x x x
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Fuck Art, Let's Dance
ISSUE #005 / JULY 2014
IN THIS ISSUE:
POETRY
- Ken Alexopoulos
- Harry Baxter
- Volodymyr Bilyk
- Karina Bush
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
- Patrick Jamieson
- Bradford Middleton
- Scott-Patrick Mitchell
- Jeff Walt
- Jeremiah Walton
- Christopher White
ART
- Willie Askins
- Volodymyr Bilyk
- Ira Joel Haber
- Bob McNeil
PHOTOGRAPHY
- Daniel Ayiotis
- Captain Thornton
FEATURES
- "Speaking Sloth: On The Beach Sloth Review" by Kalliopi Mathios
- Lawerence Ferlinghetti : Lunch Poems
N! NEWS
- Books & Shovels debuts @ the 2014 N.Y.C. Poetry Festival!
Fuck Art, Let's Dance
[ this issue is a honey blunt ]
BOOKS & SHOVELS
We'll spark this issue by sharing Books & Shovels debut at the 2014 NYC Poetry Festival, where we raised over $400 for the traveling bookstore, and furthered the IndieGoGo campaign to secure our wheels.
From the festival, we hit Ding Dong bar in West Village for an open mic, filmed, and wiggled in the foam of communal drunken rapidity.
We've begun preparing for our upcoming gig in Springfield, I.L., This Is Poetry, hosted by The Literary Underground.
From the festival, we hit Ding Dong bar in West Village for an open mic, filmed, and wiggled in the foam of communal drunken rapidity.
We've begun preparing for our upcoming gig in Springfield, I.L., This Is Poetry, hosted by The Literary Underground.
N! + B&S's table
FROM THE LITERARY UNDERGROUND:
"FREE and OPEN to the public.
The Literary Underground is pleased to present This Is Poetry sponsored by Citizens for Decent Literature Press, Punk Hostage Press, Red Fez Publications, Zygote in my Coffee, Nostrovia!, Books & Shovels, & Blotterature Literary Magazine.
DATE: AUGUST 9th 7-10PM.
LOCATION: The Legacy Theatre, 101 E. Lawrence Ave., Springfield, IL.FEATURED
PERFORMERS: Ron Whitehead, Ryder Collins, Craig Cady, Bill Gainer, A. Razor, T. A. Noonan, Carleen Tibbetts, Russell Jaffe, Ryan Snellman, Michele McDannold, Jeremiah Walton, and John Swain."
Join their Facebook event for more information / to show support!
"FREE and OPEN to the public.
The Literary Underground is pleased to present This Is Poetry sponsored by Citizens for Decent Literature Press, Punk Hostage Press, Red Fez Publications, Zygote in my Coffee, Nostrovia!, Books & Shovels, & Blotterature Literary Magazine.
DATE: AUGUST 9th 7-10PM.
LOCATION: The Legacy Theatre, 101 E. Lawrence Ave., Springfield, IL.FEATURED
PERFORMERS: Ron Whitehead, Ryder Collins, Craig Cady, Bill Gainer, A. Razor, T. A. Noonan, Carleen Tibbetts, Russell Jaffe, Ryan Snellman, Michele McDannold, Jeremiah Walton, and John Swain."
Join their Facebook event for more information / to show support!
Books & Shovels table at the NYC Poetry Festival
#ISTHISAPOEM
A SERIES BY SCOTT PATRICK MITCHELL
Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM) is a poet, writer and stylist known for his eclectic art practices spanning the last 15 years. His poetry has been described by John Kinsella as ‘new ahead of the new’. His books include "songs for the ordinary mass", ".the tricking post.", "New Poets 1", "grammatical instances // instant grammar", "the rutting season", "Performance Poets", "Cottonmouth: An Anthology of New Australian Writing", plus forthcoming title "Rupture", produced in collaboration with Eleanor Leonne Bennett.
by Scott-Patrick Mitchell
TWO POEMS - HARRY BAXTER
Harry J Baxter is 19 yr old English Writer living in Richmond VA. Harry is passionate because it is the only thing in life worth doing. You can find Harry in Richmond or online at http://hellopoetry.com/harry-j-baxter/
The internet broke my heart, so I broke yours
I downloaded my honest expression of feelings for you
but it came as a zip file
and I’m hardly tech savvy
so It sits in my harddrive with the other long lost files
like that first bike ride without training wheels
and Christmas back before it all got so painfully awkward
two spaces above it
is the memory of being chased by angry farmers on tractors
and the file I edited last
was my self-image profile picture
I want you.
but sometimes wires don’t connect and the connection tends to
falter - lag
so I sent my mind to the pornographic district
where the lights flicker so red, like your favorite shade of lipstick
and for a few minutes there I committed biblical abomination
which is a fancy fucking way of saying I jacked off
before checking my local news site for the five day forecast
rain, rain, rain, rain, but a hint of sunshine
Woah! That’s a risky site! Are you sure you still want to continue?
not really. But last time I checked I never asked you for anything
so I’m buying the ingredients for happiness on ebay
two parts forty ounces of malt liquor
three parts resin stained smoking apparatus
two parts the wrong crowd
and ten parts stupid ass decisions
now I’m stumbling upon locked door keyholes
to see bootleg copies of your next summer blockbuster
they’re worth the ten dollars a pop - I’m just broke
I tried to upload a slut shaming video of you to youtube
but it was taking too damn long to process
so instead I tweeted all 140 of the characters I have played
and wrote you a bittersweet, scathing review
4.5 stars out of 5 - would not recommend
#FuckYou
I would still swipe right to your front door on silent nights
smelling like a bad rock and roll cliche
saying the same one liners over and over again
I listened to your swan song on spotify
and yeah, I’ll admit, It had me swaying
but that might just be the new “Twenty dollar a week diet"
I was forwarded online
so skype with my self-esteem
and IM me your holy of holies
and I’ll pretend whichever God you follow is up there somewhere
maybe I am just a post on your blog
maybe I’m just the virus causing you to curse at low speed internet
but I think you should leave your ISP a nasty voice mail
because this head space is corrupted
and this computer is crashing towards an eternal shutdown
but it came as a zip file
and I’m hardly tech savvy
so It sits in my harddrive with the other long lost files
like that first bike ride without training wheels
and Christmas back before it all got so painfully awkward
two spaces above it
is the memory of being chased by angry farmers on tractors
and the file I edited last
was my self-image profile picture
I want you.
but sometimes wires don’t connect and the connection tends to
falter - lag
so I sent my mind to the pornographic district
where the lights flicker so red, like your favorite shade of lipstick
and for a few minutes there I committed biblical abomination
which is a fancy fucking way of saying I jacked off
before checking my local news site for the five day forecast
rain, rain, rain, rain, but a hint of sunshine
Woah! That’s a risky site! Are you sure you still want to continue?
not really. But last time I checked I never asked you for anything
so I’m buying the ingredients for happiness on ebay
two parts forty ounces of malt liquor
three parts resin stained smoking apparatus
two parts the wrong crowd
and ten parts stupid ass decisions
now I’m stumbling upon locked door keyholes
to see bootleg copies of your next summer blockbuster
they’re worth the ten dollars a pop - I’m just broke
I tried to upload a slut shaming video of you to youtube
but it was taking too damn long to process
so instead I tweeted all 140 of the characters I have played
and wrote you a bittersweet, scathing review
4.5 stars out of 5 - would not recommend
#FuckYou
I would still swipe right to your front door on silent nights
smelling like a bad rock and roll cliche
saying the same one liners over and over again
I listened to your swan song on spotify
and yeah, I’ll admit, It had me swaying
but that might just be the new “Twenty dollar a week diet"
I was forwarded online
so skype with my self-esteem
and IM me your holy of holies
and I’ll pretend whichever God you follow is up there somewhere
maybe I am just a post on your blog
maybe I’m just the virus causing you to curse at low speed internet
but I think you should leave your ISP a nasty voice mail
because this head space is corrupted
and this computer is crashing towards an eternal shutdown
Little Children of Icarus
You were trying to cover your footprints in the sand
and only ended up leaving more
a spiral of your perfectionism
look over there -
over the beach houses on stilts
and the fauna - scrap metal bushes and dry, lonely trees -
see how the sun’s kiss sets the sky on fire?
the water is licking our heels with an icy, arctic tongue
we could walk westwards until our silhouettes are vaporized
but the sand is relaxed and this beach is empty
the acoustic guitar is talking in its sleep
ADD children are doing back flips in the backyard
Night crashes and crashes and recedes into the horizon
we climbed atop one another with visions of lunar satisfaction
time slows down and each drop of condensation on the window
contains the secrets of this muggy southeastern air
the strangers are encroaching too thick to think
warped monstrous faces ripe with desire
we couldn’t answer the questions so we burned the test
tinder to our fire so we could ward off the predators for another night
but the ground is growing smaller day by day
Mr. Demon do not deviate from this round of double dutch
my shoelaces are tied together
and I am hopelessly drunk off of your ideas on romance
that mix of sunscreen, sweat, perfume, and your breath
as my fingers prune
we mistook the blinking jet engine for morse code from the stars
once the clouds part we will have an escape route
taking flight with the startled panic of street birds
the earth will shake, the seas boil over, and the clouds will applaud
with wings made of coat hangers, brown paper bags, and masking tape
we will arr through the sky
like fireworks
and only ended up leaving more
a spiral of your perfectionism
look over there -
over the beach houses on stilts
and the fauna - scrap metal bushes and dry, lonely trees -
see how the sun’s kiss sets the sky on fire?
the water is licking our heels with an icy, arctic tongue
we could walk westwards until our silhouettes are vaporized
but the sand is relaxed and this beach is empty
the acoustic guitar is talking in its sleep
ADD children are doing back flips in the backyard
Night crashes and crashes and recedes into the horizon
we climbed atop one another with visions of lunar satisfaction
time slows down and each drop of condensation on the window
contains the secrets of this muggy southeastern air
the strangers are encroaching too thick to think
warped monstrous faces ripe with desire
we couldn’t answer the questions so we burned the test
tinder to our fire so we could ward off the predators for another night
but the ground is growing smaller day by day
Mr. Demon do not deviate from this round of double dutch
my shoelaces are tied together
and I am hopelessly drunk off of your ideas on romance
that mix of sunscreen, sweat, perfume, and your breath
as my fingers prune
we mistook the blinking jet engine for morse code from the stars
once the clouds part we will have an escape route
taking flight with the startled panic of street birds
the earth will shake, the seas boil over, and the clouds will applaud
with wings made of coat hangers, brown paper bags, and masking tape
we will arr through the sky
like fireworks
TWO POEMS - VOLODYMYR BILYK
Volodymyr Bilyk is a writer, translator and visual artist from Ukraine.
His book of visual poems was published in the series This is Visual Poetry, book of asemic short stories, CIMESA was published in White Sky Books, book of visual poems SCOBES was published by No Press and book of poetry, Casio’s Pay-off Peyote published by The Red Ceilings Press. His works were exhibited on Bright Stupid Confetti Asemic Show, Yoko Ono Fan Club and Venti Leggeri in Bologna. His works appeared in The New Post-Literate, A-Minor magazine, REM magazine, Cormac McCarthy’s Dead Typewriter, The Otolith, Altered Scale, Ex-Ex-Lit, Truck, Maintenant, Apparent Magnitude, The Gin Mill Cowboy and many others. Among the authors he has translated are Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, Jack Spicer, Mina Loy, James Joyce, Kurt Schwitters, Anne Waldman, Charles Reznikoff, Billy Childish, Leonard Cohen and others.
His book of visual poems was published in the series This is Visual Poetry, book of asemic short stories, CIMESA was published in White Sky Books, book of visual poems SCOBES was published by No Press and book of poetry, Casio’s Pay-off Peyote published by The Red Ceilings Press. His works were exhibited on Bright Stupid Confetti Asemic Show, Yoko Ono Fan Club and Venti Leggeri in Bologna. His works appeared in The New Post-Literate, A-Minor magazine, REM magazine, Cormac McCarthy’s Dead Typewriter, The Otolith, Altered Scale, Ex-Ex-Lit, Truck, Maintenant, Apparent Magnitude, The Gin Mill Cowboy and many others. Among the authors he has translated are Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, Jack Spicer, Mina Loy, James Joyce, Kurt Schwitters, Anne Waldman, Charles Reznikoff, Billy Childish, Leonard Cohen and others.
Poetry & Hand-prints
1.
flat of the hand
is tracing patterns
of the footprints
on the palm
it's hot
i've got to fan myself
with belt
curtain raised
in fire dancing
finger
palm
been tracing patterns of this words
on footprints
of cardiograph
2.
there was a palm
been tracing patterns
on the footprints
turtles mail
lobsters mail
all here
its hot
got to fan myself
with my belt
there was a palm
curtain raised
in fire dancing
there was a palms palm
tracing patterns
on the footprints
on the cardiograph...
flat of the hand
is tracing patterns
of the footprints
on the palm
it's hot
i've got to fan myself
with belt
curtain raised
in fire dancing
finger
palm
been tracing patterns of this words
on footprints
of cardiograph
2.
there was a palm
been tracing patterns
on the footprints
turtles mail
lobsters mail
all here
its hot
got to fan myself
with my belt
there was a palm
curtain raised
in fire dancing
there was a palms palm
tracing patterns
on the footprints
on the cardiograph...
photo by Daniel Ayiotis.
THREE POEMS - PATRICK JAMIESON
Patrick Jamieson is a poet and anarchist from Edinburgh, Scotland. Led by a faith in the united power of art and humanity, he will be travelling around ecovillages in 2014 to witness first hand the potential of society.
"I am passionate because yesterday I witnessed decay: a pigeon carcass kicked across the pavement by a group of young boys. I am passionate because just tonight I heard that 14% of children in Britain know another child who is the victim of neglect. I am passionate because the 21st century bible is God's snapchat. I am passionate because in spite of all this I read a poem by a kid halfway across the world that made sense, when nothing else does. I am passionate because of art, and art is life."
September Eleventh
These words escaped my mouth:
(a prison break in September,
I stopped the winter
with little but a bottle
and a bloodstream.)
I'm breathing, aren't I?
I see it leave me while
I'm down on my knees, thinking
of nobody, or Heaven or Hell,
to save(!) myself.
Freedom might cost a soul,
so we all better sell while we can.
That's the economy, darling,
and long may it remain,
for we all love a good crisis
to blame, crawling drunk
with our pride in our wallets,
calling everyone out
on their misguided politics.
Fuck.
Ain't it a shame?
(a prison break in September,
I stopped the winter
with little but a bottle
and a bloodstream.)
I'm breathing, aren't I?
I see it leave me while
I'm down on my knees, thinking
of nobody, or Heaven or Hell,
to save(!) myself.
Freedom might cost a soul,
so we all better sell while we can.
That's the economy, darling,
and long may it remain,
for we all love a good crisis
to blame, crawling drunk
with our pride in our wallets,
calling everyone out
on their misguided politics.
Fuck.
Ain't it a shame?
Grandfather
Nature's gaval pounds the earth
for dawn to remain naked, past July.
The fields are showering in seconds;
we both hear a plane depart.
(musn't you leave tomorrow?)
Trees show their peroxide roots,
they're shying away, ashamed.
Streetlamps stand a mile apart
in anguish, defined by sunfall.
(unread newspaper obituaries)
Has nativity played its part in helping
write the fairytale of summer,
will we recite it ‘round the campfire
when the old house is boarded up?
(sing me into a dream)
I've been releasing Chinese lanterns
in your eyes, where forest fires quell.
For how long have you stood behind me,
welcoming a new world with a shrug?
for dawn to remain naked, past July.
The fields are showering in seconds;
we both hear a plane depart.
(musn't you leave tomorrow?)
Trees show their peroxide roots,
they're shying away, ashamed.
Streetlamps stand a mile apart
in anguish, defined by sunfall.
(unread newspaper obituaries)
Has nativity played its part in helping
write the fairytale of summer,
will we recite it ‘round the campfire
when the old house is boarded up?
(sing me into a dream)
I've been releasing Chinese lanterns
in your eyes, where forest fires quell.
For how long have you stood behind me,
welcoming a new world with a shrug?
Good Morning, Lover
The morning blew
its tittered breath
through sleepless night
onto my neck,
a shiver.
Lover in my father’s bed.
I planted both our futures
in a terra-cotta pot,
east beneath a canopy of dew.
So when you set
across the west,
I’ll wait for you
with few regrets,
and wonder where you are.
And wander where you’re not.
its tittered breath
through sleepless night
onto my neck,
a shiver.
Lover in my father’s bed.
I planted both our futures
in a terra-cotta pot,
east beneath a canopy of dew.
So when you set
across the west,
I’ll wait for you
with few regrets,
and wonder where you are.
And wander where you’re not.
by Willie Askins
“White Snake” is a ballpoint pen drawing by the Late Willie Askins of Peach County, Georgia. He left it to me in hopes that someday I might find an audience for it. It raises a slightly diabolical look at sexuality. Willie died of complications with AIDS.
-submitted to Fuck Art, Let's Dance by Willie's friend, Louie Clay
TWO POEMS - JEFF WALT
Jeff Walt was born and raised in rural Pennsylvania among a community of railroad workers, brick layers, and stripminers. He's been employed as a cowboy at Walt Disney World; gallery attendant; customer service trainer; a cook; masseur; barista; and as an adjunct English composition instructor at Honolulu Community College. He graduated from Goddard College in Vermont with his MFA in Writing and Literature. Jeff is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has placed in various national poetry contests. A passionate Aquarian and cinephile, he pops for decoupage, collage, salvaging, macrobiotic food,mixology, home exchange, and Mid-Century modern architecture. Currently, he thrives in sunny San Diego.
On Listening to My Sister Making Love
in the room above
muted groans
brewing
then the storm of her
soft Os pouring
down from the cracked plaster
the odd, melodic pitch
her wild soprano whine swings
open my own
screen door to the power,
the heat
rushes
through the chambers
distant lightning closer and closer
I don’t blame them for not
holding back. I’d beg
for it, too: my hands
down the sweaty V
of her Leroy’s back, pulling him deeper
into the soil. Don’t
want them to stop
the music,
box springs' violent
squeak, headboard punching,
the wall lifts me, the rhythm of their fucking,
until I am certain they are soaked
and sore.
Don’t move or swallow:
imagine her striking a match,
cigarette after sex, deep
inhale, damp
hair gathered up into a quick
bun. She clips it tight, falls back,
stretches out, chains that break
into the rotting air.
muted groans
brewing
then the storm of her
soft Os pouring
down from the cracked plaster
the odd, melodic pitch
her wild soprano whine swings
open my own
screen door to the power,
the heat
rushes
through the chambers
distant lightning closer and closer
I don’t blame them for not
holding back. I’d beg
for it, too: my hands
down the sweaty V
of her Leroy’s back, pulling him deeper
into the soil. Don’t
want them to stop
the music,
box springs' violent
squeak, headboard punching,
the wall lifts me, the rhythm of their fucking,
until I am certain they are soaked
and sore.
Don’t move or swallow:
imagine her striking a match,
cigarette after sex, deep
inhale, damp
hair gathered up into a quick
bun. She clips it tight, falls back,
stretches out, chains that break
into the rotting air.
All Night She Cried,
shrill squalls under the porch.
Now she’s crouched in my driveway, matted, slick, shiny.
Won’t stop yowling.
Hungry and in heat.
Struts to the front door, paws at the screen.
I won’t give her a dish of milk or a scrap of chicken.
I pace the small, humid rooms
wearing only my briefs. I want to touch myself--
envy those who can give in, do it alone,
feel satisfied. I scrub the sink, smoke, scream at the cat.
But she won’t go away—not today. She leaps
to the windowsill, stares in, wailing--
won’t give up on me, won’t hush, no mercy.
Now she’s crouched in my driveway, matted, slick, shiny.
Won’t stop yowling.
Hungry and in heat.
Struts to the front door, paws at the screen.
I won’t give her a dish of milk or a scrap of chicken.
I pace the small, humid rooms
wearing only my briefs. I want to touch myself--
envy those who can give in, do it alone,
feel satisfied. I scrub the sink, smoke, scream at the cat.
But she won’t go away—not today. She leaps
to the windowsill, stares in, wailing--
won’t give up on me, won’t hush, no mercy.
Another Scream by Bob McNeil
ONE POEM - KARINA BUSH
Karina Bush is an Irish poet and artist.
"Why am I passionate? Because passion is real."
"Why am I passionate? Because passion is real."
Sin
Look in the mirror
See what a cunt you are?
Isn’t it beautiful?
I know what it is
It’s sin
It’s yours
And it’s mine and yours
And it’s disgusting
And I see them
The trails of how we move
And the trails of shame
And sin
For what we have done
We are disgusting
See what a cunt you are?
Isn’t it beautiful?
I know what it is
It’s sin
It’s yours
And it’s mine and yours
And it’s disgusting
And I see them
The trails of how we move
And the trails of shame
And sin
For what we have done
We are disgusting
ONE POEM - BRADFORD MIDDLETON
Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on England’s south coast after being born and coming of age in south-east London from 1971. He gigs regularly and is always looking to take his show to anywhere that poetry doesn’t regularly happen. His poetry is about drinking, football, love, work and madness and can be read in many places online and from late 2015 in his debut chapbook "DRINK DRANK DRUNK" from Crisis Chronicles Press. He is a contributing poet at the magnificent Mad Swirl where he one day dreams of being able to perform at their legendary mad session at the Absinthe Lounge. He is willing to talk to you for punk rock shows, spoken word shows of any description, chapbook or full collections of either poetry or short stories, also have a novella unpublished. Make contact @beatnikbraduk on Twitter.
This Has Got To End
The job I do has got to end
Now I walk in everyday and
Nothing ever changes but
Who I’m working with
The work bores me as
There’s nothing for me to
Do but sit at the till and
Count the minutes
Until I can return to my
Hopeless situation that makes others
Laugh when all I want to do is
Cry when I get home
When that Rhapsody in Blue
Begins and within minutes I’m a
Wreak of tears but
The smoke works its magic
Calming my nerves and
Distracting my mind and soul
From all that hurts of
This there is plenty
The time has come the
Time to get that new job
That escape from this futile
Existence of misery
Now I walk in everyday and
Nothing ever changes but
Who I’m working with
The work bores me as
There’s nothing for me to
Do but sit at the till and
Count the minutes
Until I can return to my
Hopeless situation that makes others
Laugh when all I want to do is
Cry when I get home
When that Rhapsody in Blue
Begins and within minutes I’m a
Wreak of tears but
The smoke works its magic
Calming my nerves and
Distracting my mind and soul
From all that hurts of
This there is plenty
The time has come the
Time to get that new job
That escape from this futile
Existence of misery
FIVE PAINTINGS - IRA JOEL HABER
ONE POEM - KEN ALEXOPOULOS
"My name is Ken Alexopoulos. I am a writer."
Be Happy
I had a fever
dream the other day. Satan
promised elation.
“The world I give you
Will bring nothing but complete
everlasting joy.”
He said, teeth aflame.
“Just smiles, good vibes and babes.”
There’s always a catch.
“What would I need, then?”
I asked of him, unimpressed.
“Sell body and soul?”
He then laughed, roaring.
“No,” he replied, “Not really.”
With a sigh, I smoked.
“The first thing you need,”
He explained with a wry grin,
“Is to put that out.”
“Nobody likes to
Be reminded of their deaths,
Symbolic or not.”
“A positive view
Of the world and ignorance
Of suffering works.”
“Imagine, empty
Fields of smiling faces with
happy immigrants!”
“Crime, murder, and rape
All swept away from prying
Eyes!” he said, gleaming.
I took a step back,
More to contemplate the words
Rather than retreat.
“Wait,” I stammered out,
“It won’t be erased that way.”
His reply was sharp.
“You won’t know that, right?”
He fumed, “Will it still matter?”
Proud, vain, and aloof.
“It sounds more like Hell.”
Which it did, suffering with
No knowing of it.
“Look,” he relented,
“There’s no difference between
Earth and Hell these days.”
“I do not need to
Ask for your soul any more.
That shit’s done and gone.”
“I mean, at least in
Hell you know that you’re in Hell.
Take a look around.”
“Famine, disease, war.”
Satan went, despite himself,
“Late night news reports.”
I shrugged, it didn’t
Mean I had disagreed with
The Devil. Of course…
“So,” I breathed in smoke,
“To attain your Nirvana,
I just stop caring.”
He nodded, maybe
Too enthusiastically
For my rotten tastes.
“All of the pain and
Strife; the struggle to cheat death,
Real love and real hate…”
“Just throw it out like
It doesn’t exist. Pretend
To be happy, right?”
Again, he nodded.
Perhaps it was my fault for
Leading him onward.
“Sorry,” I stated,
“I can’t do that. It sounds like
Total bullshit, man.”
Lucifer didn’t
Care and vanished into thin
Wisps of burned sulphur.
Already in Hell,
What’s another soul in a
Pit ready to burst?
dream the other day. Satan
promised elation.
“The world I give you
Will bring nothing but complete
everlasting joy.”
He said, teeth aflame.
“Just smiles, good vibes and babes.”
There’s always a catch.
“What would I need, then?”
I asked of him, unimpressed.
“Sell body and soul?”
He then laughed, roaring.
“No,” he replied, “Not really.”
With a sigh, I smoked.
“The first thing you need,”
He explained with a wry grin,
“Is to put that out.”
“Nobody likes to
Be reminded of their deaths,
Symbolic or not.”
“A positive view
Of the world and ignorance
Of suffering works.”
“Imagine, empty
Fields of smiling faces with
happy immigrants!”
“Crime, murder, and rape
All swept away from prying
Eyes!” he said, gleaming.
I took a step back,
More to contemplate the words
Rather than retreat.
“Wait,” I stammered out,
“It won’t be erased that way.”
His reply was sharp.
“You won’t know that, right?”
He fumed, “Will it still matter?”
Proud, vain, and aloof.
“It sounds more like Hell.”
Which it did, suffering with
No knowing of it.
“Look,” he relented,
“There’s no difference between
Earth and Hell these days.”
“I do not need to
Ask for your soul any more.
That shit’s done and gone.”
“I mean, at least in
Hell you know that you’re in Hell.
Take a look around.”
“Famine, disease, war.”
Satan went, despite himself,
“Late night news reports.”
I shrugged, it didn’t
Mean I had disagreed with
The Devil. Of course…
“So,” I breathed in smoke,
“To attain your Nirvana,
I just stop caring.”
He nodded, maybe
Too enthusiastically
For my rotten tastes.
“All of the pain and
Strife; the struggle to cheat death,
Real love and real hate…”
“Just throw it out like
It doesn’t exist. Pretend
To be happy, right?”
Again, he nodded.
Perhaps it was my fault for
Leading him onward.
“Sorry,” I stated,
“I can’t do that. It sounds like
Total bullshit, man.”
Lucifer didn’t
Care and vanished into thin
Wisps of burned sulphur.
Already in Hell,
What’s another soul in a
Pit ready to burst?
Grim Reaper Myth by Bob McNeil
ONE POEM - RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario Canada under three feet of snow, writing all sorts of things all over all sorts of things because he has a compulsion.
"I think the reason I am passionate about most things is that I don't understand them but want to know such things truly. I'm like an ever-curious child lifting rocks in a summer garden to see what I can find."
In These Many Rooms of Living
I do not need to climb Mt. Everest,
I have stairs;
many creaky wooden slats of things
that reach up deep into the sunken eyeball desires
of the universe.
The stars are my hair.
In these many rooms of living.
My laboured breaths
the croupy blood soaked winds of taxidermy.
The embalming fluid of the ancients
like Gatorade for the afterlife.
I have a favourite stair, I must admit it,
the same way others have a favourite child
but such things are not so nice to talk about
so I lay here in the dark
imagining all sorts of things:
half inflated tires at an abandoned boat launch
the storming of stainless steel lofts with pretentious penthouse names
thumbtacks into the wall like outsourcing acupuncture
this heart that will explode as roadside bombs explode
skinned knees, a woman for these arms to hold,
my closet full of many indifferent
web-spun arachnids…
My breathing slows to a pulse.
The eyeballs of the universe
plucked and bloodshot
and watching.
The moon outside is half a face tonight.
What remains after the latest shotgun suicide.
There is no note,
only darkness.
The blanket pulled up tight
over my shoulder
like a slumbering winter
bear.
I have stairs;
many creaky wooden slats of things
that reach up deep into the sunken eyeball desires
of the universe.
The stars are my hair.
In these many rooms of living.
My laboured breaths
the croupy blood soaked winds of taxidermy.
The embalming fluid of the ancients
like Gatorade for the afterlife.
I have a favourite stair, I must admit it,
the same way others have a favourite child
but such things are not so nice to talk about
so I lay here in the dark
imagining all sorts of things:
half inflated tires at an abandoned boat launch
the storming of stainless steel lofts with pretentious penthouse names
thumbtacks into the wall like outsourcing acupuncture
this heart that will explode as roadside bombs explode
skinned knees, a woman for these arms to hold,
my closet full of many indifferent
web-spun arachnids…
My breathing slows to a pulse.
The eyeballs of the universe
plucked and bloodshot
and watching.
The moon outside is half a face tonight.
What remains after the latest shotgun suicide.
There is no note,
only darkness.
The blanket pulled up tight
over my shoulder
like a slumbering winter
bear.
a [poem] written by someone hiding under metaphor laughing his ass off at those digging for something profund
Finger by Bob McNeil
ONE POEM - CHRISTOPHER WHITE
"Poetry isn't about structure, form or some rhyming pattern. It is about capturing a moment that was born out of raw emotions and feelings; love, hate, sorrow, lust, misery, wonder, jealousy. I am passionate because I don't want to let those moments fizzle out and become a lost memory. I want to remember what those moments feel like. I want to relive them over and over again so I never forget what it feels like to be alive--to experience the things I may never experience again through the lines of a poem."
A Desperado in Suburbia
I am surrounded by drawn curtains,
Roaches in an ashtray,
Bottles of high-percentage spirits, boxes of uneaten chocolate
And nobody else in site.
The roaming conundrum of a single life
Is answered with a simple scout
Around this magical room
And all this pleasure paraphernalia--
Enough weed, whisky and women on film
To cure the most damaged man.
The life of a desperado in suburbia;
Eat alone.
Sleep alone.
There must me more buzzards
And romance-barren barflies
Living in a broken fantasia Graceland--
Enduring company in the day and begging to break away
From reality,
Scuttling towards the shadows
And imagining what the blissful loneliness
Of solitude holds in its grasp,
In preparation for a night of low-budget porn
And marijuana daydreams.
No more pleasantries needed;
Primitive responses to all of these vices
And orgasms of inconceivable elation
Are heading to the early hours
With me in first class--
Genitals and joints and gin in hand.
We don't need a reason.
We don't want an excuse.
We are firecrackers on a mundane November 5th;
Watch all the lovers fizzle out
As we crackle and return to the astronomy
Blueprint that makes up our skies.
The life of a desperado in suburbia
Wasn't a prison sentence.
It was more of a collection of lines
In a story that never should have ended.
Roaches in an ashtray,
Bottles of high-percentage spirits, boxes of uneaten chocolate
And nobody else in site.
The roaming conundrum of a single life
Is answered with a simple scout
Around this magical room
And all this pleasure paraphernalia--
Enough weed, whisky and women on film
To cure the most damaged man.
The life of a desperado in suburbia;
Eat alone.
Sleep alone.
There must me more buzzards
And romance-barren barflies
Living in a broken fantasia Graceland--
Enduring company in the day and begging to break away
From reality,
Scuttling towards the shadows
And imagining what the blissful loneliness
Of solitude holds in its grasp,
In preparation for a night of low-budget porn
And marijuana daydreams.
No more pleasantries needed;
Primitive responses to all of these vices
And orgasms of inconceivable elation
Are heading to the early hours
With me in first class--
Genitals and joints and gin in hand.
We don't need a reason.
We don't want an excuse.
We are firecrackers on a mundane November 5th;
Watch all the lovers fizzle out
As we crackle and return to the astronomy
Blueprint that makes up our skies.
The life of a desperado in suburbia
Wasn't a prison sentence.
It was more of a collection of lines
In a story that never should have ended.
Hope you enjoyed
taking a toke
of Fuck Art,
Let's Dance
w/ love
Nostrovia!Poetry
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