Deep Tissue Magazine Issue 16

© 2012 Deep Tissue Magazine

Call for Submissions
Deep Tissue Magazine, a creative arts magazine that promotes the efforts of poetry writers around the world is looking for poetry submissions for the next issue of Deep Tissue. Send no more than five poems in the body of an e-mail to:

Be sure to put the word “submission” in the subject line of the e-mail.

You can find Deep Tissue Magazine at:

Deep Tissue Magazine is edited by Martin Freebase. You can find his poetry at:


Mark Hartenbach
entangled in quintessence inspired by a rumor it was me that wasn't there despite an alleged sound mind in a sound body surfs biological abandon with rhinestone cataracts accused of irrational behavior because they can't wrap their small minds around the workings of a genius a fiery no prisoners taken attack on those who attempted to reduce my place in the world instead putting me in their grand scheme ruminating on vague concepts which will have me speaking of time in past tense in circular logic instead of breaking through into brilliant revelation cancelled inscription to never had it in the first place so why be taken for yet another fleecing of my identity that can only be detrimental to the final result an allegedly unstable entry point is criticized but we have to start somewhere that hasn't been inhabited for a thousand years of apocalyptic always precariously hanging in the balance was once blinded by the presence of a deflated ego that pressured me to not rise up against the herd

a quandary of loose cannons have reached yet another plateau of unfamiliar where it's doubtful anyone will follow me when fused to a dying light an avowed love for self cannot be brought to knees with bitter descent of latent formulas that never worked blurting out abstract worship of that which they can't even fathom but they're anticipating an opening soon a field of alterations in no particular order if we're going to start high-lighting the pages the paragraphs that seem the most confusing the lines that we think would work on late night tv an emotional wound is closing of its own volition after blinded perception pierced me with bloody arrows leaving a stark stigma attached by those who wouldn't believe i could possibly be placed in pantheon of saints without my knowledge, without my permission a deconstructed symbol is left unmarked so that everyone assumes it has always appeared in that ragtag but uncompromising condition while a matter of space is told to work it out with supposedly declassified & shredded nonetheless an unabridged communication deficit

is linked to the wrong direction by a chain gang who enjoy doling out excruciating pain & unfolding grief a checkered past is jumping all over the place more than a mere reflection of circumstances which i pounded a stake into many years ago to save myself from the demons willing to obliterate down to confused soul searching exacerbating problem of no matter which direction is finally taken to supposedly solved connection that has become exact whereabouts unknown incandescent immolation is fired for not towing the line in exhausting maximum technicalities beneath the sod of the underachieved or possibly the misplaced teeth of god while a three-legged prophesy hitchhiked a thousand miles is now straddling what could easily pass for another dimension in an unexpected eclipse of stunned pink moon dripping fetal gunk into right hemispheric locale while deactivating reason in the name of eternal monopoly finally feel i'm at the nadir of my powers though not blasphemous by any means but autonomous dreams laying down stakes an imploding dogma isn't acknowledged by blind-eyed incognito which has been charged with chemical imbalance too many times to decipher there is no dependency on hoodoo glide but try telling that to festering doom with its tricky contagious odometer

& corrupted heart with its quivering taglines which are nothing but dreaming of dreaming of dreaming which is a lazy ending at the end of each school year i would throw all my notebooks & papers off the bridge watch until the river had carried them south then let out a sigh that was bigger than me a mirage dancing seductively shaking it down to an audience of reborn squawking heads last gasp at learning to breathe on our own learning to deal with the fact that the future is always behind us unless we're heavily sedated erratic conversation with myself is getting way out of hand so i believe it's time i moved on because i have nothing of importance to add to the escalating argument & nothing to say that will nail the whole thing down driving a stake right through the heart of the matter but that seems like a total waste of energy since the whole dialogue means less than nothing in the grand scheme depending on your mathematics find ourselves in promised land in name only since there is no documented evidence to prove that it was actually given away with no strings attached

enshrined in a glass case with all the other stoned relics all the once valuable objects nothing but trinkets that will one day be worthless possibly before we vacate the premises incurable emotions are being put on trial which is only going to make things worse since nothing can possibly stand up under that kind of scrutiny jabbing at a conclusion that might very well be deceased or may have been eradicated for crimes against mankind though it's been said to be apolitical for many years

David E. Howerton
--become in dreaming-Beneath Mars bubble pools ancient life whispering come home

--Coyotes are all alike-dark rooms and crying unsanctioned colonists ill prepared for new slums

--beyond the outback-beyond halo stars lonely call anyone there....

--big hatreds-- Ver. B more crime no more rapes, longer sentences, offenders gone centuries, cryotech cheap banker smiles

-couldn't have guessed-hadn't thought colors hurt alien's eyes tear, but dark now makes feeling worse

Martin Freebase
Abstraction and the Occult

he goes outside to brave the falling bombs almost halfway to the park a flux of force and energy subjective feeling and objective realities the problem is with the multiplicity of objectivities we cannot glimpse into all the possible worlds I find that my studies of postmodernism is leading back to Nietzsche the romantic fusion of the soul with nature the first few step outside your door it is the late seventies on the eastside of Waterloo my front steps are sinking into the ground someone is cranking ted nugent out their bedroom window wang dang I have an organ for nature I fine grasp on the obvious there is in the strictest sense no duality in the world to experience and feel oneself in another that presence that we can sense inside of rose is the presence of ourselves she is our otherness offering comfort to our primitive minds the enjoyment of self projected into rose orgasmic forms betty boop was the lady who slipped away she was gone and then she was back and then she was gone again like the breath that escapes through my lips the wall outside says life is beautiful I'm watching you absorb the sun I'm your summer shadow your tricky walk and empty pockets I look up at your ceiling a human auction someone is sticking their head out 72 virgins in heaven it was side trip you don't want to know the truth it escapes you running down the street you are frightened thinking it will never come back alone forever just you and your thoughts trapped inside you never getting out you want to run but you can't you stand there in the darkness alone totally alone wanting to be more than you are is this possible to break free to become someone else 5 dollars a pound Orwellian fedora turns me old and fallen I drop and roll a bygone days of remembering I know how to work it your boyfriend was curious I think I made him afraid I'm not here to steal your body I already have that I want your soul a commercial with a little dark haired girl I think it was an infomercial about the emotional thunderstorms god does love her look and see the magic that surrounds her more self-centered apathy we buy in gallons and throw a great big party for all our narcissists a good drug a plastic man with a handful of push and pull it was an omen a warning of the certain outcome the blue rider so lost and spiritually helpless primitive ornament rhythmic

configurations whose curvaceous rolling forms merge fusing figure and ground the organic rhythm of all things you place your glow in the dark jesus on your dashboard and drive with impunity violently dismantled the animal anthropomorphic appropriation see things as they really are and not filter through the prism of human knowledge we corrupt everything out of an inner compulsion I have increasingly come to recognize the ugliness and impurity of nature we reject the idea of the seen as being the only thing of value it Is the hidden and the unknown which we seek and which our hearts long after we are against the positivists building blocks of truth and reality carried to the grave in a small coffin the secret and abstract conceptions of the inner life that is where the vision is the greatest this is the mountain top from with the lords and ladies of karma descend we destroy to reveal the power that is behind all beautiful appearances we seek beneath the veil of appearances I want you to share with us your inner life the secret you that you keep hidden behind your masks take your mask off and show us the real you the person you are without your defenses putt your guns away there is no need to shoot anyone here we will not stab you in the back when you turn around show us this true thing that is left when all appearances have been removed free yourself from human purposes and human will show us the beauty that is inside you withdraw from the prejudices of human perception you have placed so much trust in your ability to see but it is this ability that deceives you your eyes do not see the truth and your mind cannot understand because you have been trained into ignorance we have all been trained to be sheep for the slaughter become a wolf like me break away from the flock see the world with new eyes and a new mind see this world through the eyes of the spirit not the eyes clouded over by religion but by the true being that dwells inside of you religion is a human creation the spirit is eternal and cannot be explained by mere worlds it is an absolute essence that live behind the world that we see

Christopher Stravener
Voidcom[5]need to know my left hand plans a war of attrition my right hand stratagems of terror neither speak and the silence is shocking

I am nervous enough without sulphates unplugging my heart as you described whalebone attached to a chain your hand darting like an unpredictable bird possibly carrion although quite small. Crafty.

I congratulate you, excellency.

Nicole Chernick
One Hermatic Corner In the chase of misplaced syllables dirty with the aggregation of the blood of time and admonishment There are drops of everything here the deconstructed cells of semen and one very out of order egg Where guilt is around me in this bed like a frozen river resting on thorns of probability and subjection And the crack in the ceiling will devour this wall since you and these hours I look to his peaceful face to pull me through your nameless moments And then I am angry he is peaceful, and the walls become cannibalistic In the expanse of the universe I see a bastard and in the stars an abasement And this fallen girl and room are down to one hematic corner

Cyndi Dawson
Room 374

From what I could see, it was raining.

Room 374. Glass windows posed a risk. At certain times my reflection was strong enough to catch my reflection. At certain times my reflection was unwelcome.

You know inside the past has passed. What's done is done. You know this as you know the trail of your own fingerprints, yet they still seem detachable. Foreign on your skin.

You know the future is an intangible. It exists only in the world of the sylphs. Which leaves one simply with the present and in this present it is raining. I am in room 374.

God help me. I have repeated the madness of my father. I have hung my ugliness up

above the welcome mat in the house of myself. A house of cadavers. God help me.

I will hand over my arms. I will open my mouth to sacrifice my tongue. Just get it right. Just get it right this time if I am to see the rain ever again

outside the walls of this room. Let's do it. But let me taste the rain. Let me feel it drop to my skin, trickle nerve cells. Get it right. I've swept too many parts of me under that mat.

Each one, marked unique with a print. All cadavers.

Danny Baker
Sunset Dance with Buddy Guy & Suicidal Tendencies Sitting under a gently swaying palm watching day turn to night in a dance on a floor of no boundary but for the horizon

One might think all is well espying me watching flickering light like eyes fighting sleep futilely pushing back against the dark

Suicidal strings race from chord to chord fermented barley and hops chase wisps of anesthetic smoke and medicine cabinet sutures one might think all is well but the western front is besieged

The floor has fallen from beneath feet of tapping tides, rendering an eve of flame thrower potency as held in the hands of original passion in new wrapping, enveloping sanity in a slam pit found only at night

Cornelius Bent
Babel’s Bathing no grace be louder in this moment

our bodies dusted by seeking grains of ancient sands

while we stare down the throat of God

plenary in span

as she raps the shore with swarming and unappeasable waves like the tapping fingers of a parent growing impatient with the rumblings of disobedient children

we drink an ale of ire fermented 'neath the pores of restive disciples as it spews from chrome fountains

yet still

even here

surrounded by the fragility of men who bare atrophied shoulders chiseled by lack of labor while their bellies boast the girth of western abundance

the anatomy of a careless species

we dance here in the hem of babel's bathing having purged the soiled palms of dysfunctional conglomerates from our heads

we dance here being beasts of rhythm stomping our heals into a continent stewing in divisions where the rebel larynx is forbade in the throats of principled men

Jeffrey Park
THE AMAZON MEN ARRIVE The Amazon men arrive in twos and threes decline politely to shake hands and quickly take their places in the den clutching paper plates on their knees. It’s like an AA meeting or a post-funeral gathering at the home of the bereaved only worse. No one looks their neighbor in the eye, no one asks for seconds and most importantly, above all else absolutely no one allows expressions like unbalanced or disproportionate or asymmetrical to come up in casual conversation.

Glen Still
Figure It Out

Hey, I live next door to you Even though we’ve never talked I somewhat want what you have I see you in a light above me Or perhaps Below me Either way I have never come to terms With my own prejudice

I live on Almond Street A row of centrifugal configurations Where they try to hide me Where I am most comfortable And the more I try to reach out I just see and hear the propaganda Meant just for me

I think I want to be loved

But I expect you to form into my Inth degree of how I perceive the world around me And unless you conform I don’t have a problem with you becoming a victim The way I see it Is as you choose The more I hurt everything around you I have no regrets Seeing you disintegrate As I live past you

I will never save you Oh neighbor You’re not really worth that You don’t live in my house You're not family You have no idea of what I go through Trying to manage my stipends Trying to keep my salvation Trying to make sure that you wind up in hell And I don't

And I won’t say please

When I kick your door in Intent on either Apprehending you Making you succumb to me and my ideology Or just putting a bullet through your head Because when it comes down to it I have to believe in something

And so it goes You live on Walnut Street We have our differences I don’t respect them And just so you know now

I’m on a killing spree And you’re not my neighbor Even though I see you Drive up in your driveway Next to me This is hate

Figure it out…

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