right

Just like in his wet dreams 

where your pussy’s shaven and tight

I’m not porcelain 


Don’t talk to me like I’m some 


frail piece of porcelain 

about to crack at your pressure 

and judgment in the deliberation

into the state of my mental health 

because you don’t hear the things I tell myself


Fuck you


Amy-Jean Muller is an artist, writer and poet from South Africa who lives and works in London. Both her art and writing explore culture, memory, mental health, identity, femininity, and sexuality. She has exhibited her art in South Africa and London. Her writing can be found in various publications and is a regular contributor for Versification, The Daily Drunk and Poetry EIC for Outcast Press. Her poetry book, Baptism by Fire, was released in January 2021. She has been nominated for both Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes. She also writes transgressive fiction and is currently completing her first novel, a collection of short stories, and a second poetry collection. | Twitter: @muller_aj

How To Attend The Murder Trial of a Secret Admirer With No Impulse Control Without Really Trying  by Kristin Garth  

Kristin Garth, Punk Noir Magazine

Professor recommends a murder trial.
More hours to observe the court reporting:
most likely days, even a week, his smile
ruddies geriatric cheeks, won’t be boring.

Peruse the paper. Chose a random one.
Boy your age appeals a stabbing which he
attempted to outrun, verdict he hopes undone
by evidence — traumatic brain injury,

no impulse control. Gallery, find a seat.
Defendant turns his head to smile discreet more
than once until his lawyer’s stare burns your cheek.
You have never seen his client before.

Dishwasher, waiter ex later explains,
“wanted to fuck Wednesday Addams,” your nickname.

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 21 books of poetry including Crow Carriage (Sweet Tooth Story Books) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and the editor of seven anthologies. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website

Before Gravity’s Pull by B F Jones and David Cranmer

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

I pull back from enforced darkness as
yellow rays from the lantern skip on
cobblestones, the street is too quiet
now as I paint a reflective past of a
time and place where you walked as a
god across my terrace, into my cafe

Materialising before
Claiming the twilight and brightening the night
Sitting, sipping the drink I took to
Lips on the edge of a perspiring glass
Eyes on the horizon, on everything and
On mine.

And the night slipped away
Giving way to numbered days

When the sun shone on a smiling you
When your laughter shattered the odds
Before gravity’s pull became apparent
Before our plans were ripped away.

I was thinking of you today, times past.

Summer evening, 1947 by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

A quiet evening with you, on the veranda,
Light illuminating your golden hair.
You in that tube top and gazing down
Smoldering flame. Smoldering out,
Til all that remained were dark skies
To keep company with memories of you.

A quiet evening with you, hot air waltzing,
stale look in your dirt brown eyes.
And in your mouth, words you no longer mean.
The burning light of longing having slowly
tarnished, a flicker growing ever faint,
Since that first morning, after.

Poems by Max Thrax



Thunder of consonants
Rolling out line
By line

Fifteen cigarettes
Before you roll
Out of bed

Throw the typewriter
Down the stairs

Broken keys
Lines staggered

She smiles
And says
Too soft


Provincial boy
Communion medal
Your poems scrawled
On your mother’s skirts

Her eyes
The eyes
Of a horse

Her hooves legion
And her punishments

Gare du Nord boy
Reading Faust
With a bullet in your wrist
Beware family men

No longer a boy
Not a man
A thing
Exchanged by weathered hands
Around the Cape and Horn

Rotting bone
A long, immense, rational
Derangement of the cells

From common bonds
You fly
Boy with sticky hair
And blue eyes reflecting
Holes in the sky


Because I am drawn
To worldly things
I am drawn
Drawn out
And shot down the drain


Smell of rain
And I am there

On Devil’s Bridge
I taste your hair
Fingers touch
Then disappear

Parapet bare
Carve it all
To us alone

Evening comes in winds
Breeze from Annelinn calls
Just to hear
I am here
With you

Back again to village life
Taking in the country air
All it took
For me to fall
Was you

Dropping my reflector
A tiny light
Dies second by second
Off Devil’s Bridge

ROOM 306

When they laid her
On the table
She cried because
She swore she bore
A bomb inside

Strapped down
She screamed
To all the saints

Her face
Turned to ash
And blew away


At dawn
The walls turn to scales
Two yellow eyes
Stare back at me

I never ask
Why they stare
Only why
They never blink

And why the tail
Rising from the floor
Never coils
Or catches me
To squeeze

Max Thrax lives in Boston. His novella God Is A Killer (Close To The Bone) will be published in May 2022. Find him at or on Twitter @ThraxMaximilian.

2 visual poems by Danielle Moles


2021 biggest trends


Danielle Moles is an editor for The Lincoln Review, and in her spare time she writes and make art. As an aspiring poet and writer, she is currently experimenting with lots of different forms. She has publications in SPORAZINE, 3 Moon Magazine, and Feels Zine, as well as an upcoming publication in the 46th issue of Bombay Gin Literary Journal.

Little birds by Claire Marsden


You are my little bird, 

caught in a net. Broken, 

yet beautifully whole. 

On whispered wings I’ll show you

how to carry your suffering. 

I’ll place a saucer of stars 

upon your brow, 

and my devotion to the sky 

will be your anchor. 

The sun will never claim you. 

I’ll make you sovereign of your universe, 


all the while, 

that behind my smile, 

I’m a shelter of bones.

Inevitable by Scott Cumming

Punk Noir Magazine

It's the inevitability
that kills you
Not even back
to the halfway line
and you know what's
going to happen

A man who's done more
than Queen & Cuntry
will be defined by his skin
A man brave enough
to toil in a foreign land
will hesitate about returning
A kid with the bravery
to step up last
will be put on heinous blast

It ends as it began
The boos ringing
against the supposed Marxist Left
and their gesture politics
when all people want
is some fucking common sense.

Wolftown by Isaac Menuza

Flash Fiction

Officer Hogsworth and Officer Hamlin on break, idle cruiser purring in an urbanscape of tenements and malnourished scrub.

Wolftown.  All the big baddies.  Plywood windows.   Furry figures clinging to shadow, gold-eying the pork-po.

“All’s I’m sayin, it’s a nasty habit,” says Hogsworth to his partner, snout going twitch twitch.

Hamlin ogles his sandwich, dribbles a dollop of mayo on his greasy trousers.  “Who don’t like bacon?”

“S’unnatural.  Makin’ me sick trapped in this car with y’ass.”

“Ain’t nobody doesn’t like bacon, jus’ see.”

Hamlin leans out the driver’s side window, flaps half a sandwich like a race track flag.  “Hey, howlers.  Come get some.  Free dinner.   That’s the type of dinner you all prefer, right?”

No takers, just some shuffling movement next to a broken concrete stoop.

Hamlin spies a wolf down the way, young one, dark gray snout lowered, striding all casual like “don’t notice me.”

The officer whistles, pulls his cap up.  “You!  Lil’ howler!  Come over ‘ere a minute.”

Young wolf does a double take, sort of half-steps as though he might still make an escape.  

Hamlin waves a hoof, real impatient.  “Fuckin’ kid’s actin’ real skittish,” he stage whispers to his partner, who, for his part, just sighs and pulls his cap low.  

To the wolf, Hamlin says, “You like bacon, don’t you, howler?  Juicy, streaky bacon.  That make you go Pavlov?”

Young Wolf looks like he’s just been asked the most difficult math problem, unsolvable arithmetic.

“Should I speak slower, howler?”

“Please don’t call me that, officer.”  Young wolf keeps his lips loose over his teeth, no threat.  It makes his words sound blunted.

“‘Please don’t’…you serious right now?  Hoggie, you hearin’ this?  Howler has opinions.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, sir.”

Hamlin plops his wet sandwich on the dash, steps out of the car.

Officer Hogsworth straightens up, then follows.

“Paws on the car.”

“What did I—“

“Get the fuck against the car and spread those furry ass legs.”

Young Wolf obliges.  He ensures his tail stays curled down and his chest light.

Folks in the tenements take note.   Someone shouts “Fuck you, porkie!”   From a broken window arcs an empty bottle of Red Riding.  It smashes at Hamlin’s feet.  Wolves of black, white, and grey, of ages pup to bearded, slam out of swinging doors and slink from around corners.

The air is humid with danger.

Young Wolf must sense this, the path leading deeper into the wood: back-up gets called, billy clubs go thwack, blood courses in the gutters.  Young Wolf has the air to make it stop, a voice like a bellows.

He takes a deep breath, a shouting breath, a chest-of-thunder breath—

“He’s huffing!” Officer Hogsworth cries, panicked.

Pop, pop, pop.  The gun sizzles in Officer Hamlin’s hooves, three holes drilled in Young Wolf’s burgeoning breast.  

Under the silent stares of those assembled, there is but one sound:  a hiss of air, young wolf’s final puff, expiated helplessly from the crimson ground. 


ISAAC MENUZA is an author of speculative fiction and horror. He lives in Washington, D.C. with his wife, three children, and whatever slimy critters his son detains for temporary imprisonment.  Find him on Twitter @Imenuza and at