Stephen Philip Druce… The Kissagram Cake


The Kissagram Cake

The kissagram was meant
to leap out of the giant
birthday cake, but
she was found
inside it.
I didn’t eat
any cake, but
the other guests
did, until there was
nothing left
but a corpse
lying in the
living room.
The guests were later
struck down with
birthday cake curse –
nightmares of a giant
cake, with hideous pink
writing on the top of it,
spelling the words –
Happy 60th Birthday
( sarcastically )
with candles sticking
into it, and suffocated
between the icing
and the fruit
was the marzipan trapped
inside screaming, and
the crumbs were just
left to rot.


Stephen Philip Druce is a poet/humour essayist published in the UK, USA, Canada and India. In August 2015 he signed an e-book deal with Tri Screen Connection in The USA – with his British style humour book of Absurd and nonsensical essays – QUIRKY SHORTS. link here –

To hear Stephen read his poems/humour poems link here

Copyright © 2016 by Erin J. Jones









Stephen Philip Druce… Television Apocalypse


Television Apocalypse

Television apocalypse –
the anarchic celebration,
the annihilationv
of the sweet invention,
now the devil`s mesmerising
television – a poisonous snake
slithering in a slime
on a prime time scour,
we are furniture leaches
for them to devour,
its venom renders
us dense to digest
mindless soaps for dopes
with subliminal hidden agenda`s,
with its sexist, most
politically correctist,
ham over-actors
for uncultured cattle
in a trough of x-factors,
the vultured staring,
the documentary violence
overbearing, the chicken korma
spilt in the t.v. remote battle
in the living room corner, five
star movies long vacated
for one star turkey`s
to feed the perceived
gunshots wake up
babies in their cots, etched
nightmares on the kids not
in bed yet, watch indiscretions
before the watershed, the university set
in unamusing stand up comedy –
abusing the slot, saved by
the canned laughter
we can all spot,
comedy shows discriminate
the working class
and are so unfunny
you need to smoke
the random flick through
of the channels – a bad decision,
nudity on when the parents
are there, an unexpected
surgeon`s incision scare,
television –
the five minutes of fame
ambition, to be a celebrity
with only the brains for
infantile games, showbiz shames
television –
sport overkill, overspill,
no fun – overdone,
television hurts –
its breaking twenty four hour
news, coshes a brainwashed bruise
upon my t.v. weary head,
twenty four minute adverts
kill me dead,
traffic cop shows with
cameras persecute the motorist
and lecture headmaster style,
twist the driver`s words and
put them in a statement file,
stop them without probable cause –
just to harass, no consent to search
but the cop just ignores and expects
them to kiss his ass, television –
deserved of our derision, the over-hype,
the over-sell, the over-ripe, the t.v. hell,
but now it`s time to intervene, let`s
smash up the old, the new, the portable
and the flat screen, this cheap, crude
heap of repeated multi-channels grim,
this sacrilege is a sin.


Stephen Philip Druce is a poet/humour poet/ humour essayist published in the UK, USA, Canada and India. In August 2015 he signed an ebook deal with Tri Screen Connection in The USA – with his British style humour book of Absurd and nonsensical essays – QUIRKY SHORTS. link here –

To hear Stephen read his poems/humour poems link here

Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Philip Druce









Andy Wilson… Fish Farts


Fish Farts

She wanted to know. If I knew.
That my fart was going to smell as bad as it did.

Before I unleashed it.

I was picking at my toenails, trying to piece away the parts that were too long.

“Yeah, I did. I can usually tell how bad it will smell,

by how warm and heavy it is in my lower abdomen.”

She asked between wheezes.

Why, then, didn’t I even try to hold it in.

Because I am my father’s son.

And I was born from my mother.

You see, my dad was a captain.
strangled fish in nets and yanked them out of The Bering Sea.
6 months out of the year.
When he came home, he’d lay on the couch.
He never used toenail clippers, and I was amazed.
At how he could reach down, and rip off his toenails with just two fingers.
A manly man. who’d fart loudly.
And laugh about it from under his mustache.

Proudly unashamed.

His farts were obvious and harmless.
The family giggled at his horn butt.

Then turn back to the horror flick on T.V.

Then a creeping nightmare scent
would sneak under our noses.
We didn’t have to ask.
We already knew.
Because if you could put smells in the movies.
My mom’s farts would be the cloverfield monster.
A lovecraftian great old one.

Adapted for the screen.

And with ethereal nebulous tendrils it’d strangle brainstems.
Our minds would become desperate

for clean air. Gasping for sanity.

Mom would sit there.

A woman, silent. smiling in absolute victory.

That’s when I learned two things.

One, victory is signaled, not by ally horns.

But your enemies asphyxiated tears.

Two, the only person who farts as bad as me.

Is my mom.

Sometimes I know a fart’s going to be really bad.
By the way it thrashes in my belly.
Like fish. Made out of hot butter mixed with spoiled eggs.

Who knows fresh air will make him die.

And that’s why you see me. Here.
Unleashing Stomach Death.

Picking at my toenails.

Because I am just the reemergence of a pattern.

A salmon returning to spawn.

I brought back a belly of nets, full strangled farts captured.

And that’s why I didn’t even try. To hold it in.
And that’s why I’m here.
Proudly unashamed.

And smiling in absolute victory.

My mom and dad showed me how.


Andy Wilson is a northwest native, poet, performer, writer, e-sports enthusiast, and modern day Ad-Man. He’s the author of: How Ugly Ads Make Millions, Advertising Made Easy. Performs frequently in Everett, but sometimes in Bellingham and Seattle too. Follow on Twitter: @AndyWilson22.

Copyright © 2014 by Andy Wilson





John McKernan… Meeting Samuel Beckett At The Mortuary


Meeting Samuel Beckett At The Mortuary

“Glad to see you McKernan. Is this your funeral?”

“No Sir I died several years ago Just dropped by to give you this autographed copy of Keats’s Odes.”

“If I stand here too long listening to you my shadow will cheat these tiny wildflowers of the sunlight streaming from the stars.”

“I have never thought of you as a bloody sundial”

“It goes better with all the darkness one encounters everywhere now. I wonder where it all came from.”

“Great Literature is just one vast apology for not committing suicide”

“You can say that again”

“Great Literature is just one vast apology for not committing suicide”


John McKernan is a retired comma herder. He specialized in depleted semicolons and the repair and recovery of derelict exclamation points. He lives in West Virginia where he edits ABZ Press. His most recent book is Resurrection of the Dust.

Copyright © 2014 by John McKernan




Blips… by Mike Berger



We are becoming electronic
blips; digits, numbers, ciphers.
Forget your idiosyncrasies,
you’re now a number among


A formless number in a
hundred data bases. Boxed
and packaged into neat
little blips; formatted,

condensed, and archived.

Forget your credit card number,
retinal scans, or fingerprints
for identification. They are
too individualized. We are
fast approaching time when
bar codes will be imprinted
on our foreheads.


Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He is a retired and writes poetry and short stories full time. He has been writing poetry for less than two years. His works appears in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and seven poetry chapbooks. He is a member of The Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2014 by Mike Berger