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ISSUE #2 July 2009
from the Editors
Jack Henry Interview by Glen Lantz 2 Jack Henry Pantifesto’s Porntastic Frank Reardon Rachael Delamar Wayne Russell Gail Gray WordMachinist Jimmy Ray Davis Nic St. James Glorianne Kada Yossarian Hunter J~Rod Sate Eric Hamilton 7 - 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 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 of the crop. This issue has more hardcore, real life poetry that you can really sink your teeth into. We want to warn you that DTM #2 is not for the 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 Tissue about his “… honest fuck you if you can’t take it [style of] poetry.” This attitude can be found in the poetry he publishes both as books and 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. Editors Glen Lantz – Managing Editor Glen Still – Contributing Editor Glo – Design Editor
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.
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
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 poetry. 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 trying to live parts of your life over. Don’t do it. Just start over. Build on it. Move on.
Are there any topics that you specifically enjoy writing about?
haha - - my friend Wolfgang Carstons will laugh at this question. 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 peripherally 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 thematically 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 people 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, specifically, 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.
How would you describe your writing process?
This is an ugly question. Here’s why: I don’t like think of poetry as a process. It just is, but I understand what you are asking. 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. Anyone can write poetry, not everyone is a poet. Poems come to me, fill my head and fester. At some put they demand a presence 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 preconceived notion the poem isn’t as honest, therefore not as successful.
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 reader will perceive what the poet is, but if I write it well enough the reader forgets about the poet and the poem becomes the focus. And they are good poems. Get over it. What makes a good poem? Ah, a highly subjective question. Like beauty, a poem is in the eye of the beholder. I know, a fucked up response, but it is true. 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. have five to ten bucks for a chapbook. Marketing is tough, distribution impossible – there are more challenges than I could have imaginded. But…
1. We are going to put out 2-3 anthologies per year. First up is Doug Draime. 2. We are changing BLACK/book MAD/ness to TRIPLE SHOT. That would include three writers in a single volume at about 100 pages. Cost is lower than doing a chapbook. I hope to do four of these a year. I have enough writers interested. Again just a lot of work. 3. By June I am hopeful to have not-for-profit status. I would like to set up an umbrella organization that would allow other presses to benefit from my NFP status. A guild of sorts. We could work together for grant money, distribution and marketing. Presses would pay a certain percentage into it based on sales volume. It’s formative.
Eventually I will give d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t up to someone else, if there’s interest. Probably once I get a full time teaching job, although I might be able to get interns, preferably brunette, to assist.
Tell us about d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press. How did you get started being a publisher?
I actually get asked this question all the time. And it’s pretty simple. It’s one of those deals where I got tired of rejection 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… The kids that started a band, and a record company, put the shit out themselves. Done and done. Why fuck with the whole business of the thing? Poetry has a great tradition of doing it yourself. So I put out my book and then thought it might be cool to do others. I mean, why not? I had a little experience, I use POD so there’s minimal cost…what the fuck. But it’s more work than I imagined. Way more. And the politics of being a tiny press are many. It’s been covered before and my POV well known. It’s just as fucking hard as it gets. What are your goals for d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press? Well I am regrouping right now. I have had a lot of issues with the website and with the economy in the shitter fewer people
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 quarterly 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 firstname.lastname@example.org. But I will not give up editorial oversite…LOL.
Personally I have a few things brewing. KSE will have a chapbook 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 coming. 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, alternative, anything… But now I am all grown up…LOL. There are numerous poets on mySpace and Facebook I absolutely 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.
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 covered Rob and I traveling around the East Coast, doing readings, interviewing other poets and getting drunk. All on film. I approached 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 poetry. We invited friends on as guests and turned it into a roundtable 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.
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 poetry? you are working on?
Other than my degree? Not really. The guild perhaps, if I can generate some interest. This is the question that made me want to do the interview. A year ago, hell six months ago, I didn’t see a future in poetry.
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 expressing 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 imagine 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 magazines, 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, especially 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 poetry 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.
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.
Challenge everything and never let anyone get you down
Framing Blue Skies
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
Up With Owls
i am up with owls remembering that night you asked so simply do you have time? and time held fast the only gift i had we traded stories new and old remembering our life anew fresh branches on an old tree a sudden bloom from forgotten seed i searched a past that had no legs or limbs no spine or soul a past best buried under memorials and marble plaques my fire knew no flame 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
you brought me castles passage without landmines failure without recrimination each step i stumbled you caught me before i fell ever dream i offered you surrounded and accepted and acknowledged down paths i wandered growing slow as a man sometimes does growing without light or water or air but growing because cells continue to split and join and change and evolve you saw light in the depths of my pity, light in the corners of my cobweb room so you see, i am up with the owls dreaming as cars and motorcycles chase my imagination and water flows slow into the pond out back
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
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
back in the box words littered on my floor and i cannot write about consequence or truth or reality other than the muddling lies that 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
Back In The Box
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
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 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..........
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
The Marauder Delamar Rachael
Deific tendencies Kindle this encounter as my hand once again deviates into the fire I must have a feeling of deprivation to be so inclined to surrender to this sensation since it is the second third fourth time around in anticipation of a definitive, fiery burn down feel the heat of flames lick and singe rejuvenating the glow of my skin and a simple meeting in the middle becomes a somnifacient rendezvous and I revel in the glory, sweet debauchery of being deemed your blasphemous delicious whore, label you my marauder as you pillage me to keep me coming back for more despite my dementia i keep my blade close to heart so that when i stumble, fall to the floor and before i extricate myself from my indelicate mess i admire the fact that i still bleed when you exploit me with your grandeur of being able to granulate my powers with your confident fingertips and the tease of one well raised eyebrow so listen here spy, lurk, read closely here my dear the delectable marrow of me suggests that in my degradation, though i will admit you are my baronial master of annihilation this intensity becomes singular as the destruction becomes the definition of this admission to say that what does not kill me.... entices me to be.
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
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 riding lackadaisical around from the within sinking sands take me now undertow
Wayne Russell is a poet that originally hails from Florida in the USA, however now resides in New Zealand with his wife and two young children. Wayne has been writing poetry since the age of 18, and does so for both therapy and love of the art. www.myspace.com/thezodiacpoet
Beyond The Gap
It was in the curve of his wolf crouch the still split of observation 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 lost herself in their discrepancies alpacas calling she fell to the flat place where swans and wolves can’t speak. Once they knew the language of stone houses and plateaus so high they drank hawk spill no need for interpreters.
Gail Gray, grew up in Lowell, Mass but now lives in Greenville , SC 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 Monsters. She is the owner of Shadow Archer Press and the editor of Fissure, a magazine of experimental art and writing. Her short stories have been published or will be published in Morpheus Tales, Pear Noir, moonShine Review, The Howling, Exquisite Corpse, Cover of Darkness 2009 anthology, and The Foliate Oak. Her poetry has been published in The Asheville Poetry Review, Cokefish, Exquisite Corpse, Eviscerator Heaven, Being, Big Swollen Toe, Sisyphus, Zygote Abstract Libertine and Gloom Cupboard Main Street Rag, and seinundwerden t and is upcoming in the anthology, America!. www.shadowarcherpress.com www.myspace.com/fissuremagazine myspace.com/fissuremag
WordMachinist (Jimmy Ray Davis) & Nic St. James
I am J. Raymond Davis aka Wordmachinist, just a guy with a 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 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 my imagination. Raised with musical storyteller greats like John Prine, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits and many more playing in the background I found my passion in their words. I owe 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. 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 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 I would spend my days fishing in the mountains, and writing of my adventures, with my family by my side. www.myspace.com/wordmachinist
When the sky bleeds the black blood of angel tears and the fears of a biblical society in crimson robes attack the psyche in a maelstrom of infinite madness...a chorus of the most ominous lucidity. As the salt from a dead sea cleanses me Arms of my death bleed slow gouged I reach forth in struggled gasped spite 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
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. 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
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 although 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 considers herself to be a playful student of word play and expression, “I view poetry as an art form and it has become my passion…reading, speaking and writing of word.” Nic hosts ‘Nic’s Poetry Bar” 10k poets on BTR. www.myspace.com/lavenderdreams1998
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
Overnight Parking Strictly Prohibited
perpendicular breeze wafting dancing tenderfoot 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 denying destinations Yossarian originated in the Chicago area, but was transplanted as a sapling to rural Mississippi. He runs away living from time to time, bringing back stories of horror and the blacktop bravery from the open American road. When not reading or writing, Yossarian plays guitar (badly) at several dying local North Mississippi campfire jams. He spends most gravel on the shoulder of his time in seclusion on an old family farm off in the 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
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 butterfl y 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 butterfl y’s black wings Spread wide and dark on Paradise And turns toxic all these things Then lock down all your lullabies And pra God you will be saved y 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
I went red spitfire mantle upon my head and it's enjoyable when I'm able to discharge flames across the table exposing the heat and fiery spectrums while lighting my torch to Brule your sugared lips the sizzle making you all but disabled blanketing my man with sooty glances that smolder slowly a warm glow burning embers and burning retinas hurling fireballs at my human pin is all a part of my recent
scorched earth policy until my pilot light whiffs or I pass out then, I must rekindle at the shop from week to week least back to brunette I'll falter once again brainy yet meek and did I mention a touch of gray you know where that can go ##2%&*(!!!! 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
Don’t Pay For It
sleep is a one-legged whore who charges by the thousands. I'm the lastresort 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 he occasionally sets fire to a notebook of poems aged with the experience of time.
and when I wake up, she is gone.
Beneath that Orange Tree
April Michelle Bratten
I want to stand above your grave, I want to feel your bones, hollowed and white, dance beneath my feet. I can be still, I promise, 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 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 eyes be so blue, would your hair be so white, if I imagine you gray, and inhumane, beneath that orange tree, so fallen, so silent?
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....?..
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 satisfied 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 unfolded. 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.