Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Deep Tissue
Magazine
Issue #6, July, 2010
FEEDINg THE Minds of the
counterculture
A deep piercing cut production
http://www.myspace.com/gata01salvaje
In this issue:
Laughing at Funerals
By David McLean
redemption song
(for Bob Marley)
David McLean is Welsh but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on an island in a
large lake called Mälaren, very near to Stockholm, with woman, cats, kittens, and a couple
of dogs. He has a BA in History from Balliol, Oxford, and an MA in philosophy, taken much
later and much more seriously studied for, from Stockholm. Up to date details of many zine
publications and several available books and chapbooks, including three print full lengths, a
few print chapbooks, and a free electronic chapbook, are at his blog at
http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com
Deep Tissue 5
Taking Pictures
My father was a photographer for a while with a really beautiful darkroom he had built
in our cellar. I was never very close to him, but some of my fondest memories were of
being with him there. I enjoyed everything about the experience—the extreme
darkness, the smells of the chemicals, the texture of the photographic paper and the
pictures of pin–up girls he had on the walls.
The first female I ever saw that knocked me out in a photograph was Jane Russell when
she played in the movie THE OUTLAW produced by the very eccentric Howard Hughes.
She was sitting in a haystack and was exhibiting a bit of cleavage that was considered
quite risqué for the time. It electrified me. I must have been all of five years old!
I met a model recently that told me when she was five years old, she saw a copy of her
grandfather‘s PLAYBOY magazine and all she wanted to do was grow up and take her
clothes off for photographers!
Even at five, it was clear that photographs had a magical power to them. Perhaps
even a forbidden quality. One reserved for adults or the lucky or the wickedly
inquisitive. At five years old, I had no idea why Jane Russell looked so good and no clue
why that image felt so good to view—but it did!
I believe in the Pandora‘s Box syndrome. I believe some things are forbidden or hidden
for good reason. I have seen pictures and video I wished I had not seen. But I feel
Deep Tissue 6
fortunate to have grown up in an environment that allowed me to see what was usually
not permitted for children. My parents, although not perverted, were not ashamed of
the human body. My father took swimsuit pics of my mother when she was voluptuous
and sexy even after giving birth to four children. I was proud of her for posing and it set
a precedent for me to be in the company of beautiful women who were anxious to
give themselves to the lens.
My father pretty much gave up his hobby when I was ten and he tore down the
darkroom. It was a gloomy day for me. I was shattered. And as I grew older I kept
asking him for his camera (a 35MM Minolta) but he told me I was too young and
wouldn‘t appreciate it. I was twenty-seven years old when he finally gave it to me. It
sat unused in his drawer all that time.
Unfortunately, on that very same day, he also gave me a light meter that he had had
for decades and before sunset I dropped it and broke it. I was too frightened of his
alcoholic wrath to tell him though, so I began that very day to learn how to use the
camera without a light meter.
Now all these years later, I still rarely refer to the meter ever. I know the light settings in
my head. It took me many years to accomplish that feat, however.
Sometime around 1993, I was working as a temporary clerk for the Girl Scouts of the USA
in their main headquarters in New York City. Imagine that!! Me and a handful of males
working with an onslaught of females from all ends of society.
One day a girl walked in, a temp like me, who looked at a glance to be a model or a
dancer. Her name was Tracy Roberts. She was in fact a dancer who had just recently
decided to become an actress because of injuries she had sustained while dancing
professionally for years. I had seen that kind of thing before.
She showed me her headshot and I knew on the spot that I could do better, so she and
I began to meet on the weekends to take pictures for her headshot and for a
prospective portfolio she hoped to build in case modeling became an option for her.
This experience changed my life and gave me the impetus and the confidence to
begin to take myself seriously as a shutterbug. Tracy blew up one certain picture of
mine 11‖ x 14‖ of her wearing a scarf and leather jacket while she sat by the East River
in NYC. Seeing that photo that size gave me a jolt.
Since then I have asked a whole slew of models to wear that very same jacket as
something of a totem marker for me. The jacket was actually owned by a woman
named Faith who was an old friend of my wife‘s. She gave the jacket up because it
has a minor slit in the leather, but for my purposes, it comes in handy as a prop and the
girls seem to get a kick out of wearing it.
Deep Tissue 7
For a couple of years, I had a fantastic time photographing artist/poet Sarah Nella
Vanilla that I met on MySpace and Sarah provided me with many instances for
fabulous photos that were sometimes my ideas, sometimes hers‘ and sometimes ours‘
as collaborators. My work went through several quantum leaps with her. (See DEEP
TISSUE MAGAZINE‘s cover this coming September).
During that time I met a manager of a major fashion agency in NYC who dug my
photos and urged me to shoot story lines and told me that my technique was so strong
that I ought not to think while shooting, but rather to just click away trusting my
technique would carry me.
He saw that I had an intimacy with my models. They knew me. They trusted me. He
warned me that fashion photography was cold. That the girls weren‘t as interesting as
the models in my portfolio and that there was hardly any relationship at all between the
photograph and the subject.
Somehow within this time frame, I realized that what I do is called ―glamour‖
photography or ―beauty‖. I mostly enjoy shooting women.
I have said in many forums over the years that the inherent beauty of women is to me
more beautiful than anything else in nature, and—to be clear—I love nature in all of its
awesome wonder.
This week, as I write this, I shot three women in Indiana and Ohio while visiting my in-
laws. Two of the girls, Sirenna and Amanda, I consider friends and I have a lot of
admiration for their talent, sensuality and intelligence. One girl, Kayleigh, was brand
new to me. Our shoot was somewhat colder and more distantly professional. But, I
came up with a little story line and shot her very quickly within tight perimeters with
wonderful results. She took direction well. It was a good challenge for me to shoot
someone I did not know in a new location with a minimum of preparation.
We live now in a digital age and I use film and an old, used, semi-automatic 35mm. I
no longer have the camera my father gave me but I do have one very similar to it.
I feel a bit old-fashioned and somewhat out of date, but I must confess to reveling a bit
in that feeling. The world and its gadgets are changing fast and I am only on the edge
of keeping up. I love music to death and I do not even own an iPod! Who knows when
I may break down and get a digital camera? (if ever)
One of the things that I find fascinating about a snapshot is that it occurs within a
certain space of time. In other words, even though the picture is two dimensional and
still, time has elapsed within it. Even if that time is fast as in 1000th of a second or slow as
in 1/30th of a second.
For an egocentric fellow like me, often immersed in my writing and acting, it is a joy and
a relief to disappear for a while BEHIND THE CAMERA, lost in the vision before me.
Many of us are familiar with the idea that in certain indigenous cultures the taking of
photographs is forbidden, because they fear that the photo has taken more than an
image, but also, their SOULS.
I am not saying I believe that entirely but I am convinced that part of the interest that
photographs hold is the part that is TAKEN; the part that is FROZEN and immortalized in
time.
A camera can be a kind of weapon and it is also a tool, a new tech paintbrush used to
paint with light.
When a model agrees to work or pose for me, I feel as if I have been handed a gift. It is
an enchantment and a challenge. It is a thrill that uplifts me and gives me purpose and
immerses me in life‘s magnificent mystery, filled with inscrutable endless beauty.
James Crafford is a writer, actor, photographer who often blogs on MySpace. His award-winning indie
movie CHEPACHET is available at Netflix, Amazon and other internet venues. He lives upstate New York
with his wife Linda and their rottie, Tyson.
Survivor
She would twist
her words for him...
Her limbs for him...
Her tongue,
for him.
Tweak her inflection
when speaking
to him.
For example
Normally,
she would‟ve said,
let‟s switch to water,
but she found herself
saying something like,
Could we please....
switch to water, babe?”
.. ..
And then she was choosing
out cake fillings
and bridesmaids.
beyond repair.
.. ..
What is love,
sometimes
love is fear...
Fear of being alone
in "The Garden."
First Love
We shared a toothbrush,
and a twin bed.
When we were together,
we were devouring flesh
with unshaven skin and tangled hair,
small sleepy eyes, mint -less breath
and sheets pulled away and heavy.
It didn't matter that my right breast
hung lower than my left , or that
he was obsessed with the weather.
We made love
in unforgiving fluorescent...
Between jousting and limericks
at the public library, and
beneath sacred Sunday skies.
We ran naked
through the rooms
of our apartment
Deep Tissue 13
Claudia,
thank you
from the bottom of
my hefty heart,
for being crazier.
Claudia,
who dressed demurely
with blouses buttoned to the chin,.
skirts past the knees
and always the crocheted
baby blue sweater that struggled
to soften her ridged posture.
Claudia,
was plain and there was
no getting around it.
No bag of tricks
could soften
her frantic eyes
Her smile was
small and painful.
You could count her
hair follicles in an afternoon
She often threw tantrums
in the class room with saliva
seeping out of the corners of her mouth
but was never sent to the office.
Claudia,
I am sorry
that the boys
heckled
tripped you
broke your pencils
Deep Tissue 16
I took notice
but at the time
was simply thankful
that it wasn‘t me…
I took note of every detail
of your torture.
How your heart
was removed
in Biology class
passed around
and studied
as if it was an anomaly...
And you could only watch.
(Names do hurt.
Stone me,
I would rather suffer
a punctured lung,
Shattered knee cap
Brain hemorrhage
then to be told
in a hundred creatively
cruel ways,
I am damaged..
Un kissable
Un desirable
Un fixable)
Claudia,
I heard
your mother
(English professor)
threw pagan parties.
Mother of four
unbuttoning her blouse
to heavy metal
while your brother
dropped acid in his bedroom
You must have hated her...
How she taught
her most promising students
to appreciate the finer things,
(Faulkner; Dali;Berloiz;
Deep Tissue 17
Claudia,
when you
set your house on fire
with your husband and baby
asleep in their beds,
did you feel
relief?
Clean knuckles
give solid punches
to her belly
She‘s leaving him,
She‘s taking man‘s best friend,.
his lucky shirt
and his bowling trophies..
She will miss
the garish wallpaper in the
bathroom
.TIVO,
The Temper Pedic Mattress
The Sludge
The relentless cough
Back to the town
with one hoppin joint,
One good movie
can go mad
in the happiest of places
despite it‘s happiest thoughts..
on my hands.
Unexpected
Pleasant
Harmless
And for a
brief moment
I feel
lucky…
These preachers
of “the word”
think they know me
as well as they know themselves.
Did they know that I almost
set my church on fire
Bio: Holly has studied under Thomas Lux; Alan Shapiro;Dara Wier and Susan Mitchell.
She has been recently published at Virgogray; Unlikely 2.0 and was a featured poet at
The Truth Project Network. Her first published poem was at We Merge, a South Florida
talent magazine.
Deep Tissue 22
Smithereens
By Suria Kassimi
(S)HE
the little man in me
could be
so rude
not that kind
nice dude
in mind
while gazing
deer brown eyes
dreamy look to
silver moonlight skies
HE puts himself first
hunters bloodthirst
sledgehammer
thuggish
&
randy
playfull little darling
Deep Tissue 23
comes in handy
but
HE
is me so much
to ban
&
free
female making-nice stupidity!
morphing
once
in a dark bat cave
expecting
the daily night rave
dwelled
a silly bat
named kat.
bad bat kat
never
looses her head
even if
she is going mad
and morphed
into a rat.
bad bat kat
thinks
she is a pretty smart rat
painted her lips so sexy red
for playing old fools pet
so
bad bat kat
growing
a little fat
wannabe
the handsome cat
for having
millions of mice to met
so
bad bat kat
falling
in the arms of dead
orientation
out of her head
Deep Tissue 24
back
she cant get
to the dark bat cave
for the daily night rave
so it ends
with
poor morphing bat
named bad kat
with eyes so wet
so very sad!
Suria’s art is built around the idea that as an artist she is a witness to the reality of the culture in which
she lives. She depicts the actuality of what the eyes can see. As a “Realist,” she renders everyday
characters, situations, dilemmas, and objects, all in their verisimilitude and utilizes an expressive manner
so that real objects signify a cyclical rather than linear time frame.
http://www.myspace.com/sourisrojakassimi
Deep Tissue 25
built to sin
there's a rail going into the vein
the needle in the backpack
caught within the semblance
of the ungodly
trying to out frame the mind
so take me baby
for all i am
for all i got
it might not be much
but it's always going to be as real as it ever gets
http://blogs.myspace.com/glencstill
Deep Tissue 27
Nowhere whispers
Deep Tissue 28
A lavender waltz
Non-material influences
Of nonsensical flesh
A death erection
An alternative universe
A wasteland indentified by an X
Deep Tissue 30
A synthetic womb
Occupying forces
Sending me e-mails
This is love
There is no morality
Lucem Ferre lives in Michigan with his three cats. He writes poetry and struggles with his
addictions on a daily basis. Lucem says that there is no need to pray for his soul
because he lost it many years ago in the dark back alleys of Detroit.
http://www.myspace.com/538443727
Deep Tissue 34
“At the climax of his life surrounded by wealth and glory the artist is respectfully called
“Mr Man” by the mourners sitting around him/That is all he achieves…”Hugo Ball
[Diaries P53]
Renarto Poggioli states in his book “The Theory of the Avant-Guarde” that the modern
artist as idolater of genius has not yet resigned himself to having forever lost the
advantages inherent in cultural situations dominated by taste rather than genius/He can
never again count on a permanent elite capable of accepting the avant guarde as an
essential component of the cultural matrix of its ideological praxis/
This is because the artist and the intellectual elite exist in what T S Eliot calls “a
disassociation of sensibility”/The artists may spend all his life marching through the
“wasteland of inspiration” which after all is a no mans land/The avant-guarde artist
ends up feeling that even his work in progress is a sort of “posthumous opus”/He
isolates himself from the world in order to carve his own tomb with little recognition
for his work/The artist can no longer attach his project to any historical
position/Everything is in flux and constant flows and breakdowns of the positions
between the artist and the educated elite as potential audience taking up various
positions of distance or detachment from each other/What we have is a continual
process of disintegration since the artists and the various social groups react turn and
turn about in equal and opposite ways detaching and attaching themselves to what ever
appears most satisfying aesthetically or economically/Now that art is a commodity this
is particularly the case/Malraux determines the existence of modern art and the avant-
garde as coinciding with the artists repudiation of bourgeois culture/A state of rebellion
and not just revolution/Revolution aims at new arrangements of political order whereas
rebellion is to no longer let the self be arranged/The artist must accustom himself to
living in the temporality of the NOW where the interaction of the artist and the social
elite briefly coincide/ The NOW is an almost instantaneous phenomenon coming out of
the present at velocity as in Virilios concept of “dromology and speed “ in which
duration is measured in intensity bringing about a modification in mass sensibility
aroused by the Spectacle that Debord writes so eloquently about/Reading Hugo Balls
Diaries one comes away with the following impression/There is no reason to subject
you to the depth of this sense of alienation that I sink into without warning or
Deep Tissue 36
reason/There is nothing I can say or do to protect the self from the impact this state has
on my being/These moods are a catastrophe in my life that divert all energy and reason
all inspiration and the desire to make an effort to create to an impossible inertia/there is
only a desire for unconsciousness a wish for non -existence which leaves me groping in
the obscurity of the lack of a divine place to engage with/This sense of alienation from
the “real” is a condition of the Modern/A state that lacks opposition as if there were
actual good and bad in this state of the Now/But there is only the space between the
good and the bad which being beyond meaning is the rightful place of the divine/The
place of love which heals or distracts/The place of "desire" which arouses tension and
dissipates it to replace it with pleasure/Which is the state of happiness or respite from
the trembling of facing the place of the divine which with the passing of God is
empty/There is no divine there is only an animality/The divine form is replaced by the
activity of the Project of art/The divine is the sovereign opposite of work and the
paradoxes and contradictions in this paradigm bring with them a sense of alienation/As
the past is of the future and the presence which is becoming split to different degrees to
wards both states/The present fades to the past or is carried into the future/The past can
be sought thru memory and re-lived as what was but is no longer but may be possible
again in the future/The present is the conduit of these transitions and also the place of
constructing new possible responses/The past is static has already happened and cannot
be altered except by deception/The past is a state of antagonism that holds up the
resentment of its tragic stasis/The past is the state of the used condition of time gone
and can be extended into the present as living in the past/The future is that desiring
being to be in that apprehended possibility of difference to the past/I have changed I am
changed I will become different in the future/Both these states are the conditions of
anticipation/I anticipate thru recall what was my past but I have no definitive evidence
that it was as I "realize" it to have been/I recount it in words and in speech and this
language implies the idea of a finality/The past cannot be changed or moved neither can
the future be brought forward in anticipation that this will accord a means of avoiding
the disorder and anxiety of the present/I cannot jump ahead and avoid the present
because I only then enter another state of present/the future is nothing but a possible
present that I can strive for in my imagination of what might be possible/The past is an
indication of what is the actuality of a future that has been lived and of failure or
success in living/Now become the past/A reminder of the possible direction of the
remainder of time to be lived in the future/to live in the present is to constantly be
Deep Tissue 37
apprehended/We are of course always running out of time/have used our time up/We
are finite in our divine ignorance/At the threshold of alienation/without having
expected it/we perceive a world that doesn’t leave us any other possibility of rest than
unhappiness and the absence of any conceivable resolution/Work must continue in a
relentless parody of becoming and existing/In the digital only the NOW exists/time is
infinitude and the divine inherent in the flow of information that does not accumulate
with poles negative and positive/past or future/The NOW is not contained but is a
continuing interval of rupture that breaks its limits and floods in pulses of dynamic
freedom having no work other than to be divinely becoming more even greater than an
excess/Man sliced and radically castrated in appearance is what he is only by the
suppression of the obscene violence/the primal wreckage/the delirium of the possibility/
The NOW which is the core of non- dimensional aesthetics/ the deformed the dialect of
the unknown which is not here and neither is it there/The NOW with an ungrounded
economy of Ungestalt is the plague of the not yet present but already absent/lateral
[literal] confusion/the physical semantic imminent to the where transmit ideas which
are clusters of highly imaginative signals/The artist who works from his imagination is
deluding himself about originality/He is using a material that is already formed by
appropriation and so is undertaking only to elaborate on it/certainly not an ideal of the
NOW/ The leak of destiny stripped of corporeal images by the blade of the soft murder
of despair which leaves us clinging to the classicist ideals/
I can only copy/I cannot produce from the ruins of a language that does no more than
animate for a brief period one segment of the pulse of innumerable possibilities and
passions that course thru the NOW/The artist no longer knows where to begin he is so
far removed from the NOW/it takes flight from his mind/in a sense it is the flight of the
“aesthetics of disappearance”/a crash landing/a vanishing point/the re-mix the cut-up
an implosion of sonar form displays an analytical impulse/In a way the text speaks for
itself/What is the NOW thinking this very moment?/ It radiates the Desert of Nagazaki/
atomic burnout of the nuclear horizon but not as Spectacle as superior degree of
abstraction/dividing and using up space to control the variations and movements of
forms of thresholds the interval intervenes/It is a sound of droning without end in
smooth space where it can never be articulated/We want answers to enclose the earth/to
confront and contain the unknown universe/We are a little lost perhaps/there is so
much happening in these retorts and refrains/which write but do not inscribe the
Deep Tissue 39
imperialisms of the word and its form which implies a code and a decoding from secret
to concealed subatomic dimension of expression and its content/As we have seen the
post modern is a past-ness under the regime of the post human/The post verbal
Gap/What goes out and re enters into us as other?/The post modern is already too
late/but refuses to pass into the past/insisting on futurity which reduces it to being
empty of any present other than that of the cynical sign/We hear the fore grounded
noise of existence/Feedback of the Now but not of itself but of additional frequencies of
distortion and static a product of the circuitry of amplification/an overload of noise
which has nothing to hide/a sonar wave of the Now which does not listen but speaks
and makes dissonance its point of departure assonance its NOW of arrival/a speaking in
tongues and dialects/a secret collusion with the composition of the void and the energy
of the vorticism which enables the engine of the NOW able to manifest arrival at the
terminal/
So where are we? Why Write?/You see he said you are looking into the abyss while I am
looking up out of the abyss while I am still falling I am a story I have constructed in
order to give some meaning and drama a metaphysics that transcends the inevitable
annihilation that each day brings forth each night that I want to sleep for ever/Its taking
time to wind up the machine still falling?/I want a narrative that leads me somewhere
away from the pack the swarm that explains my lack of progress but all I will be doing
is exploring the bottom of the abyss and light fades as I fall I talk to myself but no one
else listens they are to busy struggling with the doors of chance/the trembling sky falls
slowly appropriating the artificial black sun my body doesn’t want to sleep it wants
death weighed down by ambition/Filth that has accumulated over the years/Each
thought adds to the weight death that invisible opportunity not to be missed/I am not
afraid to die just bored with waiting doing all I can to hasten the event/I keep writing
memories as if they will prolong life dreaming of the perpetuity of infinity/How do I do
it she asks but the ledge is far from my ears and I cannot hear what she says/In
anticipation I call out submit yr self to the sign the way you submit yrself to yr pain and
yr vision of hallucinations that there is a space set aside for you/This is how I affirm
atrocious narcissism as the driving force that plunges thru my veins the word exhausts
my being and I fall where desire fails to maintain the bodies equilibrium/I write myself
into the plunge you want to leave yr trace of the word then cling to the ledge avoid the
perimeter the margin the threshold stay away from all borders this will be enough for
you to survive to tell yr story/Yr life is only a surplus of death an extra you stumbled
Deep Tissue 40
upon in the filth of the sewer of the soul/Knowledge is merely a diversion that keeps
our mind off things/What things?/cynicism/cunning/ revenge/ superficiality of the fact
that the day begins just as the night ends/avoid passion and fantasy/I can do nothing for
yr solitude and only the alternative of the nomadic rhizome remains/the desire for
answers requires an accuracy of understanding that life has no need of arguments/What
good are words and thoughts that do not lift us beyond all thoughts and words?/What
are we looking for in a response other than gratitude and we get into the habit of
expecting it/To write one word and say the thought that drives it deserves the hatred of
the receiver because you have written the end of the world/The answer should remain
in what you do not say that is the strength and self control of the accomplished
writer/To be great and wise in silence lies at the point of realizing the fall into the abyss
is a forever falling without end and this is how the tragedy ends/Did we see its
beginning?/Did we notice the signs the way a fever warns of illness/in this sense
consciousness is merely an accident of existence and not something all
possess/consciousness is a pathological state the reflection of the dark side of the
unconscious which evades dreams/To this end most avoid consciousness and this
accounts for their inability to respond to expectations other than insanity/The
consciousness does the damage that the unconscious tries to repair but we do not
understand the dialect of the unconscious we are ignorant of its language which is
designed to speak the conscious /Does Kants sense of causality apply to the one or the
other?/We can never know our inner world says Leibniz it will remain a mystery for us
until death which releases the conscious finally/What we don’t know is of more value
what we don’t think/The exquisite being and becoming possible that we drive ourselves
each day with/She says there must be and he says there isn’t/There is nothing but the
directive of the word/Do this/think that/act out this drama this desire which is another
facet of the consciousness/For the unconscious desires nothing but the elevation
towards the state of not being/finally relieved of the great fatigue that goes with the
desire to keep desiring and not being finally sated/Some call this the will but they are
wrong/Creativity is the least achievement of the conscious and has nothing to do with
the unconscious and this is why we perpetually work at “creating” a fetish of
desiring/We place it in the arena and pray that it is adored/Demanding a conscious
recognition/ which is in most cases impossible and in the least case there is such a
demand it has unleashed a disease of creating a epidemic of expression coming from
the shallow depths the surface of the conscious/A state which can trail on/ which we can
Deep Tissue 41
suffer the withdrawal symptoms from for months years/The worst drug of all so why
do we want to be more conscious?/Why cant we let the self go and do nothing about
this desire that creates such an ache and which dreams attempt to salve/Why not
concentrate on the dreams which are our true originality the greater sur-
realism/Schopenhauer’s ungodliness of existence that we have for 2000 years tried to
come to understand replacing it all the time with other faiths and beliefs/In the last 200
years it has been the fate of creativity to achieve the pseudo-divine/To this end only the
mad those who have lost hold of consciousness are able to fulfil the aim of creation/
Which is too reveal the unknown that which cannot be written or painted or carved but
perhaps in that spontaneous order the harder the material the closer to the
unconscious/All we are doing as Blanchot points out is re writing re carving what has
already been done but forgotten/The demand to write struggles against presence in
contrary to absence/The conscious presence of the author demands desires wills
consciously to be in the presence of the “to be”/It only re presents in the sense of the
repetitive beginning again and the will and desire to begin again and again hunting
preferable with the pack the “the temporally ungraspable anteriority” of the beginning
again/“…to write in this sense is always first to re write…and does not refer to any
previous writing [which of course it does always] any more than to an anteriority of
speech or of presence or of signification…re writing holds itself apart from any
productive initiative“ And does not claim to produce anything other than the authors
conscious apprehension of the illusionary state of the “real” the present presence which
has already passed and can only be apprehended partially/Hence the need to begin and
begin again and again/To try to appropriate the full intent of the word or thought by
any means/Thus re writing repeats what does not take place/will not take place and
cannot take place except “partially”/Re writing is the surplus which at the limit cannot
define itself by anything by which it would add itself/excess of nothing but still
excessive/Write that which is already known else it could not be written and fails to be
understood because of the lack of consciousness or the desire not to know/This is self
evident but none the less denied and remains unrecognized/”In the view of the demand
to write nothing is either friendly or sacred men neither divine nor human/Those who
carry this demand are transported by it and disappear into it/even if their name serves
to identify it they are neither important or great/In their disparate [desperate] plurality
even though they belong to the multiple and are real only as multiple they remain
strangers separate to one another crossing paths without meeting/this is their solitude
Deep Tissue 42
plurality that constitutes them neither out of their own singularity nor in view of a
superior unity/The work is always modified by that which comes after it/and has the
one who has died necessarily lived?/
http://www.myspace.com/bizarredevice
Deep Tissue 43
Babs Rock-its
By Babs Martin
In the past two months I have read my poetry at the Cornelia Street Café in NYC and the Java Cabana in
Memphis, TN. I have performed with music at the Yippie Café in NYC and the WordRock Festival in
Hoboken, NJ. It’s time to return to the studio, get Smashr to tune up the ugly electric pumpkin guitar,
and plunk on some keys. I started with a remix of my tune “Uninspired.” You can hear the new and
improved track at www.myspace.com/babsmartin. Here I provide the words to invite you to growl
along with me:
Deep Tissue 44
Uninspired
I got nothing to say
I got nothing to think
I got no love to give,
I said no love to give
Uninspired
You know I’m uninspired
I have excuses
I have rationalizations
I have made up my mind,
I said I made up my mind
Uninspired
You know I’m uninspired
Uninspired
You know I’m uninspired
Uninspired
Uninspired
Uninspired
Uninspired
Died as told
Died as told
Uninspired
Uninspired.
Babs Martin was born in San Diego, CA, raised on Route 66, and currently resides in Oklahoma. She is a
creative expressionist in words and music. Babs written works have appeared in anthologies, on-line
publications and magazines. Her Rock-n-Word Trip recordings and CD singles have been featured on
several radio programs in the US and Canada. Babs collections and performances are designed to fly
you on a high and deliver you to the door steps of your own sensational journey.
http://www.myspace.com/babsmartin
Deep Tissue 46
Mystic Lady
Aka Meera Flame
Ghost lady
Ghost lady
Roams,
Floating eternally,
Wandering
a wistful vapor,
waltzing alone
her echoes
materialize
confused
lost inside
An endless searching
full of yearning ,
a lonely entity ,
Ghost lady
Eternal atonement.
I’m married, and have been married for many years (to the same man I
think!) with 3 gorgeous boys. I’ve been doing jewelry design for 17
years and have had my own workshop for 16 years which I help run with
my talented husband. I love art, abstract and surrealism, gothic
literature especially vampires! I love to write POETRY, I am a
*FEATURED 10K POET. I love to PAINT I also read, sew, cook, garden, I
love taking my boys out, I love talking , thinking, I don’t watch much
TV lets face it ,its crap!! ,anti war; I’m interested in all religions
,cultures and points of view, I am excited everyday when I learn or
hear or see something new, nature fascinates me
.............................I like drinking lots of TEA and talking
for England, On myspace to read and write poetry ,look at art, and
listen to new music!.
http://www.myspace.com/juniswan
Let it Rain …
By Amy Wood
Fail.....
and then we wonder why Uncle Sam fucks us up the ass 12 months of the year
sends our children to commit murder against those with a different belief
and suicide of self in the name of Liberty and Justice for All
The wealthy complain about a failing economy and how there’s never enough money to go around
while they buy Grande, 2 pump Vanilla, Non-Fat, Extra Hot, Lattes
Coach purses and Bluetooth’s
supercharged gasoline
and $7.00 packs of cigarettes that they smoke in top of the line Beamers
and blow onto back seated asthmatic toddlers
strapped
and
trapped
in Ed Hardy car seats
Fail.
Eventually though…..
I’ll curl into the shoes in my closet,
muffling sobs of shame,
and bitterness,
and defeat,
praying to an absent God for a do-over.
The non-write.......
The dirty.
The filth.
I’m not going to write about priests copping a feel in confession booths
to 12 year old boys.
Or the injustice of the justice system
to the same small victims.
Right....
I’m not going to write about the infidelity of men and women
pecking each other’s cheeks with the stain of adultery
as they hide scarlet letters in the safe
just underneath the marriage license.
No……..
Pain
Embrace it
Let its steely fingers travel down
my back, electric impulse burning
tracks, solo across the ivory columns,
touch like knife wound, flick, then out,
gouge, then out, sensations to remind me
Tango Ordinaire
Dangerous
This isn't love
Feels like heart attack beat
echoing my steps, running
staccato down city streets
Down the street where YOU live
Oblivious magnificence, you
of the lion's mane and farcical
roar, score a point for a glimpse
of stomach taut, 30/love for
benevolence of smile or wink.
And it's game over,
Set, point, never match, you catch
me staring around corners, stalking
behind trees, laughter tells me I'm
Deep Tissue 57
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Remember What?
They keep telling me to remember
Dropped head long into hell, a bunch
of babies given guns and told to walk,
GOD, we never even got to crawl,
our lives in bits and blood falling
on our heads, holding balloons
so the enemy would think it's a party.
Don't shoot, we come in peaces
Litter on a white sand beach, collateral
damage, ammo for the winning effort,
our storm came and washed away the
Evil Axis, washed away ourselves,
but still, I have never again felt clean.
Stained with the eternal bleed of comrades.
And every year they dust off uniforms,
wear the hats, the carnations, the dog tags,
waving flags placed on countless graves,
here and in Normandy, new ones every day.
They tap me on the shoulder and tell me "Remember".
Hell, I've spent 66 years trying to forget.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deep Tissue 58
Fixing a Hole
This rain's gonna be harder than hard,
fool's gold black upon pink sand beach,
our feathered friends ain't so fine;
how many Derricks does it take to see the light?
Ten thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean,
sell the (mineral) rights to Hollywood, will one
Stone make a ripple? Maybe we should do Moore,
Michael, but we've spent eight years beating
around the Bush, Leno's out of jokes, and
the rising tide's turned dark and ugly.
I think I just stepped on a Beatle.
It squished against my bare foot,
oozing big, black blood between my toes,
before vanishing in a seagull's mouth, swallowed
whole by a slick operator, no morals at all,
just alternative endings to the same old song....
song...
song....
song....
And my mind's still wondering....
http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore
Deep Tissue 59
Heat.
i reach up and feel the place
and i begin
my light brilliant
Living
puts it in my mouth
i tilt my head
my breath
Track 9 West
vivid colors
people in black
and white
clad in guilt
a vision of her
me all wrapped
police look at us
am wanted
Next
train stations fill my heart
brimming with
Midsummer's Night
i am irrevocable
as are you
Again
naturally
Tidal Confusion
poised in my apology
i steep in extenuation
a que causa
no quarter
M.P.Paleologo (aka Evil Dick) was born and raised in Northern New Jersey where his
delicate sensibilities were distorted into the carnival mirror perspective represented in
his music, verse, and prose. Influenced by great artists such as Pablo Neruda, Emily
Dickinson, Andy Warhol, and David Lynch as well as many of the incredible indigenous
people which have crossed his path, his sharp edged writing style is laced with
surprising tenderness and wry humor. The author enjoys speaking of himself in the
http://evildick13.wordpress.com/
Deep Tissue 66
____________________________________________________
Deep Tissue 68
BONESAW
when you cast your line and tell me to get the fuck out
see I've belly crawled back so many times got road rash
___________________________________________________________________
Deep Tissue 70
...Built a stickman
out of matches
he burned up
before I was done.
Whispered shadows
in the hallway
before the rise
of morning sun.
...Built a snowman
out of sand
he blew away
before he could talk.
Painted with words
in a lonely study
but even Picasso
Deep Tissue 71
...Built a birdhouse
at the institution
left it unfinished
the birds won't come.
Played chess with strangers
and forgot about you
while the white coats
all looked on.
FAGGOT
He was a chunky, awkward, and short 15 year old
who wore coke bottle glasses, spoke with a slight lisp
and walked with a gimpy step
due to his left leg being two inches longer than his right
tripped up
spit on
and intentionally fouled roughly during games
After class, in the locker room, was where he got it the worst
one of the most menacing jocks, a 6’4, muscular linebacker everyone called “Mad Dog”
would administer the boy a variety of wedgies, such as the “Melvin”
which involved pulling the boy’s tighty whitey’s up from the front, causing much pain to his genitals
or the “atomic wedgie,” where Mad Dog’d sneak up from behind
and hoist the waistband of the boy’s underwear up and over the boy’s head
The most painful wedgie of all, though, was the “hanging wedgie,”
in which the boy would be hung by the waistband of his underwear
elevated from the ground
and sometimes twirled around in airborne circles
and once released
flung clear across the distance of the locker room
The wedgie attacks, name calling, and hallway beatings turned increasingly violent
eventually reaching a crescendo one day after school
when a group of jocks ambushed the boy in the bathroom while he was urinating
They seized him from behind, pushed his face into the piss filled urinal trough
pulled his pants down to his ankles, and forced a hard green banana up into his ass
laughing madly
the jocks raped him brutally with the piece of produce
yelling such things as “you know you like it, faggot!” among other taunts
That night the thoughts of revenge that’d swirled in his head for years began to rapidly intensify
Stealing his dad’s guns and carrying out a Columbine style attack
planting a car bomb in Mad Dog’s Confederate Flag painted monster pickup truck
hurling a Molotov cocktail onto the field during a football game
poisoning the punch bowl at the prom with liquid LSD or cyanide
all types of ideas crossed his mind…
But for now, he just sat back in his bean bag chair
unsheathed a hunting knife he kept under his bed
rolled up his left pant leg
revealing a large patch of scars
and slid the tip of the knife about four inches down his upper left quad
drawing a small stream of dark red blood
which trickled slowly over his inner thigh
Watching the blood drip pierced through his cocoon of learned numbness like a million needles
his eyes then welled up
and he started to sob uncontrollably
http://www.myspace.com/newamba
Deep Tissue 75
A Love Affair
By Tarringo T. Vaughan
And you know, between you and me, I feared my own demise.
I imagined no more sunrise on days like today
when my heart is pumping the beats of forgiveness.
And I imagined not being here, even right now, watching
the traffic of life cruise by on the busy streets
of humanity as it travels in many directions of mortality.
Deep Tissue 76
Tarringo T. Vaughan always believed he had a love affair with literature. One of the first
pictures he saw of himself was of him at maybe the age of three or four year‟s old sitting with a
book in his hand. But for Tarringo, growing up in the depths of the inner city both in Boston,
MA and Springfield, MA made him believe that expression through the literary voice was un-
cool and unattainable. As a very quiet and shy child he learned it became very valuable in his
self expression. Born in 1976, Tarringo was the first child, grandchild and nephew in a family
that had grown accustomed to struggle. His mother was a teenager who quickly lost the support
of my father who today he knows very little of. These aspects of his life triggered the inspiration
of his pen.
Later in life his struggle with self confidence and homosexuality catapulted his desire to write.
He felt a need to educate and help others in his situation through words. It became Tarringo‟s
ambition to be somebody and in 1995 he entered his freshmen year at the University of
Massachusetts at Amherst where he was still a very quiet individual and still refused to make a
career involving literature. But his English courses continued to intrigue him the most and
through those courses he became familiar and connected with African American writers such as
James Baldwin and Langston Hughes who taught him that it was cool to be whom he was.
James Baldwin was also gay and proudly exhibited his sense of self and Langston Hughes was a
genius in poetry whose suave lyrical delivery drew Tarringo into his expression. And as his
education furthered he found himself opening up more and taking on the role of a leader socially.
Tarringo T. Vaughan graduated in 2000 from the University Of Massachusetts - Amherst with a
Bachelors degree in English and Communications as a 2nd major. Tarringo currently works in
the healthcare field but working on his first poetry book for publication titled “A Different Kind
Of Blues” and is the founder of the Flexwriters Creative Network
(http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net) which currently features an online magazine, a
Deep Tissue 77
social site and two writing groups. Future plans include a publishing company as well as actual
an actual café for writers and spoken word nights. My writing consists of many styles as I do
like neglecting rules and going beyond the norm.
http://www.myspace.com/tarringo.vaughan
Deep Tissue 78
everything
i don't need a god
or church
or anyone's approval
but yours
i found my future
here in a box
i never thought to open
never thought to explore
a future
my own
and ours
to share
together
you and i
invincible
a gentle touch
wakes me from my terror
everything
you are
to me
forever
critical mayhem
there's a voice in my head
unknown and new -
reality swept past lights twinkling
horizon stars rise past a moon
intent on mayhem -
serenity smashed -
crystal serenade on marble floors -
the old lady next door screams -
all hell breaks loose -
- it's not even noon
- it's not even daybreak
Deep Tissue 80
television flicker -
cartoon silhouettes on pale blue walls -
Monday threatens -
trees bend -
a sudden storm calls -
it seems i am waiting for something
but what
i am yet to guess -
of my small town
of a midday sun -
Deep Tissue 81
a hooded figure,
walks slow
of elder skin -
ravens scatter
of a Catholic Church -
pulls a lever -
erupt
Deep Tissue 82
and cheer -
of any kind
Lady Gaga
Lady Gaga sent me a photo
via email
we met on
working
and enough
information
to make me believe
maybe it's
pretending
gets off on
convincing
Lady Gaga
wants to fuck me
of that I am sure
I am that
stupid?
hopeful
a little too
optimistic
my doubt lifts
slightly
when I receive an
invitation
she asks me to
Chateau Marmont
Deep Tissue 84
on
Sunset Boulevard
we end up in
a bungalow poolside
panties
and
false eyelashes
to her waist
she's not a
hermaphrodite
I thought you should know
three days
burning fire through my veins
down to a last pack of smokes
before a cash buyer
knocks on my trailer door
barely summer
and temperatures rise
weary and wicked under
a blazing sun
Jack Henry lives in the high desert of South Eastern California in a single-wide trailer on
the edge of the Salton Sea. In his spare time Jack writes poetry and short stories about
the vagaries of normal life. His first book of words, "with the Patience of Monuments," is
available from NeoPoeisis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com). A second book of words,
"Crunked," should be available sometime in 2010 from Epic Rites Press.
(www.epicrites.org) He can be reached at jackhenry951@hotmail.com.
Deep Tissue 86
I kept to myself.
I did not go to
groups. I just stayed in
up I looked into
the mirror and saw
another face that
FEAR IN MY HEART
I carry fear in my heart.
It pushes down on my chest.
It follows me to all the
places I have ever been:
All the windows I see out
of, in all the portholes fear
is there. When I am dreaming
there is nothing to fear.
I want to dream forever.
LOOKING DOWN
He stares at the sky.
He does not know what
he‟s looking at. His
angel looks down on
him from paradise.
SCRATCHING AT MY LEG
Scratching at my leg,
making blood come out.
I need attention.
I need to feel pain.
Scratching at my face,
but never the eye.
I want to see things.
I am not that mad.
Scratching at my arm,
picking at old scabs.
I have infections.
I need therapy.
ON THE BOULEVARD
I saw her on the boulevard
carrying her weariness.
It seemed to weigh her down.
She hated her work and her life.
She was selling her dignity.
She gave nothing away for free.
Her figure was not what it once was.
I observed her and felt bad about her.
Deep Tissue 89
IT IS ON
It is on.
You bring your
lawyer and
I will bring
mine and I
will sue your
ass until
it bleeds. I
need you to
know that I
will not lay
down like a
dog. I will
not take your
medicine.
I am not
sick. You and
my wife must
have something
going on. She
wants to steal
my money.
I suppose
you are fine
with that. It
is on. My
legal team
will send you
to the poor
house. You stand
no chance. You
and my wife
will rot in
the same cell.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico. He lives and works in Los Angeles
County, CA. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest
Press. His chapbook, Digging A Grave, will be published by Kendra Steiner Editions in
October 2010.
Deep Tissue 90
'Hatred'
She took my daughter.
Stole her away in the night.
She robbed me.
That's never right.
I will never forget the words I spoke.
If you were here right now.
I would choke you to death.
Perform C.P.R. On you.
Then choke you to death again.
That she might greet death twice.
Fear it's hateful embrace.
His cold breath in her face.
Shudder at the fear of it again.
Defiling herself shamefully.
Emptying her bowels.
As all light left her eyes.
That is true hatred.
I despise myself for feeling that way.
Forgiveness is not natural.
To angry humans.
Our daughter will hate you as well.
For your tearing us apart.
You broke a sacred bond.
Deep Tissue 91
My neighbor
I have a neighbor lady I shan't call her out
by name. Because quite simply I do not know
it. My, but isn't that a shame?
shore.
The heart
I hand you my heart in a box.
wrapped in paper, tissues and string.
I've seen you open it up quite a lot.
Just looking!
I heard you exclaim.
What might you do with this gift?
Treasure or give it away?
It is yours now, so do as you wish.
Magical world
I am the wordsmith. A literary troubadour. Take my hand. Don’t be afraid. I will show
you a magical world. You can journey there time and time again. There in the pages
you’ll be safe.
See the pathway up ahead in the written lovely words? Open up your heart. Be not
disturbed. There in the woodland forest of a forgotten realm. No Gigabytes, no Ram.
Just playful woodland Elves.
Deep Tissue 93
No mindless television to muddy up your mind. The world’s cares fall away, it is sublime.
As Fairies fly over our heads. We kneel to drink from lemonade streams. Now where did
that Unicorn get off too?
Now escape with me. In these the pages that I write. I am none but a lowly scribe. But
therein lies my power. The lore of written word. Our guiding light. Our pure purpose.
Let the heathen check his Email. We have mountains to explore. Up ahead a playful
monkey rides atop a dinosaur. And what is that? A volcano spewing chocolate lava
towards the sun. As Icarus plummets back to earth in flames. Well, he was warned.
I can teach you to return here. Just follow me and obey. Pick up a book and read it
friend. I hope to see you there.
Someday….
‗ I am ‗
I, the ghetto Buddha of Longview, Texas feel the heartbeat of the people. I have my
finger on the pulse. My needle is in your veins. Trust my skills. I will not miss. I talk to God.
We speak, visit, socialize and if I could I would get him high. So he wouldn’t miss this shit.
The heart of it. Reality is all I see. The veil has been torn from my face. Duality is within
me. But I no longer run from the reality of truth. I celebrate.
I am the seeker. The lowest of the low. I steal, hate, lie and kill. I’m human.
The pathways of my soul are laced in crimson red and sinew. The blood flowing in my
veins no stranger to you. I am you and we are one. The pathway is lined in rock,
concrete and flesh. I scream, sing and shout. Let that pain out. For it serves us well.
Deep Tissue 94
Denial is it’s own damnation. I for one have chosen not to do it well. Introspection is my
curse. My cross. My salvation. I worship the Lord of creation. I speak to you an ancient
name now….El Shaddai….El Shaddai…..
My talents are aflame. For creation is the way I serve and love God. For he made us
well and in his image. Alive and able to choose. Our bottom is as low as we choose it
too be. Climb up from down there. Don’t wallow in the pit.
I am the wounded boy. Don’t you touch my toys. I will share with you. Not everything
though. Not all. Adam and Eve ruined it for us all. Or did they?
For to truly see, with open eyes. That is the thing we need to seek. As so many of us
have closed our eyes as sheep. Down to that slaughter. Bleating…Bleating…..
Watching our brethren die. As New Yorkers did today on a busy city street. Someone’s
brother, son, friend or father bled to death as they all walked by. I saw it on the news
and I died a little inside. Come with me brethren are you with me? Is not humanity
human? Are we not made in his image? Do you feel no shame? I do. New York….Ah,
What’s the use? I am honest. Can all say that? Allow yourselves to see the you deep
down inside. Do not hide. Embrace who you are. Be real to yourselves. I beg you.
Be humble and honest. Don’t pass a dying man by. He lies there calling out in pain.
Another child of God. Let’s get involved. Or humanity shall pass away and all hope will
be lost.
"Untitled"
For Kassie
For far too long I've gazed at you, a yearning from afar. As if you were some
distant city longed for within my heart. There is a roaring deep within me. A self
indictment of my heart. The regrets of all I've lost thus far.
I've dream t of the espresso served hot in your cafe's. Of searching those unknown
streets and shadowed dark doorways. . Is all this but a dim and distant dream? Or will I
travel there one day? The smells of the busy markets . Intoxicate and lure. The taste of
unfamiliar dishes like the scent of your perfume.
Deep Tissue 95
But like any other city in any other place. Imperfections do exist like the wrinkles in your
face. The broken glass in the back alleys. The addicts in dismay. But in counterpoint to
misery the cathedrals shine in soft suns rays. As monks chant in morning stillness to greet
a brand new day.
I want to see the opera and drink exotic wine. I must buy the tickets.
I've got to make the time. What mysteries await me in this distant city only seen in
dreams? Of architecture and sunsets and undiscovered things. Will she welcome me
with open arms like a lover missed for years. Or will she bring me sadness and bitter
anguished tears.
Will I become another crime statistic to read about in news? Will I end up a
vagrant wandering and alone. Will her streets protect me or steal all that I have ever
worked for and loved? Will she cast me out and betray me?
Make me an exile someday? Remains to be seen. But hopefully ....ah yes, hopefully. She
will be my home.
Hello, My name is Phillip Gregory Inman Sr. I am a twice divorced single father of six
great children. Three boys and three girls. I am forty years old. I have been a carpenter,
sheetrocker, singer, bouncer, certified nurses aide, security officer and criminal. During
my three year stay in the Texas department of criminal justice. I realized that my mother
Judith Ann Inman had passed along with her dream of being a writer. I dream of being
published but will probably never be famous until I die. Ah… such is life. I have only
been succesful at a few things , raising hell chief among them. But in spite of my horrible
Peter Pan complex I somehow even in the midst of a very crippling addiction to
Methamphetamine have been a decent father and that is a miracle as I come from a
very troubled and abusive past (abusive stepfather). Pain has always been a reality in
my life . Not that I am a victim. I have played that role. But today writing is my release .
My creativity . My salvation. My only hope is that my experiences however painful for
me can somehow release or ease anothers struggle with addiction. It is truly the hardest
thing I have ever lived through. My prison stay came after my ex wife kidnapped our
baby and stole her away to Las Vegas , Nv. I have not seen her in so long. Then God
chose to further test me and allowed my mothers heart to give out. I was faced with the
task of taking her off life support. After that my addiction hit a new level and I began
my days as a needle junkie. I truly wanted to die. But was never really proactive about it
. I thought , well if I do this enough death cant be far along. Selling narcotics to an
informant probably saved my life. But since my release on parole it has been some
struggle. Employment is at an all time low and I dont want to fall off the wagon at times.
I seem to want to leap off at a dead run. But somehow I do not. Being a felon has no
advantages except I can survive , job or not. Hustle, Loyalty, Respect. All I have left.
Hopefully my poetry and blogs will reach someone in pain. Someone who has lost all
hope and needs to know that they are not alone. Reach out to someone today and
never let them know the pain of forgetting the touch of a human being. Loneliness
wears its way in and gnaws bone deep at times............. Love and Respect to all
Deep Tissue 96
Spillings
By Dan Kellett
Avarice
Avarice
He sees like a cyclops
In one dimension
In one direction
And plumb
To the end
Ode to Poem II
a blaming weight
raging in ceremonious song
playing notes in tones
of tons
burying my eyes in the filth
of bedside kneelings
and palm to palm
surrender
my sovereignty drips
from Dystopia(n) glands
petrifying to offensive pillars
that swear
only to the worth
of bleeding
AND I AM
Deep Tissue 98
bloody
again
Burn
everyday
everyday
everyday
oh
these marks
are not the
the works of wicked ways
Deep Tissue 100
this thing
that burns too bright
and scars
deep crimson gashes
comes
with too much violence
a
searing pain
in advance
for my punishment
in hell
and
well
that has
descended
on me
again
as well
today
and
everyday
everyday
everyday
but
how should I have helped it
if
there is only the one
bright light
that has ever led me astray
and I needs must
love it
always
even if it
dies away
http://www.facebook.com/burmeisterjulie?v=photos#!/burmeisterjulie
Deep Tissue 101
Chapter Four
Redeemed Angels
Blue Boy’s girlfriend Lisa stated that when he stepped out of his car, the paparazzi and TV folk
would go bananas. She said that they would just go wild. After he would pass by them, they would sprint
off ahead of him down the street. They would wait for him to reach them again, and then the orgy of
flashing bulbs would begin once more. Lisa said that he would always stop for the cameras and we
would have to pose for more pictures amid the bustle of the crowd. Then his security detail would
shuffle Blue Boy and Lisa toward some packed nightclub somewhere. She said that sometimes it just got
to be too much. All of that attention sometimes would be just unbearable. Once they would get to the
club, security would clear a path through the throng and edge them to a raised seating area and then
into a section behind a velvet rope. She said that at last there would be some smidgen of privacy then,
except that a TV crew had a massive spotlight trained on him all of the time. She said there was always a
television crew following them around. That was just something you had to accept if you were going to
be his girlfriend. No matter where we went, there were always various paparazzi hanging around the
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club snapping photos of us all of the time. Party guests on the adjacent dance floor were always gawking
Lisa recalled that Blue Boy would say that he had too many things on his mind that he didn’t
think about all the people staring at him. He usually would ignore them and pretend that they were not
there. She said that every single day there was a crowd of fans and photographers wanting to get a
piece of him. She said that it was just relentless; they just wouldn’t stop following him. He was followed
by paparazzi every day, from the moment he woke up until he went to bed. Even when he was going to
the store to get milk or taking his dog for a walk along a city street he was followed by a crowd. She said
that many times it was just too ridiculous, that it seemed unreal. He lived his entire life in front of a
camera.
Lisa said that she always felt like there was something more to this life, like she had a destiny to
fulfill. It is just a feeling she has had for a very long time. She feels like there is more to her life that is yet
to unfold. Her sense of having a greater purpose was enhanced when she was with him. He made her
feel like she could do anything. He helped her to believe that all things are possible, that she could do
anything. She said that he did that for people, he made them feel capable of doing great things. He
always brought out the best in people. It was a special gift that he had.
Blue Boy’s high school classmate Nathan Pembroke said that Blue Boy wasn’t much of a student.
He was either kicked out or left almost every exclusive private school in New York. He spent most of his
time crashing society events and getting high with the other lost children of the decadent rich. By the
time he had reached the tender age of 19, he began to wonder what sort of profession he should
pursue. He liked baseball, but he was not athletic enough to play baseball professionally. He was also
fascinated with the human body, however, one has to be good in math and science to become a doctor
The first time Nathan met Blue Boy, he knew that he didn’t like him. He said that there was just
something about Blue Boy that he didn’t like. Nathan said that there are some people in the world who
just rub you the wrong way. He said that it wasn’t because of anything that they did or say, they just
would rub him the wrong way. He said that Blue Boy just rubbed him the wrong way from the beginning.
Nathan said it was like that for him when he first met Blue Boy. He said that Blue Boy gave him the
creeps, that he made him feel uncomfortable. He said that his skin would actually crawl when he was in
Nathan said that the real problem with Blue Boy was that he always made bad decisions. He said
that Blue Boy lacked good common sense, pure and simple. He lacked good judgment when it came to
things he said and did. Nathan said that hating Blue Boy was fun. He made it easy to hate him. Nathan
said that he always enjoyed a good sneer at the decadent rich. However, with Blue Boy, it was so much
more than just fun. His lifestyle of excess was just him rubbing his wealth in normal peoples’ faces. It is
like he was above the rules that govern the rest of us.
Nathan said that Blue Boy was the prince of clowns. He was only concerned about being seen.
He had worked out elaborate schemes to make sure that he was seen with the right people in the right
places. In fact, he hired public relations experts to guarantee that he was constantly in the limelight. He
had a whole team of them working out every little detail. Nathan was convinced that Blue Boy had sold
his soul to be in the spotlight. Blue Boy no longer belonged to himself; he belonged to the people-to the
public. He had said good-bye to his private self a long time ago and surrendered to the call of the
spotlight. Blue Boy had destroyed the boundary that separated his life and his professional career and
had turned his entire existence into a public story and himself into a “brand”. He deliberately turned
himself into a being without an inner life, a personality whose only value was to be seen and known by
all.
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His classmate also said that when you would see Blue Boy stumbling out of a club at 3 in the
morning, he was actually working very hard. Blue Boy claimed that he was actually very shy and hated
going out unless he was getting paid. By those calculations, he must have been rolling in the money
from personal appearances. He seemed to be always out on the town, drinking it up and having a good
time. Blue Boy claimed that when he was at an event, club, or party, that he was getting paid for being
there. Nathan found that a little hard to believe. Nathan said that one thing was for sure, Blue Boy knew
Nathan suggested that in many ways, Blue Boy was just a small child. His acting out was just a
cry for help. He only wanted to be loved and accepted by everyone in the whole fucking world.
Apparently his mommy didn’t give him enough attention when he was young. So he became this sick
fuck that paraded in front of the camera. The poor bastard, let’s all hold hands and cry for him.
Nathan said that he expected Blue Boy was dead. He knew it was cold blooded to think like that,
but he just felt like Blue Boy was gone. He said that the fact that they didn’t ask for a ransom means that
he is dead. “They will eventually find him in a field somewhere or in a shallow grave half buried in the
woods. It is sad, but you know it is true. He was a fuckup, but he didn’t deserve to die. I hope his death
was quick and painless. I really don’t wish him any ill will.”
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The next day, I meet with Blue Boy’s friend Antoine Carter. It has been about five days since
Blue Boy has been kidnapped and more and more people are beginning to worry. Thoughts that Blue
Boy might be dead began to creep inside people’s heads. Antoine and I meet at his house in a rich
luxurious neighborhood filled with iron gates, tall stone walls, and security guards. I asked Antoine if he
had increased security since Blue Boy’s kidnapping. Antoine said that everybody that was anybody was
Antoine Carter has been Blue Boy’s friend since elementary school. He said that he knew the
real Blue Boy. “He was certainly not the character that the media portrayed on the television screen.
There was always a risk that some people would take him less seriously because he had been playing a
role. But he didn’t really care. He knew who his friends were and they knew the real person, not the
character he portrayed for the public. The media thought they knew him, but they did not. The media
always gets it wrong. I don’t me you, but newspaper and television people. They never take the time to
Antoine said that Blue Boy was a performer; he was only playing a part. His character was the
dumb rich kid who gets into trouble. Antoine said that Blue Boy was very good at playing this part,
maybe a little too good. He was like Curious George always getting into trouble or like Denis the Menace
with money. “That’s what people wanted to see and he gladly provided it for them. Blue Boy knew what
he was doing, he researched everything. People only see what they want to see.”
Antoine also said that Blue Boy was very savvy in how he worked the image of celebrity. “He
was always smiling; Blue Boy felt that it was important to project a friendly demeanor to the public. The
parents of little girls are won over by a smiling face. He had successfully created an image that combined
explicit sexual availability with innocence and naiveté. He was like white noise behind a solid drum beat.
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This sounds sort of Zen-like, but, he was everything and nothing all wrapped up together in a single
package. He was simple and profound all at the same time. He was a blank screen from which to project
your message or product.” Antoine said that Blue Boy referred to himself on several occasions as a
walking billboard. If he wore a certain kind of shoe out in public, the next day sales for that shoe would
skyrocket. Jean companies would pay him truckloads of money just to be seen in public wearing their
jeans.
Antoine said that he didn’t understand why so many people hated Blue Boy so much. He insisted
that Blue Boy never did anything to hurt them. Antoine said that Blue Boy was just living his life the best
way he knew how. He didn’t understand why people wouldn’t leave Blue Boy alone. “I would hate to be
criticized for every little thing he did. I think most of us would agree with his sentiments. Everyone
makes a mistake now and then. You can’t blame the guy for not being perfect.”
He said that he would hate to live under all of that attention. “Blue Boy couldn’t leave the house
without being swarmed by a crowd. He had used publicity to build a multimillion-dollar celebrity empire.
His outrageous behavior had scored him headlines and magazine covers around the world. His brilliance
was in getting the attention of the media around the world. They loved to follow him where ever he
went. It is like a pack of dogs chasing the fox. The moment he stepped out of the house, they were on
Antoine said that it was safe to say that Blue Boy was preoccupied with himself. He only
emphasized the worst features of a collapsing civilization. Ancient taboos had no hold on him. Guilt did
not haunt his dreams at night. Instead, his attitude toward sex was more than permissive. Women and
men were a means to an end for him. He was liberated from the superstitions of the past. He said that
sex was vital to maintaining our creative energies in life. Rules and regulations did not apply to him.
Antoine asks me if I know anything about the disappearance of Rico Nerada the writer. I tell him
that I know who he is and that he was abducted, but that is all. “Besides that, I don’t know much about
him.” Antoine asks me if I have ever read Rico’s book “The Monster Among Us.” I tell him no, that I
haven’t read the book. “The book is about an average guy who slowly goes insane and starts killing
people.” Antoine gives me a copy of the book and I promise to read it. He says the book is mystical and
“Rico used to be an emotionally unstable English professor who taught creative writing classes
at a local college. Rico suffered a nervous breakdown when his wife of twelve years left him for a
younger man. When he returned to his classes, he developed a penchant for asking the young women in
his classes for sexual favors in exchange for high grades in his class. After several of his former students
contracted sexually transmitted diseases and their parents complained to the college president, the
college administration soon asked him to leave. In order to keep things quiet and not draw bad publicity
“Rico is reported to be a junky with a nasty habit of shooting heroin in his toes. He used to date
the actress Natalie Thurman until one night he got too wigged out and beat the shit out of her. The
beating that she took from that junky put her in the hospital from seven days. The doctors had to wire
her jaw shut and she had to eat all of her meals through a straw for three months. The bastard beat the
holy shit out of her. You can barely recognize her from the police photos taken at the hospital. Some cop
made a copy of the photos and sold them to the celebrity magazines and retired from the police force
rich. The mayor bitched and moaned on channel five for two weeks that the prick should be arrested
and prosecuted and then it all died out. We never heard a single peep about it again.”
“Rico was eating dinner at a fancy restaurant that you have to get reservations a year in
advance. He was dinning with a movie starlet who was the latest great big thing happening in the movie
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world. I guess actresses never watch the news or read a paper. If they did, you think they would not to
go out with a misogynist heroin addict who could beat then within an inch of their lives. They had
finished their $300 dollar a plate meal and had just stepped outside the restaurant, when a dark van
pulled up and snatched Rico. The culprits pushed the starlet to the ground and hurried off with the
famous writer. Once again the FBI is in front of the television cameras telling the people how they are
I ask Antoine if he knows Nathan Pembroke. He smiles and says yes. I tell him that a friend of
mine interviewed Nathan the other day and that Nathan didn’t have many good things to say about Blue
Boy. Antoine laughs and says that he is not surprised. He said that Blue Boy and Nathan used to be more
than just friends. “You mean gay, I ask?” “Yes, they were lovers,” says Antoine. “When Blue Boy met
Lisa, he didn’t have time for Nathan anymore, so Nathan became a little bitter. The last I heard was that
Nathan was seeing some artist guy until Nathan became born again. Now Nathan spends all of his time
I tell Antoine that Nathan thinks Blue Boy is dead and ask if he thinks Blue Boy is dead. Antoine
says that he hopes that he isn’t dead, but it gets harder each day to continue having hope. I tell Antoine
that I believe that Blue Boy is still alive, even though I don’t. I guess I did my good deed for the day by
helping this guy believe for a little while longer. The odds are in favor of Blue Boy being dead. But, you
never know, sometimes the long shot comes through and wins.
Kilgore calls me up on my cell phone and says that he wants me to come over to his place. He
says on the phone that he has a surprise for me. I tell him that I don’t like surprises. He says that I will
like this surprise. I jump in my car and drive across town to Kilgore’s apartment. He has a small one
bedroom apartment on the third floor. The apartment building is mostly filled with college kids since it is
within walking distance of the college. He moved in here because of all of the young girls and it is close
Deep Tissue 109
to several bars. He said that the major selling point was that he could get shitfaced and go home without
http://www.scribd.com/doc/33451967/A-Pentacle-for-Blue-Boy
Glen Lantz is the editor in chief of Deep Tissue Magazine. He has several pieces of work published in
many small online journals. Glen spends most of his time reading, writing, and painting.
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Deep Tissue 112
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