Stuck in Your Own Complicity, by James D. Casey IV

cold coffee and a wet
there’s nothing like
the feeling
of regret
lying to the faultline
counting change
to a man
plated in fake gold
through the night
legs trembling in
but look at the way
he shines
on wine
in time
in tune
with the songs
on the radio
when tell-a-vision
is in short provision
after division
of your fellow
in this Truman
show circus
on purpose
they hurt us
but you choose
to look away
tell me how it all ends
or how
you can
defend the men
dropping bombs
like they cost pennies
but can’t pay
for people to have
free education
while they take their
fancy vacations and sip
cocktails with pinky rings
in the air
and put their cocks
where it doesn’t belong
and don’t stop
when women say
pieces of less than
shit is better
but we need to flush the
governmental toilet
especially T-Rump
and his phony cronies
so go ahead
throw your fits
hollering MAGA
when the fast food joint
doesn’t serve breakfast
all day
when in another place
on the same fucking planet
that doesn’t revolve
around you
someone starves
to death
and make sure you
about saving the trees
when you wipe your ass
with toilet paper
because you care
when it’s convenient
and sympathise
with rapers
that want to be judges
and their capers
from skyscrapers
while the rest of the
is stuck on flypaper
breathing toxic vapors
nothing but activists
behind screen names
not participating
in the actual activity
stuck in your own
fuck the system
burn it down
anarchist arsonists
are coming for
the wolves
that lead sheep
to slaughter
and rape our daughters
burn motherfuckers

Sharp Regurgitated Broken Rooks Clapping Riddles Win Old Change, by James D. Casey IV

Things are getting so sharp,
deplenished and unreplaced.

Regurgitated, swallowed whole,
then spit up again served new.

Broken crowns in black not gold are
still claiming in the name of the king.

A blockaded bishop is of little value
when the rooks have crumbled down.

Shutting off the logical part of the mind
to hear the sound of one hand clapping.

Riddles on bombs falling from flaming
birds on places people have never been.

Loser is such a harsh word, just say
the father of the boy who didn’t win.

Old high performance energy theft.
Pissing contests on vintage rugs too.

Plastic faces breed pretty lies in towers
above the peasants pleading for change.


James D. Casey IV is a southern poet with roots in Louisiana & Mississippi, currently residing in Illinois with his Muse, their goofy dog, and two black cats. Mr. Casey has authored four books of poetry; his most recent title is Owls in Hot Rods with Pink Elephants and Dead Bats. His work has also been published by several lit mags and small press venues including Triadæ Magazine, Poetry Breakfast, I am not a silent poet, In Between Hangovers, Beatnik Cowboy, Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash, Zombie Logic Review, Tuck Magazine, and Outlaw Poetry.

mic drop by James D. Casey IV

Crows peck at the eyes of blind

Dead men. As maniacs sell them

Pain in the form of pennies, and

Fear, and walls, and expensive

Holes to bury their brittle

Bones. The dogs all march, and

The vultures all lie, and the

Snakes all rape. None worth

Their weight in smegma stained

Panties of disease ridden whores.

All happening in the middle of

The shit covered street. All while

The “innocent” bystanders drink

Their expensive IPA. Wearing their

Fucking hipster clothes. Burning

Flags and posting political memes

On social media for attention

Whore “Likes.” Just to piss people

Off because they’re pissed instead

Of trying to do something that will

Actually make a positive change.

But rest assured the crows grow

Evermore ravenous, and we will all

Be blind and dead eventually. No

Matter how this whole charade pans

Out in the end. So if you’re a

Maniac be a maniac. If you’re a

Dog be a dog. If you’re a vulture

Be a vulture. If you’re a snake

Be a snake. But, if you must insist

On being a bystander…please

Stop drinking shitty IPA and wearing

Your fucking ridiculous hipster clothes.

As for the rest of us, wherever you

May stand, let’s share a toast. Because

This too shall pass, and hell, if it doesn’t,

Then at least we have a front row seat

To the season finale of the craziest

Show on primetime tell-a-vision.

Peace, pot, and anal lube, motherfuckers.


James D. Casey IV is a published author of two poetry books: ‘Metaphorically Esoteric’ & ‘Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine.’ He is also working on his third under the title “Tin Foil Hats & Hadacol Coins” that is expected to be published within the next few months. Mr. Casey’s writings have been published in international ezines and on several websites. Poetry Life & Times, Artvilla, Realistic Poetry International, and Poetry Super Highway have him listed in their poet archives as well. You can find links to his books, social network profiles, and other projects on his website at

Over Neon Horizons by James D. Casey IV

Mysterious leviathans
Walking on water
Just faces in the crowd
Under the influence of
Mind altering substances
Brain cycles seeking
Institutionalized revenge
In a doomed
New York minute society
It’s a dead man’s party
For the men without hats
Dancing to sociopath
Only ghosts lost 
In the cold of the crowd
Will ever know tears 
Are a language
That few understand
Or by watching
A timelapse sunrise
One can shake off
The cemetery blues
As their secret language
Reveals ridiculously subtle
Mushroom cloud foreshadowing
Brought on winds of change
Over neon horizons
Bringing an end and
A new beginning
To a deathcore hipster song
Like a most important chord
The Flatted Fifth

Whiskey and Popcorn by James D. Casey IV

We live in a void
Crossed between hell and
The digital world
Television screen faces
Closed caption thoughts
Our rulers have antennas
In place of horns
Everything is on fire
Crashing and burning
But all we can see 
Is what we’re fed
The underbelly reality
Is far worse than it seems
Things they don’t show us
Terrible and unforgiving
Driven down
Hidden behind coding
Pretty 1’s & 0’s
It’s all in the way
You look at it
I guess
Ignorance is bliss
After all
I just hope
There’s plenty of
Whiskey & popcorn
For the season finale

Old Ghosts Still Breathing by James D. Casey IV

What a time to be alive
Riding on the bullet
Shot from the brink of 
Some hoping for it
Praying even
Screaming until blue in the face
Fearing for the future
Of our children
Yet no one hears
Money for bombs
But empty pockets
For education and food
Same old song and dance
One step forward
60 years back
Twisted values built
On shoulders of hate
And fear
With bigot ideals and
Misogyny values
Religious wars
Skin colors
Foreign policies
The list goes on
Old ghosts still breathing
They just own new faces
Wanting to police the world
Trying to walk backward 
Into the future
Division tactics
False fucking flags
Home brewed terrorists
The media propaganda
Is the real sleeper cell
In an Elysium reality
The problem isn’t lack of religion either
It’s lack of empathy for fellow man
And the most treasured human emotion
If we don’t stray
From our current path
This nation will crumble
Unto itself
So enjoy it while it lasts
We had a good run
At least we’re still breathing
For now
A self proclaimed “Madman Philosopher,” James D. Casey IV is a published author of two poetry books: ‘Metaphorically Esoteric’ & ‘Dark Days Inside the Light While Drunk on Wine.’ Mr. Casey’s writings have been published in Triadæ Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Words on Fire, Pink Litter, In Between Hangovers, Poetry Breakfast, Spill Words Press, The Micropoets Society, Poetry Life & Times, Realistic Poetry International, Beatnik Cowboy, and he has upcoming publications in Leaves of Ink. You can find links to his books, social network profiles, and other projects on his website at