Fuck Art, Let's Dance
issue #008 / NOVEMBER 2015
IN THIS MISHAP:
POETRY
- Joseph James Cawein
- Gaya Khmoyan
- Lucille Gelsomina Falco
- Andrew Nance
- Ally Malinenko
- Gwil James Thomas
- Jeremiah Walton
PHOTOGRAPHY
FEATURES
- 4Chan Tales of Potential Compassion
- "Ravachol in Valhalla" by Blackbird Raum
- "Old Number Sevven" by The Devil Makes Three
- "Ivan the Terrible Killing His Son" by Ilya Repin
- "Train That Can Fly" by Rail Yard Ghosts
- Photography by Vasily Fedosenko
N! NEWS
- On the road South
Fuck Art, Let's Dance
On The Road SOUTH
Around a roaring campfire, I heard the story of a train that could fly. Sam Lennon and I are hitting the road again, chasing warmth South, out of New Hampshire to Florida. Following the South Coast, we will hitchhike, seeking nonprofit organizations and literary communities in need of publications, and independent bookshops. Without a vehicle, we cannot carry very many books from the traveling bookstore we were managing, but we are still, through the intricate concept of snail mail (strange to use in this age, yes, I know, how weird weird weird), we will distribute all donated materials.
From Free Libraries to Homeless Shelters, bookstores and busking, open mics and shows, we are still traveling to promote passionate living and the rejection of monetary value as a measurement for success. We are heading down a dreary road, the economy is a monster we murder for, we are mechanizing the body of man. This is not humanity! It is in our blood to be compassionate and cooperate, we have evolved sympathy! How do you think us flesh-bags, without great fangs or claws, has survived this long?
We are not machines, we cannot be dissected and rearranged. This is an age where the police are militarizing, greed is considered good, money bows to none, and empathy is considered a poor man's cocaine. The smallest acts of kindness can be revolutionary.
Lovely, tangents and foaming.
From Free Libraries to Homeless Shelters, bookstores and busking, open mics and shows, we are still traveling to promote passionate living and the rejection of monetary value as a measurement for success. We are heading down a dreary road, the economy is a monster we murder for, we are mechanizing the body of man. This is not humanity! It is in our blood to be compassionate and cooperate, we have evolved sympathy! How do you think us flesh-bags, without great fangs or claws, has survived this long?
We are not machines, we cannot be dissected and rearranged. This is an age where the police are militarizing, greed is considered good, money bows to none, and empathy is considered a poor man's cocaine. The smallest acts of kindness can be revolutionary.
Lovely, tangents and foaming.
ONE POEM - GWIL JAMES THOMAS
Gwil James Thomas is the author of two published but fairly hard to find books and a variety of other work that can be found online, in magazines and zines. He lives in London and is currently working on a publishing himself in a print only poetry collection titled "Gwil VS. Machine".
Reflecting on Everything That I Loved About Your Art Exhibition
Free booze.
ONE POEM - JOSEPH JAMES CAWEIN
im passionate cuz ive much whiskey
and ma cheeks are rosey
no bio, kindly.
bit strange.
hope yr well
- jjc
and ma cheeks are rosey
no bio, kindly.
bit strange.
hope yr well
- jjc
under the influence, an image or two
They took er power
and we wan' it back
and we wan' it now
and we wan' it in more than
just symbols
& prevailing winds
we wan' it in hunger
and we wan' it in torment
and we wan' it bleeding
the bowels of fat cats
and skinny mice
and screamin' to the sky
'no truth
no truth
no truth'
are you squeezing a fly
in the space between
your knuckles?
Stars
stripes and
most of the
inbetweens.
Blood red embers
on december afternoons.
Maybe dictionaries,
maybe not.
did you swallow a spider
in your sleep?
Inchworms
inching along.
Inch by inch
by inch.
Yr ass
was a cinch.
The legalized
culling of children
in pennsylvania.
Back to earth.
are they there,
in the ravine?
Out the door and
there are birds.
Are chrysanthemums?
Atrocity.
Mums the word.
They took my power
and I wan' it back.
Smells like sewage.
Tastes like sewage.
Fucks like sewage.
Quacks like sewage.
Like crazies with
their caffeine
coffee.
Like doctors playing golf.
Like what the fuck is right?
Are chrysanthemums?
Magazine articles.
Celeb baby bumps.
Cleavage of
samantha.
Snatch of samanthamums.
My nipples will never
feed a fly.
Too much
to drink
on oregon nights.
Pertinent matters of fact.
Flower pot
full of seedlings
in the rain.
and we wan' it back
and we wan' it now
and we wan' it in more than
just symbols
& prevailing winds
we wan' it in hunger
and we wan' it in torment
and we wan' it bleeding
the bowels of fat cats
and skinny mice
and screamin' to the sky
'no truth
no truth
no truth'
are you squeezing a fly
in the space between
your knuckles?
Stars
stripes and
most of the
inbetweens.
Blood red embers
on december afternoons.
Maybe dictionaries,
maybe not.
did you swallow a spider
in your sleep?
Inchworms
inching along.
Inch by inch
by inch.
Yr ass
was a cinch.
The legalized
culling of children
in pennsylvania.
Back to earth.
are they there,
in the ravine?
Out the door and
there are birds.
Are chrysanthemums?
Atrocity.
Mums the word.
They took my power
and I wan' it back.
Smells like sewage.
Tastes like sewage.
Fucks like sewage.
Quacks like sewage.
Like crazies with
their caffeine
coffee.
Like doctors playing golf.
Like what the fuck is right?
Are chrysanthemums?
Magazine articles.
Celeb baby bumps.
Cleavage of
samantha.
Snatch of samanthamums.
My nipples will never
feed a fly.
Too much
to drink
on oregon nights.
Pertinent matters of fact.
Flower pot
full of seedlings
in the rain.
THREE POEMS - LUCILLE GELSOMINA FALCO
Lucille lives in the woods of Oregon. She writes poetry, fiction, and paints her nightmares. Her blog is lucille-berkowitz.tumblr.com
Pixie
her name is censored
she runs with the lame deer
rusted joints cause her to shriek
through the bark of her lean-to
her corneas diluted
yellowed with gasoline
with a crude oil vocabulary
and vaginal molars
her hair grows backwards
so she braided dead rats
tail to tail to tail to tail
she runs with the lame deer
rusted joints cause her to shriek
through the bark of her lean-to
her corneas diluted
yellowed with gasoline
with a crude oil vocabulary
and vaginal molars
her hair grows backwards
so she braided dead rats
tail to tail to tail to tail
Lazy Lips
they call me
lazy lips
cause my drawl
takes minutes to catch
the spirit finds me
when the kids in
the park break their
forties towards the black
and the dust halo
licks me tender
in the mornings
after the kill
lazy lips
cause my drawl
takes minutes to catch
the spirit finds me
when the kids in
the park break their
forties towards the black
and the dust halo
licks me tender
in the mornings
after the kill
Ways To Die
this is a common-wealth
of shared switch-blades
these common-good cuts
a common courtesy for all
of us dying off in lesser known
manners: chemicals, capitalism,
canker sores, cancers of various
bodily police-states, cordless phones,
christmas gifts, christ himself
do do do do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do do do do
of shared switch-blades
these common-good cuts
a common courtesy for all
of us dying off in lesser known
manners: chemicals, capitalism,
canker sores, cancers of various
bodily police-states, cordless phones,
christmas gifts, christ himself
do do do do do do do do do do
do do do do do do do do do do
ONE POEM - GAYA KHMOYAN
Gaya is a 29 year old Ukrainian emissary willfully engaging the West in hopes of balancing out heart and mind.
I am passionate because I breathe and taste the world.
I am passionate because I breathe and taste the world.
Home
First Bell will ring quieter this September,
As remnants of kids shuffle into the quad.
There still will be flowers, this time for remembrance,
The words will be spoken to withdrawn nods.
Wounding fractals of yellows and blues,
Favorite classrooms grinning with gashes.
They used to know war only from news,
Now children bear weight in their lashes.
Counting empty desks, crossing names off the list,
Swallowing lumps in their throats,
Teachers motion their hands, let them sit,
As screams still echo in anonymous quotes.
They’ll ask them to write of their summer.
They’ll ask them to write what they know.
Of tanks and blood puddles, constant bullets that hammered
Their fragmented souls, covered in snow.
They’ll write of dark basements, mama’s stifling sobs.
They’ll paint a convulsing sky.
They’ll paper mache exploding limbs,
They’ll write of watching friends die.
Pens will run red correcting the grammar,
As small tired hands trace the map of lost home.
They’ll write you of war, interrupted by summer,
Old graying children now destined to roam.
As remnants of kids shuffle into the quad.
There still will be flowers, this time for remembrance,
The words will be spoken to withdrawn nods.
Wounding fractals of yellows and blues,
Favorite classrooms grinning with gashes.
They used to know war only from news,
Now children bear weight in their lashes.
Counting empty desks, crossing names off the list,
Swallowing lumps in their throats,
Teachers motion their hands, let them sit,
As screams still echo in anonymous quotes.
They’ll ask them to write of their summer.
They’ll ask them to write what they know.
Of tanks and blood puddles, constant bullets that hammered
Their fragmented souls, covered in snow.
They’ll write of dark basements, mama’s stifling sobs.
They’ll paint a convulsing sky.
They’ll paper mache exploding limbs,
They’ll write of watching friends die.
Pens will run red correcting the grammar,
As small tired hands trace the map of lost home.
They’ll write you of war, interrupted by summer,
Old graying children now destined to roam.
***
|
|
Hands grip tighter and tighter, discharging the fear, chocking the brain.
Breathing becomes lighter and lighter, pain releasing under the strain.
Permanent grin plasters the face
Beckoning arms of tainted grace
And you fly.
Enveloping darkness caresses the limbs, fondling, groping, moaning names.
Wordless, long forgotten hymns open the door to all which remains.
Chaos, fire and void;
Devour and destroy
As you die.
Shards of heart, strips of some tendons gathered by willful wind;
Forming a pile, with each empty sentence the rising will rise from the sin.
As birch and lilac, as songs from the East
As fire and water, as strangers who meet.
As swing in the backyard, as forgotten reprieve,
As the flutter of eyelids, each day that you live.
Breathing becomes lighter and lighter, pain releasing under the strain.
Permanent grin plasters the face
Beckoning arms of tainted grace
And you fly.
Enveloping darkness caresses the limbs, fondling, groping, moaning names.
Wordless, long forgotten hymns open the door to all which remains.
Chaos, fire and void;
Devour and destroy
As you die.
Shards of heart, strips of some tendons gathered by willful wind;
Forming a pile, with each empty sentence the rising will rise from the sin.
As birch and lilac, as songs from the East
As fire and water, as strangers who meet.
As swing in the backyard, as forgotten reprieve,
As the flutter of eyelids, each day that you live.
ONE POEM - APRIL SALZANO
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania. She has published in over 100 journals, was recently nominated for two Pushcart prizes, and serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press.
On The Subject of Testicles
Hooters went belly-up. How
unfortunate. A thirty-something Lactation
Consultant developed a new concept
in dining for the feminist crowd: Scrotes.
She says women figure
they have been judged for cup size
long enough. The male equivalent
to tit is testicle: not part of the sex act,
size doesn’t matter (unless you are a fan
of tea-bagging where bigger would
certainly be more effective), and
both parts produce a milky white
substance under-appreciated
for nutritional value. Balls
are admittedly less important
than titties, but at Scrotes,
the orange lycra shorts will glorify the bulge.
Interviews will be exciting. Management
is scheduled to consult with lingerie
makers in hopes of developing package-
enhancing underwire undergarments to avoid
discrimination. Plastic surgeons have been
diligently refining testicular implants already
offered to neutered dogs
for use in human males. Of course
the surgery will be painless.
The new standard in eating out is long
overdue and will emphasize
the notion that protruding body parts
in male wait staff should be a common
source of table-time entertainment.
Premature applications are being accepted.
No serving experience necessary.
unfortunate. A thirty-something Lactation
Consultant developed a new concept
in dining for the feminist crowd: Scrotes.
She says women figure
they have been judged for cup size
long enough. The male equivalent
to tit is testicle: not part of the sex act,
size doesn’t matter (unless you are a fan
of tea-bagging where bigger would
certainly be more effective), and
both parts produce a milky white
substance under-appreciated
for nutritional value. Balls
are admittedly less important
than titties, but at Scrotes,
the orange lycra shorts will glorify the bulge.
Interviews will be exciting. Management
is scheduled to consult with lingerie
makers in hopes of developing package-
enhancing underwire undergarments to avoid
discrimination. Plastic surgeons have been
diligently refining testicular implants already
offered to neutered dogs
for use in human males. Of course
the surgery will be painless.
The new standard in eating out is long
overdue and will emphasize
the notion that protruding body parts
in male wait staff should be a common
source of table-time entertainment.
Premature applications are being accepted.
No serving experience necessary.
4Chan Tales of Potential Compassion
ONE POEM - ANDREW NANCE
Andrew Nance’s poems and reviews have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Better: Culture & Lit, Colorado Review, Guernica, Linebreak, Narrative, The Winter Anthology, Petri Press, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Company. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he will begin a PhD at the University of Georgia this fall.
Serotonin
Sometimes ill-lit
backlights behind
the eye, what we used
to think was primacy
not of feeling but
thinking is fodder.
We are dehydrated
again, the dog wants
in, and light on hand
equals lead in
its stream. We used
to be it, not in
terms of but
terms of breath.
backlights behind
the eye, what we used
to think was primacy
not of feeling but
thinking is fodder.
We are dehydrated
again, the dog wants
in, and light on hand
equals lead in
its stream. We used
to be it, not in
terms of but
terms of breath.
previously published in RealPoetik
THREE POEMS - ALLY MALINENKO
Ally Malinenko is the author of the poetry collection The Wanting Bone (Six Gallery Press), Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb (Antenna books). Her latest novel This Is Sarah is forthcoming from BookFish Books. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband.
Americans Believe That They Have the Final Say Over Their Lives and Will Not Tolerate the Government or Anyone Telling Them Otherwise
She’s been pitching a fit all the way down the street
but still in a very British way.
In fact while there are tears and frowns
she’s still trying to make the only case against bath time
that her four year old brain can fathom,
which is, that bath time is not what she wants.
She isn’t throwing herself on the ground.
No one is down on one knee trying to reason with her.
Her mother pulls her along
not mean
but determined that they are going to get down this narrow
English street as soon as possible.
The older man comes toward them,
he sees the young girl
the tired mother
her face wan
her shoulder’s slumped
He’s worked it all out
and wags a finger in the little girl’s face and says
“You’re being a very naughty girl. Behave!”
He is not quiet and the girl is shocked
stunned into silence,
her mother sighs and says to her, “See. You are naughty.”
and then looks up at the old man
who lifts his hat
and she says softly, “Thank you.”
He smiles at her, his face cheerful,
thankful that he could help out and
everyone moves on their way
except for me.
I’m too shocked that a stranger just
yelled at a child he wasn’t related to
and was thanked for it.
If that happened in New York,
the police would be involved.
There could be possible lawsuits.
I can already hear the
“What did you just say to my child”
and the “Who do you think you are?”
I think about how in less than a week
I’ll be back in America
where in Florida we shoot each for using our cell phones
in the theater.
I don’t know this yet but
shortly after I get home,
I’ll watch the news report
about the boy
who killed the girl
on the night of her prom
for saying no
For daring to say no to his invite.
For choosing someone else.
and I’ll remember that little British girl
and that old man
and suddenly
for a brief moment
I’ll understand
how our need for ownership
and control
and personal freedom
to be
and act
however we want
all of the time
and to enforce that belief
with the weapons we hold so dear
is what makes us
as barbaric
as they say we are.
but still in a very British way.
In fact while there are tears and frowns
she’s still trying to make the only case against bath time
that her four year old brain can fathom,
which is, that bath time is not what she wants.
She isn’t throwing herself on the ground.
No one is down on one knee trying to reason with her.
Her mother pulls her along
not mean
but determined that they are going to get down this narrow
English street as soon as possible.
The older man comes toward them,
he sees the young girl
the tired mother
her face wan
her shoulder’s slumped
He’s worked it all out
and wags a finger in the little girl’s face and says
“You’re being a very naughty girl. Behave!”
He is not quiet and the girl is shocked
stunned into silence,
her mother sighs and says to her, “See. You are naughty.”
and then looks up at the old man
who lifts his hat
and she says softly, “Thank you.”
He smiles at her, his face cheerful,
thankful that he could help out and
everyone moves on their way
except for me.
I’m too shocked that a stranger just
yelled at a child he wasn’t related to
and was thanked for it.
If that happened in New York,
the police would be involved.
There could be possible lawsuits.
I can already hear the
“What did you just say to my child”
and the “Who do you think you are?”
I think about how in less than a week
I’ll be back in America
where in Florida we shoot each for using our cell phones
in the theater.
I don’t know this yet but
shortly after I get home,
I’ll watch the news report
about the boy
who killed the girl
on the night of her prom
for saying no
For daring to say no to his invite.
For choosing someone else.
and I’ll remember that little British girl
and that old man
and suddenly
for a brief moment
I’ll understand
how our need for ownership
and control
and personal freedom
to be
and act
however we want
all of the time
and to enforce that belief
with the weapons we hold so dear
is what makes us
as barbaric
as they say we are.
Psychologists Say We Must Love Ourselves Before We Can Love Each Other
How does this happen,
he asks me dropping more wine
into my glass.
The newscaster is shaking her head too
as if she’s asking the same question
my husband is asking.
What is wrong with this country?
He says it again, as if I
or the cat
have an answer.
I watch the pictures flash before the screen
the young girl in Connecticut
playing her guitar
trying on her prom dress.
The camera cuts to the
boys
their arms drapped over each other
their faces wet with tears
the rock
they spraypainted purple
for the girl
who was stabbed in the hall
on the morning of her junior prom
for turning down
an invitation
from another boy.
How does this happen?
he says again,
getting up and walking down the hall
to the bathroom.
It’s like they don’t give a shit.
Like they’re so entitled,
these boys,
he says.
What the fuck is wrong with these boys?
he asks me dropping more wine
into my glass.
The newscaster is shaking her head too
as if she’s asking the same question
my husband is asking.
What is wrong with this country?
He says it again, as if I
or the cat
have an answer.
I watch the pictures flash before the screen
the young girl in Connecticut
playing her guitar
trying on her prom dress.
The camera cuts to the
boys
their arms drapped over each other
their faces wet with tears
the rock
they spraypainted purple
for the girl
who was stabbed in the hall
on the morning of her junior prom
for turning down
an invitation
from another boy.
How does this happen?
he says again,
getting up and walking down the hall
to the bathroom.
It’s like they don’t give a shit.
Like they’re so entitled,
these boys,
he says.
What the fuck is wrong with these boys?
Americans Have Become Outer-Directed People. To Be Liked, Or At Least Envied Is Crucial
He posts pictures of himself online
with this family,
his beige shorts
matching shirts on all the kids.
He is a father and a believer.
And when he travels it is to Rome,
to pray.
He told me once that even little babies
know that abortion is wrong
and that he doesn’t always agree with
Republicans but he votes for them
because of Jesus.
His photos show a modicum of wealth,
but more so, it shows family,
the way American families should look.
You know,
white,
three kids,
a wife with stiff hair,
bragging rights at the golf course,
A house in the suburbs,
non-alcoholic beverages,
a clapboard church around the corner
where he sits in the pews
hands-clasped
thanking god
for making him
an American.
with this family,
his beige shorts
matching shirts on all the kids.
He is a father and a believer.
And when he travels it is to Rome,
to pray.
He told me once that even little babies
know that abortion is wrong
and that he doesn’t always agree with
Republicans but he votes for them
because of Jesus.
His photos show a modicum of wealth,
but more so, it shows family,
the way American families should look.
You know,
white,
three kids,
a wife with stiff hair,
bragging rights at the golf course,
A house in the suburbs,
non-alcoholic beverages,
a clapboard church around the corner
where he sits in the pews
hands-clasped
thanking god
for making him
an American.
|
"A toast to your coffin:
May it be made of 100 year old oak. & may we plant the tree together, tomorrow." |
|
-an Irish toast
|
w/ love