Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/26/20


Cockroach Soliloquy

The cockroaches left me a wake-up message, written with saliva and excrement, it was placed conspicuously in a garbage can, where they knew that I’d find it while in search of my morning nourishment, behind the Burger King on 3rd, the dumpsters are full of cold fries and burgers, near the Farmer’s Market and Saint Francis Church.

The note was composed in Spanish, the words singing with Latin rhythm, like lyrics set to the melody of La Cucaracha song, it read like a manifesto. It explained what was this and wasn’t that, pointing out my failures and derelictions, each note-taking aim and hitting home, another wound in an already wounded soul, then it targeted me with a question.

Tell us how it feels Gringo, to have degenerated into a bicho (bug), the epitome of disgust and loathing, a repugnant insect just like us, refugees from sunlight and the day’s saving grace, wearing darkness like a bad tattoo, examples of filth greater than the “nth” degree, in constant search of dank asylum.

I wasn’t pissed off or unnerved by the text, their message spoke the truth, I most likely was looked at as shit wrapped in skin, an old guttersnipe less of the man I had once been, a scourge, a blight, an incurable infection, a scab on the face of God. But how can a fair verdict be reached, if you don’t know where I’ve been, or if my journey to now was smooth or rocky, I yelled to solicit their attention, perk up the hairs on your back legs afford me a response and listen, cockroaches all around me, with shit-eating grins ready to hear my summation.

Once upon a time and not long ago, I lived like a refined Sheikh, I was handsome, wealthy and I thought oh so clever, life was sweeter than a sun-ripened date, I negligently spent friendships and haphazardly bought others, my concern was solely about me, after years of decadent behavior, that would have made Caligula blush, I reaped the consequences of my malfeasance, my magic carpet refused to fly, the password” open sesame ” was changed, my Genie moved out of his bottle, bought a Condo in Miami, wouldn’t take my calls, ignored my wishes, and those friendships I bought, couldn’t be returned for a refund, and were no longer under warranty.

Fate always seeks a just retribution, I was left in the sewage of my pestilence, a kingdom fit for the cockroach I’d become, not regretting the lesson I’d learned, however fate has a left hand that the right isn’t aware of, on occasion it bestows another chance, I was granted a pardon and offered employment, my new job and I’m sure you’ll find this ironic, is as an EXTERMINATOR!

2020 Judge Santiago Burdon All rights reserved.


On an unseasonably cool July morning in Chicago, equivalent to David Copperfield, Judge Burdon was born on a Friday. The Brontes, Keats, Burns and Dickens inspired his study of English Literature. He attended Universities in the United States, London and Paris focusing his studies on Victorian novels and authors.

His short stories and poems have been featured in a variety of magazines, online zines and podcasts. He is presently engaged in finishing his book Imitation of Myself. A non-fiction story detailing his experiences as a drug runner for a Mexican Cartel. Judge celebrated his 65th birthday last July and lives modestly in Costa Rica.


Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/25/20



Riding the 3:16 I arrive before sunrise
Even in early morn animal air sticks to my skin
I violently push the door jamb and the soul-shattering screech
awakens sleeping doves who flutter away before first light

A cracked Madonna painting hangs crooked behind the counter
A big Creole woman in a multi-colored dress
wears a feathered fedora, blows cigar smoke in my face
“Yes, Papa, you are home now, home, for the carnival.”

I mumble and take my room key like a fugitive on the run
there are hex sign protections graffitied on the walls
Goat horns and pentagrams and what I think is dried blood
“The carnival, Papa, it all begins with you.”

The Creole woman’s laughter chases me to my den
I unlock my door and again push too hard
This time the protest is silenced by new sound
distant drums, ancient song, the scattering of bones

I think of her as I walk onto the wrought iron deck
I peer through the dawn and see gator prints in the mud
I expect a scoundrel with a sack full of antebellum loot
to skip across the courtyard and gift me a wink

I think of her as I step from the balcony to my room
I know she would’ve saved me or I would’ve destroyed her
Neither option was viable
No potion can heal me now

Cathedral bells toll far away like hymns through a fog
I remember someone saying something somewhere sometime
about the ringing of the bells being the only clean thing left
I pour a double bourbon neat and hear my Creole cackle again

“The carnival, Papa, it all begins with you.”

©2020 William Teets All rights reserved.


William Teets is an author and poet born in Peekskill, New York, who has recently relocated to Waterford, Michigan. He immensely misses New York pizza, the Hudson River, and his beloved Mets. He will write. He will survive. Mr. Teets’ works have been published in Chronogram, The Deadly Writers Patrol, Cajun Mutt Press, Art and Life, as well as in numerous anthologies. He has also published a novel, Reverend Went Walking, and a memoir, Upside Down (One on the House).

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/24/20


The Streetlights

I think of all of the streetlights
In this city.
All of the streetlights. There must be
If not millions, then at least hundreds
Of thousands of them. Shining down
Upon the prostitutes, the dealers,
The gangs of teenage lads out looking for
Trouble, and the majority of straights
Heading to work, or on their way home.
The homeless trying to sleep in shop
Doorways, the young lovers snatching
One more kiss, the crack head snatching
Some old woman’s handbag.
Illuminating both the pride and the shame
Of this medium-sized city, and me
As sad as a wilted, dead rose, walking
Home and composing poems in my mind.

©2020 Ian Lewis Copestick All rights reserved.


Ian Lewis Copestick is a 47-year-old writer from Stoke on Trent England. Although he started writing poetry in 2001, he only started sending them out for publication 8 months ago. In this time he has had over 100 poems and 5 short stories published. He is featured in print anthologies by Alien Buddha Press and Horror Sleaze Trash. His first book Detritus Of The Drunken Night was published by Cajun Mutt Press on April 2, 2019.


An Interview with the Editor-in-Chief

Our Editor-in-Chief, James Dennis Casey IV was interviewed about Cajun Mutt Press by Charles Clifford Brooks III for Issue 17 of The Blue Mountain Review!!!

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙨?

Cajun Mutt Press is a home for outsiders, outlaws, and all things on the literary fringe. I like to keep it professional but have fun while doing so. My approach to publishing is W.W.H.S.T.D., “What would Hunter S. Thompson do?”

Go to page 153 to read the whole interview.

Screenshot 2020-02-21 at 7.28.59 PM

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/21/20



Raindrops can’t eclipse their intent.
Impulse overrules blur of pudency.
Nuzzling in the narrows I form lilt
of future loneliness.

Soaking in sadness attunes one to glee
and the brevity of its bid. A new page
isn’t necessarily fresh thought. Another
phase may not entail an unusual blaze
of brio.

Arrears spur the unveiling of Atropos.

Vacuities pitch in when I tune
into deeds of valor, how they
need to correct their curvatures
stuns me.

Another’s trial engenders me
worthy of self. When girded
with answers I escalate to my
estimate of utopia.

When bobbin of memory unspools
our appliqué I wish for a time-lapse.
From your reality is downlink to
mine. In this lives our little story.

Expertise with which your adoral trail
circumvents my olfactory nerves comes
back when others borrow the bolster.
Mellifluous feelings of mudita waft
across my world as delicateness of your
doings do their bit. I want to disbelieve
noisomeness is your nectar.
Cry for Clemency

In gentilesse the aroma of graciousness
breezes through the business districts
of survival, making it a win-win station.
Cut the coarseness, howls a part of me.
The rest is mute to machinations of other
kinds. I need to engage with them. Why
does the vermiculate aggravate me? Is
this the curse of childlessness? Poems
are like progeny: after parturition, they
are nursed and nurtured till it is time to
find their future.

©2020 Sanjeev Sethi All rights reserved.


Sanjeev Sethi is published in over 25 countries. He has more than 1200 poems printed or posted in venues around the world. Wrappings in Bespoke is Winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It’s his fourth book. It will be issued in 2020. He lives in Mumbai, India.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/19/20



The subtle divergence
between a tire’s puncture
and a detonation
is lost to this dusk’s flyers.
Sombre shrapnels of feathery creatures
explode from light’s tangerine volary.

I shiver in my safehouse –
perchance the drone of philosophers’ augur
about this world has found me.
Perchance sleep I no longer may achieve
without winning a Russian Roulette.

©2020 Kushal Poddar All rights reserved.


Authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press)

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 02/17/20

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The Peace of him that I carry

Walking into
the chapel
I keep
my hands
folded to

or maybe I let
my arms hang
like a willow

We sit on

and stare
straight ahead
at the teenager
in a box

I am Nine
or ten
this is my first
funeral and
my parents
were not told
so I am


a stranger
with pale
skin but
on his face
a smile
that looks


I think
if he is
he can’t be
dead and
I wait for

someone else
to notice
so he can
walk out of
this room,
laugh with Brother
and Sister Allgood

Maybe he
wasn’t smiling
and I only
imagined it
trying to
protect my soft
chewing gum heart
from the

As if I could
fix him all up

Somehow fit our
heavy world
back on to his

©2020 Melanie Browne All rights reserved.


Melanie Browne is a poet and fiction writer living in Texas. Her work can be found at The Rye Whiskey Review, Pulp Metal Magazine, Midnight Lane Boutique, and other online journals.