DEEP TISSUE

MAGAZINE
ISSUE #2 July 2009
 Message
from the Editors
Contributing Poets Welcome reader to issue #2 of Deep Tissue Magazine. Although the first
issue received high praise from its readers, we feel that this is the cream
Jack Henry Interview of the crop. This issue has more hardcore, real life poetry that you can
by Glen Lantz 2
really sink your teeth into. We want to warn you that DTM #2 is not for the
Jack Henry 7 - 11 squeamish of the faint of heart. Read on at your own risk. Issue #2 has an
interview with Jack Henry of “Dead Beat Press.” Jack talks with Deep
Pantifesto’s
Tissue about his “… honest fuck you if you can’t take it [style of] poetry.”
Porntastic 12
This attitude can be found in the poetry he publishes both as books and
Frank Reardon 13 in his Journal “Heroin Love Songs.” We have five choice poems from Jack
that you can read and discover Jack Henry’s vibe for yourself.
Rachael Delamar 14

Wayne Russell 15 Editors

Glen Lantz – Managing Editor
Gail Gray 16
Glen Still – Contributing Editor
WordMachinist Glo – Design Editor
Jimmy Ray Davis 17

Nic St. James 18

Glorianne Kada 19

Yossarian Hunter 20

J~Rod 21

Sate 22

Eric Hamilton 23

April Michelle Bratten24

TomakaLondon Poet 25

Amy Wood 26
Clipart courtesy FCIT
http://etc.usf.edu/clipart/index.htm

Cover Art - “Coral Reef” by Sarah Free is a picture of a three dimensional collage of dried pods and flowers
from her garden that is about 30” deep in honor of the coral reef/unity/synchronicity that we destroy before we
1 truly understand it.
Jack Henry
Interview by Glen Lantz
JACK HENRY is a writer based near Los Angeles.  He is
publisher/editor of D/E/A/D/B/E/A/T PRESS and HEROIN
LOVE SONGS.  Over the past few years he has had a
number of things published and even more rejected. 
During the WINTER 2009 he will have two chapbooks
released: "Empty Houses," from KSE and "A Garden of Flies"
from Scintillating Press.  In June NeoPoiesis Press will
release, "DEATH BEFORE DYING," Jack's first major book
release.  He can be reached at JACKHENRY951@hotmail.com

When did you begin writing poetry?
First, thanks for letting me do an interview. I could talk about
myself all day. LOL. There’s a whole lot of narcissist in this
poet. And I think that is true of a lot of writers but I won’t name
names.
I began writing poetry in high school. It was my method of
averting complete and total boredom in a number of classes.
Typical high school boo-hoo I’m not getting laid why won’t she
fuck me I’m a loser bullshit, but I wrote. And the only A I ever
got in a high school English class was for a poem I wrote, but
the dumb bitch teacher red x’d the back page of the poem, so
I tore the whole poem down, waded it up and threw it at her.
I received detention for a week, but still got the A.
For a number of years I stopped writing altogether, especially
poetry, but at some point I got an old typewriter, stole a bunch
of paper for a company I did janitorial work for and wrote. My
first novel is still in a box I wrote during those years.
Poetry grabbed my balls this last time about three years ago
2
and I took the hint. It’s made me broke, it’s made me an addict
to a number of things I cannot legally mention, it’s made me
crazy, but it also saved me spiritually. My life is much better
on a number of levels because I am doing what I want.
How would you
describe your poetic style?
Hmmm…I am sure one friend’s response would be different
from another’s. One of my friends proclaimed me a neo-Los
Angeles style writer. Not that I know what that means but I’ll
take it.
When I was starting my poetry was very narrative in form and
content. That comes from writing mostly long form fiction for
twenty years, but it’s evolved. I’m not a brutalist or beat or
avant garde, it’s just honest fuck you if you can’t take it poetry.
Is that a style?
How has your
writing changed over time?
Oh sure. It had to. When I started it was crap. Now it’s less
crap.
What has changed that I have enjoyed the most is the ability
to bounce around with different structures, different forms and
voices. I would say it has improved because I have learned to
control language while letting it still be free when I spit it out.
A number of poets I have spent time with really fight with po-
etry. It has to be a certain way, it takes all this time, there’s
planning…whatever. If I am in the zone I can write thirty
poems in a day. Of those maybe ten are good. Of the ten
maybe five can be published. They are all successful but at
different levels. That’s what I have learned. Just throw it out.
And never go back and whittle at something. Once the poem
is out, it is no longer yours. It’s a thing, alive and terrifying.
Sometimes good, most times not. Rewriting a poem is like try-
ing to live parts of your life over. Don’t do it. Just start over.
Build on it. Move on.
How would you
describe your writing process?
This is an ugly question. Here’s why: I don’t like think of po-
etry as a process. It just is, but I understand what you are ask-
ing. The nuts and bolts of actually writing.
It comes and goes. Used to be I wrote in the morning, but that
died. Lately it’s midday or at night. But overall I write when it
hits and it hits in weird places. I have an electronic recording
I will freestyle poems into while driving and wandering around
LA. I always have a pad or a notebook nearby. And I spend
more goddamned time on the computer than a normal person
should so I can always pop into Word or something.
Okay…I’ll mention process. For me, poetry is organic. Any-
one can write poetry, not everyone is a poet. Poems come to
me, fill my head and fester. At some put they demand a pres-
ence on the page. Now this may sound a little nutty, but it’s
true. The poem writes itself. A first line, a thought, a word, or
phrase will come out, then you build on that. Another poet
told me that writing a poem is like sitting in a room. You get
that inspiration and write about everything in the room. The
poem will guide. I find that when you enter with a precon-
ceived notion the poem isn’t as honest, therefore not as suc-
cessful.
3
Are there any topics that you
specifically enjoy writing about?
haha - - my friend Wolfgang Carstons will laugh at this ques-
tion.
I write about everything, topic wise. As the old adage goes,
write what you know, so goes the writer, but more than that it’s
interesting to write about what you don’t know. Often times
you can get a great emotional feel in a piece by writing about
Barcelona or drug addiction when it is only something you pe-
ripherally know about.
The great topics I return to are street based. Homelessness,
prostitution, drug addiction, hustling, bars, pawn shops,
pornographer - - some of these I know, some I don’t but the-
matically they exist on a similar plane. These topics allow me
to explore my own inner demons and saints while using
themes that are familiar to an audience. Of course, some peo-
ple call that derivative of Bukowski and that may be, but it’s
not my starting point. I am a LA writer, but that’s because I
grew up in LA. I know the streets well. I know life on the
streets.
Lately I have been fascinated with drug addiction and, specif-
ically, methamphetamine. A friend I grew up with destroyed
his whole life due to a severe addiction to smoking meth. I am
amazed that people can get drawn into that, but I do have an
addictive personality and I have to be conscious of it every day.
I know addiction but not that one, so writing about something
I only know peripherally is very interesting.
Are there any topics that you would
consider too taboo to write about?
This relates a little to the topic question.
For a few months I had an attraction with tabloid pop tarts, you
know? Britney, Paris, Lindsey. Why do people care so much?
I didn’t get it. So I wrote a poem about Lindsey and Britney
exposing themselves “inadvertently” for the camera. That
turned into a love poem about my girlfriend’s vagina. “An Ode
to the Velvet Cleft.” When I read it I thought, fuck, this isn’t
bad, so I sent it out for publication. It didn’t get accepted but
it broke that taboo area.
Only a writer brings taboo to their work. If you are honest you
can write about anything, but you do have to be fearless. A
teacher once told me: if you blush when your grandmother
reads a poem you wrote, you need to rethink what you are
doing. Fortunately my grandmother is dead.
Ultimately any well-written poem has merit, regardless subject
matter. Recently I wrote several poems from a homosexual
For me a poem is good if:
1. Is well written.
2. Is honest.
3. Explores language, challenges language, pushes language.
4. And has meaning, for me at least. Have something to say.

point of view. Does that make me gay? It doesn’t matter. A have five to ten bucks for a chapbook. Marketing is tough, dis-
reader will perceive what the poet is, but if I write it well tribution impossible – there are more challenges than I could
enough the reader forgets about the poet and the poem be- have imaginded.
comes the focus. And they are good poems. Get over it. But…
What makes a good poem? 1. We are going to put out 2-3 anthologies
Ah, a highly subjective question.
Like beauty, a poem is in the eye of the beholder. I know, a per year. First up is Doug Draime.
fucked up response, but it is true.
For me a poem is good if:
2. We are changing BLACK/book MAD/ness
1. Is well written.
2. Is honest. to TRIPLE SHOT. That would include three
3. Explores language, challenges language, pushes language writers in a single volume at about 100
4. And has meaning, for me at least. Have something to say.
pages. Cost is lower than doing a chapbook.
Tell us about I hope to do four of these a year. I have
d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press. enough writers interested. Again just a lot of
How did you get started work.
being a publisher?

I actually get asked this question all the time. And it’s pretty 3. By June I am hopeful to have not-for-profit
simple. It’s one of those deals where I got tired of rejection
status. I would like to set up an umbrella or-
from other presses and decided to do it myself. I grew up in
the first wave of punk rock. Those are my idols, my heroes… ganization that would allow other presses to
The kids that started a band, and a record company, put the benefit from my NFP status. A guild of sorts.
shit out themselves. Done and done. Why fuck with the whole
business of the thing? Poetry has a great tradition of doing it
We could work together for grant money,
yourself. distribution and marketing. Presses would
So I put out my book and then thought it might be cool to do
pay a certain percentage into it based on
others. I mean, why not? I had a little experience, I use POD
so there’s minimal cost…what the fuck. sales volume. It’s formative.
But it’s more work than I imagined. Way more. And the poli-
tics of being a tiny press are many. It’s been covered before Eventually I will give d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t up to someone else, if
and my POV well known. It’s just as fucking hard as it gets. there’s interest. Probably once I get a full time teaching job,
What are your goals for d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press? although I might be able to get interns, preferably brunette, to
Well I am regrouping right now. I have had a lot of issues with assist.
the website and with the economy in the shitter fewer people
4
Tell us about Heroin Love Songs.
How did you get started publishing
a poetry e-zine?
I love HLS. It’s a great name and it’s a blast to do. This started
for the same reason d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t did. I wanted a place for
my friends to get published, but with scrupulous standards.
And it’s worked out pretty well. In 09 we are moving to a quar-
terly format and by June I want to be print only. In a year I am
hoping to break even on it through advertising or grants. If any
rich reader of this interview wants to sponsor HLS I can be
reached at jackhenry951@hotmail.com. But I will not give up
editorial oversite…LOL.
You also are involved in a web radio
show, tell us more about Rob and
Jack America blog talk radio.
This started on a whim. Rob Plath and I were planning on
doing a poetry documentary last summer. It would have cov-
ered Rob and I traveling around the East Coast, doing readings,
interviewing other poets and getting drunk. All on film. I ap-
proached a couple of cable networks and got scant interest.
But the idea came back when Rob asked me about Blogtalk
Radio. It took about two minutes to set up and here we are.
At first it was about Rob and I having an outlet to read our po-
etry. We invited friends on as guests and turned it into a round-
table reading. Eventually we had people on we didn’t know
so the show became more of interview show. Rob and I still
read but I imagine that will end at some point.
And we have/had some big names from the underground. Dan
Fante, Karl Koweski, William Taylor, Misti Rainwater Lites and
upcoming Scott Wannaberg, Tony O’Neill and many others.
It’s all happened by word of mouth. I can’t wait to see who’s
next because right now I don’t know. Rob will get an email
from someone interesting and they are on. Doesn’t take much.
One of the things I like about the show is that is so free form.
Every show is different, Rob and I just flow with it. Some are
good, some not so much, but they are fun. And it seems to fill
a niche. There are other shows on Blogtalk that concern poetry
and I think we compliment those.
Personally I have a few things brewing. KSE will have a chap-
book in January called “Empty Houses,” and Scintillating Press
has “A Garden of Flies” in Mid to Late Spring. Oh and a new
press called Neo Poiesis Press out of Atlanta is releasing my
book, “Death Before Dying,” which is a commercial version
of my poetry thesis. There may be a few other chapbooks com-
ing. I am working on my first long form poem, 20 plus pages,
that utilizes a variety of styles, voices, points-of-view…it’s
called “Methamphetamine.” Again, my new topic interest.
Who are your favorite poets?
I would not have been able to answer this a year ago. There
weren’t any because my exposure to other points was relatively
limited. I never spent a lot of time reading other poets. My
inspiration poetically came from music. Punk, rock, metal, al-
ternative, anything…
But now I am all grown up…LOL.
There are numerous poets on mySpace and Facebook I ab-
solutely love. Samantha Ledger, Linda Washington, George
Wallace, Rob Plath, Dorsey, Grover, Wolfgang Carston, Wm
Taylor, Melissa Hansen, Jason Neese, Juice…a bunch. And I
have not listed as many as I would like so if I missed you it’s
not intentional.
Lately I have been reading Amiri Baraka and Sekou Sundiata.
Langston Hughes. Charles Simic. Juan Felipe Herrera. And
tomorrow the list will change again.
What great poet is out there that
no one knows about?
You know, when I got these questions this one tripped me up.
I put a great deal of thought into it and I think Jason “Juice”
Hardung has a great chance. His stuff is real honest, straight
forward. The poetry isn’t bogged down with a great deal of
metaphor, it’s a mix between narrative and atmospheric. It has
a lot of beauty, a lot of darkness, but in the end it is pure, raw
and honest.
Go to http://www.myspace.com/93580266 to see Jason’s work.
You can google him and find him in the various on-line zines.

Do you have any new projects that What do you see as the future of
you are working on? poetry?

This is the question that made me want to do the interview.

Other than my degree? Not really. The guild perhaps, if I can
A year ago, hell six months ago, I didn’t see a future in poetry.
generate some interest.

5
I was jaded primarily because of the press and not selling any
books. Then I realized I was looking at it the wrong way.
Poetry is one the oldest, most egalitarian art forms in existence.
As I said, anyone can write a poem and while that may not
make you a poet, ANYONE CAN WRITE A POEM. And that’s
the beauty of it. As long as people have an interest in express-
ing themselves poetically, poetry will be fine. What changes
is it’s exposure to the masses.
Lit zines are rarely found in bookstores any more nor are small
press releases. Big presses and big box bookstores are doomed
anyway. The business model they live on is not self sustaining.
In 09 more publishers will consolidate or go away and I imag-
ine a chain like Borders will disappear.
So here’s the future, and you are part of it with Deep Tissue.
The internet and not necessarily in its current structure. I mean
I really don’t know. But I think the future of the written form
will rely on the internet. Social networks, web based maga-
zines, web based presses. The major difference is that lovers
of poetry will have to look harder to find it, but it’s there. More
and more every day. It will never fade.
But there is a dark side too. While poetry as a consumer art
form will exist from an on-line base, poetry in the masses is
dying. Slowly. I recently taught poetry to a second grade class.
Lots of fun but poetry is not regularly taught in school, espe-
cially in elementary school. It has less and less exposure in
public education up through high school and into college.
Look in any college catalog and see how many courses of po-
etry are offered. Very few.
People looking to express themselves will do it through poetry
forever. Viva la poem. You just have to dig a little deeper, but
it’s there. As long as people like you and me, and our peers
keep rocking it, it’ll be fine.
Challenge everything and
never let anyone get you
down
~Jack Henry
6
What advice do you have for new
poets just getting started?
Don’t do it! LOL. Especially if you want fame, fortune and
Playboy bunnies.
My advice is the same as advice for any craft. Write, write,
write. And read other poets. Challenge everything and never
let anyone get you down. Share your work with other writers,
don’t be afraid of criticism and write, write, write.
Here’s one for those that want to publish their work.
Regardless of what format (chapbook, book, magazine) you
should research the place you are submitting. I get a lot of subs
that just don’t work for any of my projects. Especially with the
journal. I try to have a very open format but c’mon – it’s called
Heroin Love Songs, stop sending poems about love, butterflies,
blue skies, clouds, puppy dogs, sunsets or related, unless
there’s an edge to it. Edgy butterfly poems are cool. If you
send a poem about dogs fucking to the New Yorker it probably
won’t get in. Send that to me, I’ll take it.
When you send a sub, follow the fucking guidelines. How
hard is it? I just started deleting submissions if they don’t follow
them. I write them for a reason, so do other editors. And try
to engage the editor with your cover. Many times I get three
poems and nothing else. Howabout – Hi Jack. Like you rag.
Think I might fit. Let me know your thoughts, either way.
Thank you. Poet. How hard is that?
Last but most important: Spell check! A couple of misspells
are okay. I do that. Without spell check I am dead, but when
its 3, 7, 15? C’mon. That’s an auto delete.
 Framing Blue Skies
Jack Henry
i am under sea and drowning and dreaming
and watching the sky fade from blue to gray to nothing

Saturday night and i am sitting between

the frames of dead poet pictographs carved
from tramp hands and the charred ends
of burning bones

sleeping sounds lead toward Sunday

and i am no more man than beast
my eyes bleed and run red just the same
and i find myself waiting for a key
to scrape its chamber lock

listen as my footsteps make way

down darkened hallways
a minister in his black robe
reads short stories from the black book
book of the dead and damned
i hear my own echoes just as bile
washes through my throat
and the rattle of dying
sits listlessly in hands of
parishioners and mourners

i am trapped by water
and weightless
her smile seems to drift
careless across an ashen sky
i know night will not surrender its promise
my bed will not recall
the weight of my spine

and as that key clicks

as the priest closes his book
as the executioner returns his mask
to a hook on the wall
as the warden takes the call from god himself
as the eyes of the wicked stare through me
as a clock slows
as trees ache through a breathless night
as a sun of no sun breaks across a cracked horizon
as dreams fall from angry pews
i will awake and swim
just as my mother had taught me
so many years ago
7
 Up With Owls
Jack Henry

i am up with owls    you brought me castles

remembering passage without landmines
that night failure without recrimination
you asked so simply each step i stumbled
do you have time? you caught me before i fell
and time held fast ever dream i offered
the only gift i had you surrounded and
we traded stories accepted
new and old and acknowledged
remembering
our life anew down paths i wandered
fresh branches growing slow
on an old tree as a man sometimes does
a sudden bloom growing without light
from forgotten seed or water or air
i searched a past but growing because
that had no legs cells continue to split
or limbs and join and change
no spine or soul and evolve
a past best buried you saw light in the depths
under memorials of my pity, light in the corners
and marble plaques of my cobweb room

my fire knew no flame so you see,

i became a child
lost in the slums of Baghdad
lost in the marrow of bone
alone with nothing but tears
i became bewildered
stilled, an old ship tied
to a rotting pier
a Chevy rusting on a field of weeds
i am up with the owls
dreaming
as cars and motorcycles
chase my imagination
and water flows slow into
the pond out back

8
Paths Know No Direction
Jack Henry
it starts with a title
not by design
simple words
a progression
a development of senses
an explosion of light
burning fire
seeing through the nucleus
red blood cells dance beneath my eyes
atoms split and split
split down fine white
white hours spin
spinning wheel light
light fires skin
skin aches brittle bone
bone marches against tides of memory
memory collapses against teeth
teeth grind and grind and grind
9
it starts with a title
chased by verb and noun
built into context
structure and design
collapses on weight
limited in my meaning
tap-tap tapping
my fingers move
bounce through frames
networks of snaps
lit across my brain
words tumble and fall
fall against blue water
water fills my glass
glass breaks brick
bricks build castles
castles fall with simple words
words are forests of fevered lies
lies dream atop deadleaf paths
paths know no direction
Death Before Dying
Jack Henry

the blowing wind outside reminds me how fragile life can be

how small i feel, in the presence of trees
how my heart beats slower with each step, each moment, each year

there’s a compound fracture in my soul

glass on the sidewalk, reflecting a thoughtless sun
mail in the box announcing things i cannot bare

joey and i sat up all night, drinking, smoking

telling lies about cock sizes, female conquests
and the value of our dreams

we did line after line, exploding life diagrams

of forgettable futures, momentary pasts
delusion writ large on the blank canvas of emperor’s wall

dying at the dawn, death before dying

i linger on city streets with holes in the soles
of my reckless shoes, trembling with need
and solitude

when you answered the phone on the first ring

i could hear the wind outside your window
even though your window is a thousand miles from mine

laughter in the background, children scream and play

shoot ‘em up games, kill the terrorist, cops and robbers,
while we play saints and sinners when light finally drops

joey arrives late, but delivers salvation, granules of pure white

crystal salvation, holy damnation – i lay bills at his feet
and tie his shoes

we sit at the window, watch wind dance through treetops,

leaves swirling and spinning, an opera of fury
the phone rings and i see your number on the display

for you the wind no longer blows, bellows silenced

i lay down in my coffin and watch television while joey
cuts lines atop a picture frame that holds the image of my dead
mother

it’s just a bump, i say -  a brief indiscretion, but i got tangled

in a fishing net cast to the bluest sea and lay writhing, death
before dying, as the winch gear snaps and pulls me to the sky
10
 back in the box
words littered on my floor
and i cannot write Back
about consequence or truth
or reality other than In The Box
the muddling lies that Jack Henry
linger sweet against
my soiled skin

another image pops up

on my screen
another threat or denial
i have lost track
the number’s are too high

i cough up yellow phlegm

as my lungs begin to
slow and the rhythm of my heart
beats out S-O-S in
Morse Code

little birds still dance and sing

outside my door as fog
envelops the leftovers
of a waking world

you remember summer, don’t you?

just because you take off your

evening gown and spread your
legs for a photographer’s eye
doesn’t make you beautiful, doesn’t
make you anything more
that what you are
11
 And then they scolded me for
bleeding on the rug
Pantifesto’s Porntastic Phunhouse

this uncomfortable thing

creeps over me like a rash
details I dance around 
feel like chicken pox

details sit in my stomach 

like seven years worth
of undigested chewing gum
like a tennis shoe 
like a pair of Air Jordans

or a pair of Doc Martens

(steel-toed, size 17)

it sloshes around in my gut like a gallon of lead paint 

will the truth set me free? 

Does Santa leave presents under the tree? 

What is right is often also wrong

Christianity or Islam

playing with this truth 

it's like playing Russian Roulette 
i never even have to touch the gun
one day before I die, I’ll tell the truth

and then I’ll be scolded for bleeding on the rug

12
 Christmas Movie Night
The paper is filthy
with persuasive coffee,
with the rain that melted
through my black bag as
I slept in the wrong way
bush that covered the
front of the First Baptist
Church.
Jeans covered in the wet
tears falling upon the birth
of Christ. The air swirling
around the umbrella that
covers only one section
of madness swishing
around in my brain. And
I look for the charm stuck
deeply into my steel mind,
And I can see what those
without go through, tough
mother fuckers they've got
to be. And I silently cry
through a smile that can't
seem to get it right, And
I try to keep these thoughts
clear with Yule songs and
future short stories. I
think how I can do this, how
I can get through as my
dark black Navy coat soaks
up the lonely mud of my soon
to be demise. Depravity runs
into my veins, The haunting
Frank Reardon was born in Boston, Ma. in 1974. At an early age Frank discovered writing and all of its curses and clues. Frank has 6
collections of poetry on various publishing houses with various titles, he's also been in numerous magazines and webzines. He's traveled
from coast to coast giving readings and spreading the rotting words of poetry.... He's currently underway on several novels and still writes
8-10 poems a day. www.myspace.com/cancerbuns 
13
Frank Reardon
words of my parents fill the
dirt that's deep inside my
finger nails. I've counted the
songs and the sure-fire pain.
And I feel like a failure without
my shield. And the street
lights are very uneasy as they
look for a way to peer through
the crack cocaine that captures
the night. She said that I sucked
at being a human being, She said
I stole her life with the grasp of
a guerrilla but she's got her revenge
as I die like the hooked fish on
a rainy Christmas night.
With vigor and perfection I stand
tall looking for eventual-rain-free
shelter and I fall....legs,ass,and
coat covered in mud. Boot cast
on my left foot soaks up simplicity.
Walking with a broken umbrella,
I walk through the high winds,
I'm fearful of of this natural holiday
cheer, mainly because there's
none for me it's all tucked in
the cards for god A.K.A Doc Holliday.
In front of the hospital and laying
on a bench, three hours of sleep
and waiting to be seen for no reason
other than I was angry with a mind
that's ready to find Christ. No money,
no food nor shelter, I'm without the
venial surreal. And it's because of
greed, sloth and envy.It's one word
full of one hundred parables. It's
the hands that choke familiar
inquisitions. At five in the morning
I was removed, greasy hair, hungry,
and filthy. One torn tendon, two
heavy sacks. The ex-she-omega
fed me, poured booze into me,
wrapped her lips around mine and
crawled on top of me. She placed
me inside of her and we became
the killing floor of an old English
crypt. She cleaned me and we
read old Anais Nin diaries out loud
till two in the morning. Six times
we exploded like volcanoes. She
kept looking into my eyes with
truth and with hate, two blue pools
were soaking up the lump sum.
And I watched her sleep like I did
for four years and I smiled at her
like I did when she gave birth to
our daughter. Next day she left me
at the steps of a universal church.
A place where old Irish men in robes
waved their fingers at alcoholism,
A place where they showed me
the crucifix. It was where I had to
be because it was time.....
to let the inside out of me..........
The Marauder
Rachael Delamar

Deific tendencies to the floor

Kindle this encounter and before i extricate myself
as my hand once again from my indelicate mess
deviates into the fire i admire the fact
I must have a feeling of deprivation that i still bleed
to be so inclined to surrender when you exploit me
to this sensation with your grandeur
since it is the second third fourth of being able to granulate my powers
time around with your confident fingertips
in anticipation and the tease of one
of a definitive, fiery burn down well raised eyebrow
feel the heat of flames so listen here
lick and singe spy, lurk, read closely here
rejuvenating my dear
the glow of my skin the delectable marrow
and a simple meeting in the middle of me
becomes a somnifacient rendezvous suggests
and I revel in the that in my degradation,
glory, sweet debauchery though i will admit you are
of being deemed my baronial master of annihilation
your blasphemous this intensity becomes singular
delicious whore, as the destruction
label you my marauder becomes the definition
as you pillage me of this
to keep me admission
coming back for more to say 
despite my dementia that what does not kill me....
i keep my blade close to heart entices me to be.
so that when i stumble, fall

I started going to school for psychology in 2006 and discovered an infatuation with the way the human mind works.  This as a result of my mother dear who is the fire under my soul in ways not
many understand.  After a divorce and then a brief love affair, my fire soon turned into a fascination between the interactions between male and female.  After the explosion of the meeting of the
muse, I made a drive from state to state, in an effort to get back to the southern way of life.  I started teaching motor skill development to children and used their innocence to heal my soul. I started
the writing to never forget. I steal my own life experiences as if they never happened to me. I like to run away from me, in an effort to make it all make believe. In the end, I find comfort in my defense
mechanisms and being the biggest contradiction I know. www.myspace.com/allvixen1432

14
 Undertow
Wayne Russell
in darkness I dwell
light ponders just
around the corner
however I do not seek
her
I seek death, and all the
comforts that he brings
no more pain, not here
anyway
six feet under
warmth's of an underworld
tomb
Wayne Russell is a poet that
originally hails from Florida in the
riding lackadaisical around
USA, however now resides in New
Zealand with his wife and two
from the within
young children. Wayne has been sinking sands
writing poetry since the age of 18,
and does so for both therapy and take me now
love of the art.
www.myspace.com/thezodiacpoet undertow

15
 Echoes It was in the curve of his wolf crouch
Beyond The Gap the still split of observation
Gail Gray she read the angle of release
an arrow she would not stop.

In the space aching for diminishment

his hands folded on his breast,
sleep a vulnerability...
an apprenticeship,

she feared and knew

the blade call of futures.
For moments
he learned the coil of halves

tasted moon slivers of touch.

But she forgot the difference between
inches and centimeters
Gail Gray, grew up in Lowell, Mass but now lives in  Greenville , SC lost herself in their discrepancies
USA . She is the author of three books of poetry, The Hazard of
Waking Up,  Spirals in Copper, and Planetary Tension and two
collections of shorts stories, Dark Voices and Memories and alpacas calling
Monsters. She is the owner of Shadow Archer Press and the editor she fell to the flat place where
of Fissure, a magazine of experimental art and writing. Her short sto- swans and wolves can’t speak. Once
ries have been published or will be published in Morpheus Tales,
Pear Noir, moonShine Review, The Howling, Exquisite Corpse, they knew the language
Cover of Darkness 2009 anthology,  and The Foliate Oak. Her po-
etry has been published in The Asheville Poetry Review, Cokefish, of stone houses
Exquisite Corpse, Eviscerator Heaven, Being, Big Swollen Toe, Sisy-
phus, Zygote Abstract Libertine and Gloom Cupboard Main Street
and plateaus so high
Rag, and seinundwerden t and is upcoming in the anthology, Amer- they drank hawk spill
ica!. no need for interpreters.
www.shadowarcherpress.com        
www.myspace.com/fissuremagazine     myspace.com/fissuremag

16
 Angel Tears
WordMachinist (Jimmy Ray Davis)
& Nic St. James

I am J. Raymond Davis aka Wordmachinist, just a guy with a When the sky bleeds the black blood
dream, and a hope that folks enjoy the ink I bleed onto the page.
I write, therefore I am. I do spoken word to bring you into the worlds of angel tears and the fears
that I create.....just for a little while, and only if you dare. Born in
California, to young parents, I often found myself lost in the magic
of a biblical society in crimson robes
of my imagination. Raised with musical storyteller greats like John attack the psyche in a maelstrom
Prine, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits and many more play-
ing in the background I found my passion in their words. I owe of infinite madness...a chorus
many thanks to my mom, Linda and my dad, Mike, who passed
away before his time. I am the man I am today because of them.
of the most ominous lucidity.
I drive forklift during the day, and wear my writer's hat on my lunch
breaks, sitting at stoplights, and any spare moment I have. I am a
family man, married to the love of my life. Our hearts will forever be As the salt from a dead sea cleanses me
intertwined through our three sons, they are the reason I wake up
in the morning and put pen to paper. It is just that simple. If I could
Arms of my death bleed slow gouged
I would spend my days fishing in the mountains, and writing of my I reach forth in struggled gasped spite
adventures, with my family by my side.
www.myspace.com/wordmachinist Flowing warmth rising through finger tipped
scar
Dropping to immersed souled depth
The horseman cometh galloping
As I cower in contempted regret

Somewhere, Conquest* is laughing

or is that Famine* stoking pain within?
The tormented gather in the well of my soul
for their acrid impasse galls me
as War* renders the earth useless
ripping upwards pointing to a black heaven...
and the pale countenance of Death*, hovers

Deceit pulses as an acidic shower slow burn

Power kills in the name of thy Lord, thy book,
thy union
Our meek our enemy as our evil our tie of
woven match
17

I lie pressed upon dampened dark Mother (earth)
Her aroma soothing me to her steady nature
Her fortitude to survive this heavenly wrath.
And just like that it's over
sunlight breaks and the black spell is done
I am a girl and I am young and vibrant
My honey brown locks curl above me as horns
a glistening pulsates as angels
fly from stagnant pools to reclaim their sky.
I am so pretty...angelic in my own beauty
yet, a ragged evil heart beats within...I am a lie.
Nic St. James dabbled with dark poetry as a teen
writer and wrote academically throughout her college
years. As a former teacher, she always dabbled in the
world of creative imagination and storytelling and al-
though she dreamt of writing a novel or children’s book
she set writing aside for several years . Recently, Nic
was inspired to put pen to paper through the inspiring
writing of a fellow MySpace poet. Nic has been writing
poetry consistently since September 2008. She
prefers to not define her style of writing since she con-
siders herself to be a playful student of word play and
expression, “I view poetry as an art form and it has be-
come my passion…reading, speaking and writing of
word.” Nic hosts ‘Nic’s Poetry Bar” 10k poets on BTR.
www.myspace.com/lavenderdreams1998

Within this renewed world of glazed freshened buds

My conscience peels apart from the pounding within
Awareness fills what was once my condemned soured
soul
Absolutes of past dance mingled in twilight life
Evil roped knots slip past bruised wrists
Tossed to be exiled from here
I am all that it is full of her
All that that she encompasses in well and foul
I am one
I am free
I am

18
 Scream/
Listen for the Callback
Glorianne Kada
heard across the distance of the universe
from no further than the space inside
each one of our own hearts
where this breath comes forth from
and gives voice to the collective thoughts
heard across the distance of the universe
the same hope echoes across the clouds
that soften the sharpest most piercing
screams of broken hearts
without a dream
because in these city streets
all spare change
goes towards our own denial
no time to dream
when your only thinkin of survival
it was
heard across the distance of the universe
shouted from the most broken place inside
and with every heart it fell upon
the voice of our everything vulnerable
ripped through us to make new
a thousand voices sing out to call back
I hear you
19 www.myspace.com/sundroprays
Overnight Parking perpendicular breeze wafting
dancing tenderfoot
Strictly Prohibited traversing the charcoal
Yossarian Hunter corpses empty carapaces
one hundred nineteen
orphaned prophecies
open mausoleums
murmuring
longing for ideas
irrational scraps
empty handed epiphanies
cacophonies of silence
no goliath
no sling-bearing child
a vagrant
notoriously improvisational
pondering the tines
Yossarian originated in the Chicago area, but was trans-
denying destinations
planted as a sapling to rural Mississippi. He runs away living
from time to time, bringing back stories of horror and
bravery from the open American road. When not read- the blacktop
ing or writing, Yossarian plays guitar (badly) at several dying
local North Mississippi campfire jams. He spends most
of his time in seclusion on an old family farm off in the gravel on the shoulder
hills with his wolf-dog Ophelia. Feel free to drop in any nothing more, sometimes
time, just bring Scooby Snacks. And a sixer of Pabst.
much less
www.myspace.com/yossarian_hunter
now

20
 Cracked
Butterfly
J~Rod
Where flame and fatal devil reds
Are bleached by night’s demise
The quiet is as black as hate
With wings of lace and lies

You wear a cracked black butterfly

On what sickness you can’t fix
And secrets wish to drip from lips
Like candle wax from candlewicks

Cut your eyes out, Baby Doll

As the butterfly’s black wings
Spread wide and dark on Paradise
And turns toxic all these things

Then lock down all your lullabies

And pray God you will be saved
Until the soil’s ever-settled
Upon the secret’s grave
My name is Jared Anderson. I am 31 years old and I
live in Salt Lake City, Utah. I have been writing for as
long as I can remember. I believe that all of us are, in
our cores, artists, and that creation is the oxygen of
the spirit. My hope is that my own art will inspire even
one person to free themselves on paper and find the
healing power and freedom in writing that I have.

www.myspace.com/jsnixxed

21
 Spitfire
Sate

I went red the sizzle scorched earth policy

spitfire making you until
mantle all but my pilot light whiffs
upon my head disabled or
and blanketing my man with I pass out
it's enjoyable sooty glances then, I must
when I'm able that smolder rekindle
to discharge flames slowly at the shop
across the table a from week to week
exposing the heat warm glow least back to brunette I'll
and  burning embers falter once again
fiery and brainy yet
spectrums burning retinas meek
while hurling fireballs and did I mention
lighting at my human pin a touch of gray
my  torch is all you know where that can
to Brule a part go
your of  my ##2%&*(!!!!
sugared lips recent away!

Sate is the daughter of a charismatic preacherman and his lovely organist wife from
Wisconsin. She got a degree in fine arts at the University of Wisconsin-Madison but
then badly needing cash turned to baking as a profession. She went to Paris to live,
work and study pastries at Le Cordon Bleu. Upon her return to the States she
moved to Seattle and learned to love the rain. Besides a love of poetry Sate is a
full-time pastry chef, a dedicated student of Karate, a fanatic gardener and, a huge
movie buff.

blogs.myspace.com/thebadnun

22
Insomniacs sleep is a
one-legged
Don’t Pay For It whore
Eric Hamilton
who charges by
the thousands.

I'm the last-

resort who can't
afford her,

but every
'couple days
she crawls
into bed
with me,

broke,
with no where
(else)
to go.

so I hold her
close, true,
like no other man has,

Eric Hamilton believes life, like

death, is a self fulfilling prophecy, and when
and he occasionally sets fire to a
notebook of poems aged with
I wake up,
the experience of time. she is gone.
23
 Beneath that I want to stand above your grave,
I want to feel your bones, hollowed and white,
Orange Tree dance beneath my feet.

April Michelle I can be still, I promise,

Bratten I can be the palette that shapes your perfect rhythm,
that guides your fingers, once young and bristling,
to climb my chest again.

I feel you, that wondrous and naked storm cloud, erupt my skin,
you,
a trace of bare, a warmth of folding lips.

I have seen you here,

have seen you mouth my name along the rims of glasses,
tuck your head inside the darkened lights of so many rooms.

You are here with me, always,

and I pray, I pray, for that pale scent,
that clouded outline of insatiable human,
that can follow me in a splatter of footsteps.

You are my dearest ghost,

my favorite presence,
the only one who can lick my coveted spare of neck.

I reach for you,

but only because you are dead.

You have become my flattened stomach of the earth,

the opening sky that still snows down on me,
the home I crave.

April Michelle Bratten is a student of poetry Would your eyes be so blue,

and literature at Minot State University in Minot,
North Dakota.  She has previously been
published in such journals as BluePrintReview,
Kill Poet, and Prick of the Spindle.
would your hair be so white,
if I imagine you gray, and inhumane,
beneath that orange tree, so fallen, so silent?

24
Poets of Dirty Bedsheets.....
Tom aka London Poet

One of these days I am going to write the words...to tell you from my cuff what really
goes on up here in this corrupt head of mine...to spill it out on paper what makes me tick...I have shifted my rage and
dysfunctional self and invented a new me who is even more fucked up and fresh, like dogs shit steaming on the sidewalk....I
trade in honesty...I don’t write to make you wet...
I will express in my limited terms what it is you do to me...everyday...night...waking.....sleeping...its bad in a good way....well I
think so but I know jack...nothing....I will tell you what it is when I find even my base words...I will shock you...you will hate
and love it....in private you will make it your anthem...in public you will condemn me but that is just encouraging me....I am
wallpapering my room...filling in the cracks like you want me to fill you in.....you do....you know it....admit it..tell me what you
are thinking...send me it code...inspire me to write about you...ask me how many ways do I want you.....the answer is all....you
will walk round with it all day....you will feel me.....sitting will be an ordeal....why am I telling you? Because you want me
to...admit it...just like how you want me to paint you toe nails....and read to you...

One of these days I am going to walk the walk that I talk.....I wander around this alien Town and see no one who can hold a
candle to you...the stinking bodies that dodge mine on the Tube are empty souls just looking for the next pound...but we live...we
are poets of the dirty sheets...readers of the truth....we love fucking but can make do with a coffee and cigarette and people
watching....I don’t need drugs and drink to lift me...I need the smell of you.....the taste of you.....you rain without clouds....on
me....its my fucking heaven.....us...fallen angels....your face has worn me...your mouth has drank me...like with me its all been
in your head....this is not me blowing my own trumpet...its just me knowing he truth and it is the truth that frees you ......
scratches on my back and dick friction.....the horny tiredness....the smell of soap on a feminine neck...the spooning and then
slipping in...pulling hair and whispering sweet filth but ending it with a ‘I love you’...the needing to be needed after spilling....a
terrible beauty will be ours....

.. ..One of these days I am going to write our manifesto....it will include long weekends of not leaving the bedroom....filling the
fridge with junk food and bad wine and just living in our own fluids...not for the faint hearted but hey that’s me....rollercoaster
ride with a smile and eyes you will never trust...I didn’t nearly kill myself for nothing...it was to live and come out the other side
to know what life really is all about....yes its to pay the bills...go to work...but its to corrupt you in the nicest way possible...I
will know every inch of your flesh so well I will map the spots to tease....glorious torture and no questions asked....teach you
the advantages of silence whilst loving the screams of a g spot moment.....am I bugging you? Good because I mean to.....we are
all the same but the girls hide behind the excuses....show me a girl who doesn’t please herself and I will show you an innocent
bank manager....

One of these days we will do all of the things that life promised but that we failed to achieve...the simple things...etch our names
on to tree bark.....sex outside...a picnic....get drunk and laugh...eat cakes and not feel guilty...tell the boss to fuck off and piss
in his desk..sing badly at a Karaoke...build sandcastles again.....and most of all...create coffee stains on a virgin table and die
and say...I didn’t need to climb a mountain to feel elation.. ...who needs it when I have got you....?..
25
 Conjoined
Amy Wood
I have an evil twin.

I’m the good one.

I cleaned all day today.

I vacuumed the den, did multiple loads of laundry, cleaned the bathroom, kitchen, and bedrooms. I was pretty satis-
fied as the sun shone through my curtains. Everything sparkly, and shiny. Perfectly smoothed, lint free, folded, and
stacked.

As the day grew on, I realized I missed a sock that fell behind the dryer. Then a dish I forgot to wash, and a blanket un-
folded.

It gets darker in the house as evening wears on. The room looks smoky and gray. There are ashes on the floor and the
mirror is smudged. The TV screen already has a layer of dust, and the bed is unmade.

It is only late into the night, as I wander throughout my house that I am horrified of the mess everywhere. There is dirt
in the hallway, punch on the kitchen floor, and the tub has a ring.

I turn from the clutter, and walk away.

She's the evil one.

She drank all day today.

This morning she showered, washed her hair, applied makeup, and dressed smartly. She was pretty satisfied with the
result. Eyes sparkly, and hair shiny. Everything polished, plucked, and in perfect order.

As the day grew on, she realized her shirt was on backwards, and her skirt was ripped.

It gets darker in her mind as the evening wears on. The room seems empty, and too bright. The television reflects a
distorted picture. There are ashes in her cuts, and her bed is untouched.

It is only late into the night, as she wanders into herself that she is horrified of the chaos she sees there. There are
gashes in her face, blood on her hands, and her eyes have rings.

She spins from the mirror, and runs away.

Amy Wood is 40 year old lifer from Oklahoma. She has 2 wonderful girls, Sarah, and Erin, who inspire her writing daily. She is a self
proclaimed "White Trash Blogger", and has been writing only since late 2008. It is her therapy, and her intent to reach others through her
own life experiences.
26