Deep Tissue Aug 2010 # 7

Deep Tissue August 2010 1
Deep
Tissue
Magazine
Issue 7, August 2010

Contents Page
Sex, Death, and Taxes by A.D. Hitchin 3
Mystic Lady by Meera Flame 10
Ponder This by Rose Aiello Morales 13
Ghosts of the Pawtucketville Night by James Crafford 18
Living in the Underground by Glen Still 22
Reliving the Past by Lucem Ferre 23
Spillings by Dan Kellett 31
American Party Poet in Pearls by Babs Martin 33
On My Way to the Grocery Store by Newamba 36
Exhumation of the Post Verbal Gap by Lee Kwo 42
Zodiac Poet by Wayne Russell 62
On the Edge of the Salton Sea by Jack Henry 66
Disconnected by Gillian Prew 77
A Simple Ginsberg by Tarringo t. Vaughan 81
Down in the Hollow by Jimmy Ray Davis 83
Laughing at Funerals By David McLean 88
Hermetic Hippo by Glen Lantz 90
Contributors 96
Other Zines 102
Deep Tissue URLs and e-mail 104

Sex, Death, and Taxes

By A.D. Hitchin
Metamorphosis [Alien]
Battles. Grown-men playing academics woke up crustacean.
White eye with identity-crisis. Empty now I consume what they see.
Of jelly.
No strong machines. Like vegetables. Slaying kids playing. In fact and out of a
Snivelling gelatine spitting belief. Consulting shrinks sick; all biological meat
acceded to Maya. Fruition beetle blue. Soiled stinking
Man has devolved pupils. Egg skin. Self-worth issues. Re-living potty training.
Games machines. Make-believe becoming extinct.
Accurate observation merely
impulsive,
reactionary
Poke the pathetic pink Cro-Magnon man
GOD Virus
bacteria spliced
spliced in re-writing code!
virus amnesia
amnesia-ambrosia
walls inter-spliced with parasite
Sodom and Gomorrah Jehovah interloper

religion replicating (gnitacilper noigiler)
fabric d
r
i
p
threat repeat
repeating on time-track
planet-wide DNA manipulation GOD-DNA
fabrication cerebral over-writing
energy splits time

god ancestry black memories

religion a carrier
bacterium released to be copied and pasted
bacteria replicating lines
stretching primordial
religion a carrier.
Permutation: Birth name
this is the name my Mother and Father gave me

this name my Mother and the Father gave is me
this name my Mother and the Father gave is me?
and Father gave this, the name, is my Mother - me?
this is the Father and this is the name my Mother, me and Father, gave me
my Mother is me and this gave my Father
this is me and the Mother gave my Father
me is and my Mother gave my Father this
and my Father gave name
me
Prototype …
ignorant cinema screen imagery, skimming dust softly,
neon tree unravelling
history:
whining tea-pot sputter suspended in grin, cradled faintest trace of

reading
…
red thrombosis, soft and bloody, naked

party,
their bodies clang
staggering in silver beams, coughing
black lungs, lime green
fluid and
dry blood in coffee
cups
sin
betraying its bite
cleaving sickened
…
all
alien.
Permutation: Neighbours
I don
I don
my neighbours and me, they don
me they don
my neighbours and I don
me, my neighbours and they don
could I borrow some coffee, please?
Zombie Machines
[Rigor mortis lips a stiff rictus

Haitian shape mutation
potent symbol murder contamination codenamed:
NIZAMBI!]
Zombie bite causes severe neurological reaction. Victims administered a

powerful neurotoxin powder derived from puffer fish.
‘t know my neighbours and they don‘t know me‘t know they don‘t know, my
neighbours and me‘t know I don‘t know ‘t know, my neighbours and I don‘t
know ‘t know me, they don‘t know‘t know I don‘t know
Relentless legions dismembering legs, gorging mucous membranes. Their core

temperature reduced causing limb rigidity. Zombies move listlessly sucking your
blood, incapable of fatigue. An embodiment of a past, brain-damaged.
Zombie machines will assault The Corporation in huge numbers.
[howl dog hubbub

primitive eyes flicker zombie mist
light chasm beams bleed crushed beetle sky
radios cackle static,
then die.]
New silicon Zombie is poisonous, secreting hallucinogen from rotting skin. In

conjunction with cyber-voodoo these creatures rise again and again, genetic
experiments shuffling metamorphosis.
Zombies never sleep.

A fanatical scientific researcher ran a poison gang during the 80s. They infected
victims with blow darts, administering zombie powder to doorknobs, latches, car
door handles
Zombies induce fear because they embody mans greatest fear; death and
decay.
They are death confronting us, touching
us.
Great Scott! These undead monsters!‘ … . The gang always struck at night with
assailants wearing night vision goggles. They have never been apprehended.
Rumours of a resurrection are persistent in counter-culture.
3
Extra-Human
look mind the gap!
Cyclops tentacled mass

Necronomicron mad wanderings
beings from between the spaces
text corrupted
Lovecraft intelligence black rites

writing wriggling aliens exiting vaginas
breaking barriers in desert
unholy portals opening

alternate dimensions
extra-human.
Projections
menstrual blood psyches,

bodies jpeg image bubbles burn and deliver
ugliness
projector light rays dry tan loop omens through ivory
soap splashes staining junkie, a drunk
they all move to

nothing
puncture weeping gods squashed,

deformed poetry, warm, micro waved loosening of
bowels,
city house pile flesh heap flecked eczema skin,
hand closing over knife, lifeless claret bleeding trails in
tiles.
3
…
untethered
snow falls as Angels, marshmallow white,

twinkling translucent in my mind pill
I could almost believe.
Permutation: Where is Here?
Where is here?
here is where?
where here is
is here where?
is where here?
ask yourself what you know experientially?
you know experientially, ask yourself what?
ask yourself what you experientially know?
experientially you know, ask yourself what?
what experientially do you know? Ask yourself
what experientially do you know yourself?
ask.
Osiris Injector
you sigh
melt into ego
wincing of hell consciousness clicking video
tears
go
digital
brain stem product penetrated with

lubricated dog star:
O/sirius
hot mammal in metal machine

black rubber insulated Isis reflecting carcasses sting

dragged from fear transmuted cursor tomb
Osiris hacking systems sigil libraries trembling looped feedback addict
addictions
Shiva hot latex 21st century blue skin
one metal ego coat jerking abused women screaming
TRUTH!
TRUTH!
TRUTH!
grenade abyss death clicks injects computer!

he turns Shiva
destroying sign systems inoculating
virus.
Gratified
Jungian mind hypnotic illusory artifice flickering

masturbatory miasmic gratification that replicates
spreads cortex
cerebral composite creation of instant primitive reptilian
a corrupted file given authority
death hormone brain-chain activates archetypes
similar to erotic effluvia.
Winters Night
in thick
tumorous flakes the dead fall peacefully,
a swathe of ache
taken under moonlight
fragmented without fixtures
somewhere
time
Zombies are omnipresent padre.‘ ‘s sincerity;
air conditioned brand clothes,
malls multi-level structures throw
disproportionate shadows
with identical
uniforms
supermarket begging attention, facsimile winding

endless franchise bars, logo kids

duplicate
repeating
Buddha head
bisecting
takeaways, witty anecdotes, strip lights
glow,
streets bustling identi-kit
mantras
we walk,
not quite within them.

2
Neon Tree
Flicker
flicker feed
‗fiction‘ ‗Second Life‘, hypnotized evolution budding bloody by the screen. Only
desire. Consumables. Your eyes out.… .… the Mother, this is
Mystic Lady
By Meera Flame
Sugar coated memories

Sugar coated memories of the past
Diluted polluted ,
reconstituted,
Flash backs
Faded plastic,
once fantastic
Rained upon,
stained on
sat on
creased ,
Crumpled up in the corners,
I straightened it out
try put it to right.
Saccharin coated
Dreams of the past not meant to last
Thrown out with the trash
Swallowed down fast
Now it’s gone out of fashion
Lost its purpose
Lost its passion,
Left alone In isolation,

Someone slapped it
Dismissed it
Then spat on it, in disgust
You devalued it
It escalated away from you
out from your peripheral view
Until now, it is renewed
slowly it crept back came home to you
Staring at you straight in the eye.
Blind,
now in its love you are blind,
You are painting it brightly
Redefining its beauty,

temporarily
one last time.
Invisible man
Falling out of my plans
Out of my hand span
secondhand man
Becoming hollow daydreams
lost & unkempt.
Withered wishes,
Worn out words,

faded landscapes
Falling out of my head
Unheard unsaid
are you dead?
moving out of my 20~20 vision
I raise up my hands
invisible man
gone blank
I can do nothing
Be no one
say nothing
Swallowed guile for a while
Then I spat it back out In distaste
Nothing left but your drifting shadows to chase.
Ponder This (Tourettes Raises Its Ugly

Head)
By Rose Aiello Morales
Choices
One is lies, and wanton careless
(and when have we not wanted to be?)
Safe in the goat skinned embrace,
fat on thick grapes and the music
of pan pipes; the laughing god is turned
by men into a fierce, red horned demon.
The other impossibly good, un-tempted

by the wiles of these human fleas,
claiming the blame for the abundance
of numbers, birthing one poor martyr
in a sea of millions, the glib god of the
improbable becomes the stern Father of 'No'.
The dichotomy is endless, the choice unfair;

the drone of life's denial for the promise
of the uncertain, a handshake agreement
being worth nothing in these times of fine print,
the Tempter promising everything while we still live.
And we poise on the precipice, knife held in trembling

hands, for the Devil is a very hard one to kill,
And God is even more so.

Looking For ken
She just wanted a little nip
So she searched on Google for "godhead"

a physician with more than a complex
need for re-arrangement, she thought
in her derangement that a change in cosmic
dimensions would garner her just a bit
more in the line of an opposite's attention.
She swam in the sea of ether, became

big fish in a little pond, massive mammals
and toxic waist, the space between butt
or fly zipped into shape, what fat escaped
got cheeky, and the doctor gave her so much
lip she began to think she'd gotten chiseled.
Now, when she walked she sizzled, but romance

fizzled when Barbie finally found her Ken; it's
sad, perverse, and ironic when the search for perfection,
the ultimate erection, seems to be in doubt; for the
godhead, being UN god-like, slipped the scalpel
and left a FEW big, important things out.
Bitch
I HAVE to get my head around this.
The entire Earth does NOT think like me,

love like me, like like me. "Viva la Difference".
To see the inside at the thought of friends

talking to enemies, knowing they see things
I never did, realizing perhaps I'm wrong
Shatters the illusion of omnipotence
Questions my concept of the world, of my place

within it; my prejudice made real, bigotry poorly
masked, pettiness on trial, vindictiveness biting
back like the untamed beast it's known to be.
Perfection soured by bitter reality.
A jagged piece of metal forced in front of my eyes,

a bitch reflected in its muted shiny surface.
Slavery
We enter into it knowingly,
Walking blithely through the bramble path,

sensing only the fragrant scent of roses
as the thorny vines wrap 'round our naked arms
Closing like chains upon our wrists, shackles

against our rooted feet, and the trap is sprung,
forever in the steamy holds of transient ships
And velvet rooms, imprisoned by sensuality,

enslaved by false emotional bonds; we close
our eyes, never to see it for what it is
Then we lie and call it LOVE.

Turn Away
He had lollipops upon his shirt
Angelic in the twist of bushes even as

his breath grew thin in the cold dawn
of NO NEW DAY; an innocent made
to suffer the black bruises of an evil
he would never live to understand.
And we turned away
Social work is anything but, grown

hard, unfeeling from the parade of man,
inhumanity a well-known human trait;
she checks off tiny boxes by remote control,
Of COURSE I observed, everything is fine.
Some are drawn by the ambulance reality,

some watch TV, liking their reality more unreal,
not noticing the shot in the dark, loud voices
in the night, a child with hungry eyes staring from
apartment steps; the wind blows, purple peeking
out from blousing shirt, tears upon a dirty face.
And we turn away......

Ghosts of the Pawtucketville Night

By James Crafford
In Search of King Philip
The first full-blown war between the whites (mostly English) and the Native Americans is
called KING PHILIP‘S WAR. King Philip was the English name of Metacomet or Metacom
who was the son of Massasoit.
He was the Chief Sachem of the Wampanoag Indians who greeted the pilgrims in 1620
at Plymouth Rock. King Philip became the rebel insurrectionist who got credit and
blame for the bloodshed. One and every sixteen persons living there then knew
someone who was killed.
It remains the bloodiest war fought on American soil per capita ever, including our own
Civil War.
This war lasted some fourteen months and occurred mostly in southern New England in
Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island. It is a tale of such enormous drama and
tragedy that I strongly believe every American citizen should know it; every school
child should be taught it, because it became the precedent to which all other wars with
the Indians would be fought.
When we think of Indians, we almost always think of the Indians in the west—Navajos,
Hopis, Apaches, i.e. Hollywood has given us a ton of films to ponder in that regard, but
whatever happened to the Indians who greeted the first settlers?
The utterly brutal answer to that question is they were destroyed and pretty well wiped
off the map and the women and children were sold into slavery, mostly in the West
Indies.
A wealth of information exists as to the history of these dark days, but one must make
an effort to find it. Plus, if you want to go looking for some of the important sites in
connection to this war, one must also be determined to ask a lot of questions and do a
lot of legwork, like a detective to accomplish it.
Having grown up in Rhode Island, I was always aware that Indians lived there first. My
hometown of Pawtucket is an Indian name meaning ―the place at the little falls.‖ My
indie film CHEPACHET is also an Indian name (and a town) meaning ―the place at the
crossing.‖
It has been a peripheral thrill of mine to actually go to some of the key sites in relation
to King Philip‘s War, including the very spot where he was slain in Bristol, Rhode Island.
That spot is owned by Brown University now and they are not especially friendly about
letting people go there. I had to sneak on the property and illegally park my car in
order to get there and I got a ticket for my efforts. But I am glad I did it. I felt the ghost
of King Philip go through me. It is not a moment I plan to forget.
Last week I went to Smith‘s Castle, a site in Wickford, Rhode Island, with my friend,
Michael Andryc, who is also a huge aficionado of the King Philip story. There is a mass
grave there of forty soldiers who took part in the Great Swamp Fight where forces from
Massachusetts and Connecticut invaded a secret encampment of the Narragansett
Indians and obliterated over five hundred wigwams and many old men, women and
children! The forty solders died of their wounds during the retreat from that fight (better
described as a massacre) during a snowstorm.
Not far from there, Michael and I attempted to find another hidden refuge used by the
Indians called Queens Fort. It is supposed to be within a circle of huge boulders, a trash
heap of a glacier, where some Indians hid out for six months to a year in an
underground cave. There are written accounts of the place but the English failed to find
it then and no one knows exactly where it is even now!
Using a reference book, we made two trips in the area during the course of two days in
attempt to find the basic place. We were stunned that people living in the immediate
area did not know of it or they confused it with streets having similar names like Queens
Fort Way or Queens Fort Lane but not the actual place itself.
Finally, after several desperate efforts and by putting some clues and physical places
together (like a major stone wall and a fire lane in the woods), we were able to locate
the trail to the place only to discover that it lays on private land with NO TRESPASSING
and POLICE TAKE NOTICE signs all over it. Here is one of the most fascinating sites in
connection to this entire war, a war that wiped out nearly all of the New England tribes
and yet it is not a federal landmark or anything that is protected by the United States‘
government. Like many facts and sites in this story, it remains hidden under a guilty,
pitiless rug of subterfuge and secrecy.
Perhaps at another time, when no one is looking, I will once again, park illegally and
make a mad dash into the past and take a peek.
Lake Carmel NY July 15, 2010
Coda:
The following week later, through a series of lucky connections,

I was able to visit the actual site of Queens Fort!
Turns out we were 50/75 yards off course. The entrance to

the area looked more like an abandoned driveway than a
fire trail.
The rocks were slick from a recent rain and the lichen growing
on them looked like rubber leaves from the planet Avatar.
We came upon a couple of fire pits and a couple of different
difficult trails that lead to the area now known as Queens Fort.
No one in recent times has ever found the actual underground
cave where the Indians hid from the English, but here at last
was the glacial trash dump where a long series of immense
boulders collide in a fractured line of wild structures.
An Indian named Stonewall John created some of it as a defensive wall.
Professor Leonard Melfi, an archeological investigator and Indian

scholar, theorizes that the area was actually an ancient ceremonial
ground, including a Solstice stone that marks seasonal change.
Here the Indians also safely hid for several months and when they
left in attempt to join allied tribes north, they were savagely
massacred by the English in a swamp in North Smithfield
RI soon thereafter.
Now that I now where things are, I plan to return to the site in the fall when the leaves
have fallen
and walking those trails and skimpering over those huge rocks
will be easier. Stay tuned.
Pawtucket RI July 19, 2010

Living in the Underground

By Glen Still
Miracle Man
I'm as close as I can get
As far away to where you don't like it
I can smell you a thousand miles away
I can feel you twenty four hours a day
I can only hold you
If I keep my hands cuffed
As much as this heals
It hurts even more
I can look around the corner

Never have to turn my head
I can breathe under water
Be stoned cold dead walking insomnia
I can see through the mirror
Trace the image with invisible ink
I can do miracles
There's just one thing
I can't seem to fall in love

I can shoot holes through clouds
Stitch them up with a rusted sewing needle
I can brake on a dime doing speed
I can trip but never fall
Grab a star and wipe the shine right off
No matter what the deal
I can run but I can't hide
Whatever you did
You did it almost to perfection
Now I'm all messed up
No matter what
I can't fall in love
Reliving the Past

By Lucem Ferre
Fuck your greedy hallucination
Approaching the dread
A too complicated puzzle
Wishing for the impossible
Pitched into your humble activities
Interpreted as astray
Prying apart the good and the bad
Breathing in the murderous
Holding it deep inside your lungs
Locked with flashed fingers
A five year empty and alone
I couldn‘t find you if I tried
My legs broken by your brothers
Tipped over cup of swill
I‘ll just be tonight
Again with my rants
Tied in a ribbon stolen from your hair
I always did believe too much
In sympathetic magic
Barrel trousers down
Learning a unique vintage

Another savage interpretation
Long gone and dead
Accessing the delicious
The textures of a damned ethos
Who else to blame?
A Bare Language
Hard obsession that becomes devotion
Pleasant booty conversations
You, all present and counted for
Too polite to fondle you
Between bites of spinach
Counting on an achieved intimacy
To say you knew me well
Gasoline and stick figure
Mudded frothing feet
Under the dinner table
You counting your blessings
The fattened lamb
Led to the slaughter
Stumbling upon the silent
Crashed and snapped
Not thinking of purity
Out of the corner of my eye

I caught a glimpse
Of your distant heaven
A perishable performance
The act finishes with realization
A new understanding
Of our entwined destinies
And opening and closing with weight
As blue as neglect
Soaking my meandering head
Between your legs
Awake between rooms
Channeling a strange ghost
Dismisses out-of-hand
Touched deep enough
Back to killing us
They want the revolution
Following their obsessions
Their own philosophies
And poppy seed bagels
Going on out there
The quantification of their subprime
60 sculptures of the dead
Selling the street to the dirt
It‘s all buy and sell in Disneyland

Growing so powerful
Fists full of dynamite
They want you to be god
To be the melodrama
Something for the elite
Bought then thrown away
Sucking down the apocalypse worm
It means nothing unless there is a price tag
Buy you, but me
Leave me alone to my vice clamp
Before the divide and conquer
Too disgusted by the numbers
A philosophical bucket
A portrait of the human condition
Dependent on the choices
No choices for imagination
Teaching the mix
With a shilling dictionary
Damp heat and desire
Sending me on a fuzzy complex
Amplification of moonbeams
Breathing hard together
Smoldering, burning strings of causality
Dirty little attitudes
Their mismatched look
So good on their feet

My Bright Blue vision
Unwrap the package
Of your biggest lie
Your savage little boundaries
A pure gleam of mischief
Fusing this experience
Unleashing the moment
The green monolith
Across the board
This greedy little machine
Somewhere from the past
Hidden in the niche
A spiral tube
Chasing the thrill
As long as the vibes right
Falling into a ditch
A different level
Close up and live
Massive attacks
On your parade
On your circus
The redhead laughs
And sniffs the last of your blow
If you want to put it up there
Bending over backwards

Giving you head butts
Never seeking permission
Pure dance floor filth
Dripping on the streets
With mouths open and eyes closed
Shaping the endless onslaughts
The tidal wave trippers
Learning to swim in the new horizon
Digital threadbare prophets
Dropping the cold and copper
Amongst the many supports and doomsday artists
Feeding off the love parade
Eating chicken with the mothers
You could have been a star
Not play this screwed up and baked dish
Through the prism of mercury
Fueling the electronic explosion
Entering the destruct sequence
Spilling all the drivel
Trying the exotic drug
Upturning cars and setting the rubber to fire
Disillusioned by everything
Bringing a lucid splash
Something so supposedly blunt

A Blatant disregard for Authority
Throwing you through the loop
The leads bleed
We all start out as human
Blinded by the need for control
No one questions, provokes, or tries to elevate
Shattering your barricades
Socialized not to accept the status quo
Raised on revolution songs
My daddy singing woody Guthrie
Yet, the things that mean the most are steamrolled by progress
Deluded by this need for growth
It should be a sustainable world
They want to control your box
Trying to maintain all this stupid shit
All that macho aggressive energy
All the destructive shit
My misplaced soul
Along for the ride
Fucking everything up
Blatant and in your face
Making us believe that there was a revelation
That hope and change can mean something
When everything is still the same
They are not going to change a system that fucks us over

When they are getting rich off of the poor
Burn your money
Blow up your car
Smash your tv set
Free your fucking mind from all the bullshit
Disconnect from the internet
Walk away from it all
Learn how to grow tomatoes
Learn how to talk to someone face to face
Help someone that has fallen down
That is the revolution
Helping someone one at a time

Spillings
By Dan Kellett
trigger finger
a grave holds my humility
tight in a wilting cocoon
fists bound
unable to puncture the sky
my eyes are birthed by sunshine
two screaming savages
ground in the meat of survival
'cause my only fear of death
is in not living
yet i have this apocalypse
chambered in an ordained revolver
trigger finger
restless and sinister
the scent of enemy
raises a will from my loin
that pounds rock like a waterfall

and knows nothing of demise
so be with me
if only in the euphony of song birds
who rage unseen in the deep trees
and flutter beyond my grip

American Party Poet in Pearls

By Babs Martin
We all know
best places to go
are off the travel map
It‘s beats on side streets
that make me drink raw energy
that keep me away from home
keeps me addicted to explore
go-go dance of working poets
mad gator growls of musicians
and the mission to become friends
with them all.
I was privileged to a whirlwind weekend in New Jersey to celebrate Outside Girl,
the book and CD release combination by Cyndi Dawson. During this celebration
at Mulligan‘s in Hoboken, NJ, I got to hear the energetic poetry of Kat Georges,
the intense charge of Jane Ormerod, smoking street poetics of David Lawton
and the mischievous ―Sonny and Cher‖ skit by Puma Perl and Big Mike Logan.
Cyndi Dawson took the stage accompanied by Tommy Aboussleman on guitar
and Rick Lewis on keyboard. Cyndi riveted the crowd with readings of masterful
grit and live wordrock straight from Outside Girl. She led us to the past party
bars of New Jersey and to go-go artful days in NYC. We were there with her. We
laughed, we were introduced to wild, spaced out characters in leather, we felt

deep emotions of time, loss and gain, and then we danced. We danced in the
after party to The Trash Mavericks who embody roots rock with a fusion twist of
punk sounds out of NYC. There was even a guest appearance by Richard
Rybinski. They played dance tunes after dance tune. They had no mercy on us
for four hours and we could not refuse. The next day Cyndi, Tommy and I found
ourselves at a block party benefit for The Make a Wish Foundation. There we
heard the band Louis Louis, more appearances from members of The Trash
Mavericks, and even a special guest performance with Tommy Aboussleman,
and yes that meant another four hours of dancing – all for a good cause.
Within a week, I was back on the road to OKC to attend an afternoon workshop
conducted by George Wallace, award winning poet and journalist of Long
Island, NY and founding member of the Woody Guthrie poet gathering. George
activated our mind muscles and got our imaginations popping with high speed
word association games. Now tell me, what poet wouldn‘t like to learn poetic
freedom through word fun? I know each person in the room appreciated
George‘s leadership and found his teachings and group participation
exhilarating. Later that evening, members of the Woody Guthrie Poetry Group
read a piece of their work from Travelin Music: A Poetic Tribute to Woody Guthrie
(anthology edited by Dorothy Alexander). What a great contrast experience to
go from poetry created out of the inner city streets of the East Coast to poems
phrased from perspectives of working prairie life. Yet, we seem to share a
common dirty road of hardships beneath our feet and humorous happenings
along the way just trying to get back to the home of ourselves. But, we‘re not
ready to trek home just yet, the next day the group met in Okemah, Oklahoma
for the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival where they shared a three hour round of
poetry readings. I was only able to catch the tail end with a gripping tribute to
Oklahoma poet Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel (1918-2007) as read by Dorothy
Alexander and George Wallace‘s closing poem ―Cisco and Me‖ which paints
an understanding of American street life no matter where you happen to be.
After the readings, a small group of us headed down the road to the winery for
Frozen Roses, bocci, and music by Red Dirt rockin fiddler, Randy Crouch.
Circling back to sharing an American experience, a couple from Cleveland in
our Grape Ranch gathering saw my performance at the Rites of Spring show at
the Yippie Café hosted by Puma Perl in April, 2010. Just goes to prove us poets
and poetry lovers are never very far apart.
So far this month I have accumulated a signed copy of Cyndi Dawson‘s book
Outside Girl published by Poets Wear Prada, Hoboken, NJ, with pocket CD,
Travelin Music: A Poetic Tribute to Woody Guthrie edited by Dorothy Alexander
published by Village Books Press Cheyenne, Oklahoma, and an autographed
copy of George Wallace‘s Poppin Johnny published by Three Rooms Press, NY.
Not to mention the calluses, sore thigh muscles and good times with poets,
musicians and new friends. At this writing, I leave tomorrow on a road trip to
Florida dazzling about what this American party poet in pearls will encounter
next.
On My Way to the Grocery Store

By Newamba
The Mad Ones
The tornado siren blares as dams explode, causeways and bridges collapse and
political pundits prate over partisan politics on cable news channels…
And I wonder, wonder, wonder-
Who was it that surfed tsunamis, prayed for catastrophic hurricanes, and chucked
corpses at homeless shelters in Chicago and danced outside in the LA riots,
contemplating earthquakes and famines?
Who strapped their testicles full of explosives on Christmas Day flights from Amsterdam?
Who watched American Idol as the body count climbed in Fallujah and shed tears over
the death of Michael Jackson while the bombs dropped in Afghanistan?
Who drove SUVs off cliffs and chased foreclosures all over Florida, selling swampland
timeshares which opened sinkholes, and expostulated conspiracy theories of
implosions and clandestine missiles shot at the Pentagon while wanton military drones
were flown into skyscrapers?
Who separated the rich from the poor with palm trees and drained the seas to fill
swimming pools and took cell phone videos of teenage girl fights, ran through the
Louvre with Freddy Kruger gloves slashing paintings and kicking over sculptures, and
hijacked cargo planes, dropping pay loads of piss-filled water balloons over crowded
football stadiums in square states that no one gives a running fuck about and then
updated their Facebook status with Ninja Zen-like precision?
Who opened zoos, unleashed wild animals into crowed city streets, unleashed hyenas
into kindergartens, and let feral monkeys loose into shopping malls?
Who threw flaming bags of dog shit at Santa Claus and pushed PETA activists into lion
pits and heaved hand grenades at poetry readings?
It was the mad ones! The mad ones! The MAD ONES!
The ones who spike city water systems with LSD and blast fog horns in movie theaters,
poison slaughterhouses, derail subway cars, throw acid at supermodels‘ faces, juggle
samurai swords, steal your iPod, and creep up behind people at baseball games,
setting their hair on fire…
And reincarnate dinosaurs only to give them herpes sores and then open mangled
umbrellas and jump off tall buildings while screaming out the pledge of allegiance and
giving the Nazi arm salute…
Oh! The mad ones! The mad ones! The straightjackets to be filled!
The hooded men carrying spears, impaling Lady GaGa drag queens up the ass with
these spears, and parading around the shrieking fairies on sticks like trophies, dragging
them into pro-life rallies, demanding Sarah Palin be buttfucked by Obama‘s Siamese
twin brother the mainstream media isn‘t telling you about…
Yes! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The mad ones! The ones with
Hindu God armed HD televisions clawing out of their proletariat vaginas and anuses
during the morning commute!
Fire-breathing satanic catatonics dreaming up narcolepsy!
Chaotic renderings of Kabala justice! Monsoons of analeptic seizures! Unspeakable

palsies!
Identity theft Balloon Boy schemes of school shootings and Stanky Legg abortion
dances!
Those with ass grabbing homosexual necrophilia tendencies who would dump commie
bastards in wheelchairs into meat grinders and throw handfuls of cockroaches at lazy
eyed lawyers running on treadmills!
MAD ONES!!!!
Offensive cartoon riots, Jesus with a mullet and a shotgun, terrorists on monkey bars,
headless obese people on the news, serial killer playing cards, pharmaceutical Buddha
bandits meditating machine gun fire, levitating Halliburton owned nooses cutting loose
the duct taped savior no one believes in anymore!
The mad ones!
Their rock and roll salvation catcalls social security numbers through telekinetic
Nigerian emails!
Mad ones!
Viral file-sharing floods of torrential torrents carpet bombing YouTube with video of
AK-47 sodomizing Wal-Mart shoppers on hands and knees begging a supermarket

messiah to burn illegal immigrants at the stake with water from the Gulf of Mexico!
They will eat at Taco Bell and beat off to Glen Beck‘s photograph and laugh as Native
Americans in full headdress drive tanks into gated communities and bulldoze
McMansions!
The MAD ONES!
Blast napalm at libraries, piss all over museums, crucify intellectuals, drive golf carts into
lakes, give fire hose enemas to telemarketers and psychiatrists alike, spike swine flu
vaccines with swine flu, and call 911 on 9/11 telling racist jokes instead of Tweeting at
Tea Parties!
MAD ONES!
Midgets in hockey masks queuing up to enter ossuaries, pedophile priests sexually

assaulting autistic street mimes, decapitated giraffes in abandoned buildings mocking
cancer and determining a pre-existing condition!
MAD ONES!
And mad ones, mad ones, mad ones, YOU FUCKING MAD ONES, I am you and I am with
you…
I AM WITH YOU as we read more status updates than books and crooks decide our
decoded destinies for decades to come and the asteroids become our new
landmines…
And I am with you Carl Solomon,
And I am with you Allen Ginsberg,
And I am with you Dred Sista Ren,
And I am with you Amiri Baraka,
And I am with you Walt Whitman,
I am with you as the greatest minds of my generation masturbate away our posterity
and watch Paris Hilton sex tapes and dance with celebrities in front of telepathic
televisions!
I am with you.
I am with you.
I AM WITH YOU.
EXHUMATION OF THE POST VERBAL

GAP
By Lee Kwo
The Post Verbal Gap/Boredom of the Long

Distance Psychotic
Like the boundless zoom lens eye of the cybernetic penal sleepwalker captured
in solitary confinement in a Kafka novel my head stretching the boundaries of
thought qua imagination is damaged rot of gangrene dragged its bloody
bandage across scratch distressed images infest and breed in the dank water
penetrated by the half light of this last desperate attempt by a doomed species
to save the Universe from self destruction under terms of the intervals of The Post
Verbal Gap Demolition 33/An outpouring of captured light particles irradiated
with atomic isotopes explicates frame by frame the differential mutating flesh of
the morphing humanix being as it changes from carbon to silicon/fuking the
ghost from organic to inorganic/soon the horizon will writhe with atomic
tapeworms burrowing into Soutines flyblown beef carcass of the imagination/I
am painting like Rembrandt screem the Big Pisser from his cell in Anthracite City
and he slap on the red velvet curtains hiding Rubens soft flesh of child angels
heavily armed/I look at the piles of already decomposing painted corpses and
see life imitating art/That is dying out/This is Toxic Soldier all over again/I hear
the dirt crash onto the interred coffins buried in the Desert of sands the roots of
omnivorous vegetation pierce my body make me aware of the incongruous
differences in the space you and I move thru/In a lascivious manner I am
seduced by yr paradise of black and white even now there are Angels in
heaven carrying savage weapons ready for The End in the arena of the Middle
East a blast of white light that will solarise every negative in the world/Bring it on
fukers /remind me of the short space of life we inhabit the pain cracked enamel
eyes of loves that have past by never to return/ those photographs/I have
horded them/ never get enough evidence of those instances of desire and
delirium that have fractured the boredom of my life with their delicate tendrils/a
granular saturation of pain coats the back of the screeming throat eats into my
ribcage a wall of memories to get thru only to find a empty future with no one to
speak to/But I hard as new army boots and live on shunt of memories the smells
of the earth just turned by spade in the South of France I sit with Desiree listening
to the cicadas she hands me a Turkish delight the soft imprint of her finger left on
its surface and drinking coffee the warm sunlit parapets of the Villa Seurat
covered in ants depositing trail of formic acid on powdered sugar not a few
hours left to catch the scent of jasmine and wisteria perhaps cure that pain in
my chest the coughing the insomnia the bipolar transit Station last train to the
Unknown City Limits…
I doze on my busted leather couch bored with this document this room this
house these people/I mean really fuking bored thinking of murder plots blunt
force trauma incidents 9mm spits out shell casing jacks hole into skull gun falls to
floor once again a useless tool/the body of the woman crumpled unable to stop
its own transit towards the floor/Click Click Click it is documented/ At the
moment there is only depression and grief in this life and a vicious brutal sense
of the stupidity that requires one to be a survivor/I need to see Dr Degout/I crack
the top off bottle of Old Pharaoh and pour a big glass/one slug ripps the skin off
the roof of my mouth/things soon settle down as the alcohol seeps into the
cavities swirling down my throat/ Dr Benway the Oncologist feels the shrunken
joints and swollen tissue and says its bad to mix alcohol with the other meds but
what the fuk/its been six years since I had a drink/Im not listening to any Quack
opinions/I look at the earwax and grease under his fingernails the still bloody
tools of his last job scattered over the surgical tray/anyway cant write to you
unless im pissed/Dr Degout the Psychiatrist says this pathway to my demise well
it‘s a form of regression to the oral stages of childhood when you imagined you
were part of a Whole SAFE mommydaddymethem molar structure and
indestructible/Says I should keep away from you/Says yr too unstable and a real
irregular guy/Fantazise about trip to South Island of Japan my brother glibly says
oh well just pack a suitcase and go/but I am frozen in debt to those I leave
behind/life is not a rehearsal you only get one chance blah blah/Death is the
big Unconscious after life has oozed from the corpse/Dead language that the
depressed speak/the death of the mother tongue/the mother lode/the mother
fuker/death is the only event in life that we have any control over/and the
objects of our memories buried alive the collapse of meaning on the tongues of
the acquaintances for there can be no friends/you are my friend when I need
you screems Effluvia/Speech to the depressed is like an alien skin breathing the
pollutants of enforced solitude and this foreshadows their suicide/And so it
comes unexpected and leaves no evidence of its wretched self centred logic /
Spell Disneyland backward and avoid the massacre of the innocents/Ah father
when the Lord is reified in another and you are required to fall down frothing
resist militarist propaganda and just run that video of flying jets over a hill
silhouetted with crosses/recall that the contrary propensities of the good and
bad Angels have arisen not from a difference in their nature because god made
them both but from a difference in their wills and desires/The depressed are
lucid observers watching day and night over their misfortunes and discomfits
building a refuge a bunker into which they can escape/they speak in the cold
words of academia and appropriate wealth and resources along with the
weapon-ized privatisation of the planet/But also in the phase space of evolution
and singularity not soon enough to include homo sapiens in the final mass
extinction event horizon on the dying Planet/look down from the lofty dignity of
eternity abstractions and dead philosophy/She says to me with tears in her eyes
I have effected a true swallowing of the hated maternal object thus preserving
deep within myself a source of rage against myself and a feeling of inner
emptiness/of my father the more cruel and sadistic I have nothing to say/about
him I speak as if at the edge of a sentence that cannot be uttered/Now it so
happens that like Bukowski this man suffered from serious skin diseases and was
deprived of contact with the mothers skin and was told by the father that s/he
was an ugly child/and you couldn‘t sing because yr voice was polluted with the
hatred of her in the sound of yr voice/so he took up drinking and writing/but I
wander…Israel and the US have shown they are prepared to destroy an entire
country to assert their interests if not also their dominance in this region/His
prayers are evil who hopes to have someone to hate or to fear in order to
conquer them/THE FALLING BOMB/Now we are on the digital image of a
virtual reality stage seated in rows of ten on bleachers/The screen is filled with
images of my own misery a real theatrical spectacle of the endless BOREDOM I
have to bear/but the audience enjoys the tragic scenes of others torment that
which they would not like to bear/what is this if not miserable insanity/and who is
the moral conscience of the Empire of the West?/without a well organised sense
that these people over there were not like us and didn‘t appreciate our values
there would have been no war and no movie/Dogma gets it all down on film
confronted as he is by all the shaved heads/Speaking by satellite Dogma
salutes the resistance of Hezbollah against the filthy running dogs of War
machine/I‘m so frustrated I cant think straight/body parts and corpses being
hauled from collapsed masonry/The flying Note-Book woke me up to the musak
of Public Image scenes of carnage and destruction in the 70s/
Exile on the Asphalt Plain/

its been a long time lost on the streets of Manhattan San Francisco Los Alamos
when the red dust comes in great clouds from the Arizona desert I think of you
nearly blinded by yr own genius/I am living in Max Ernst old shack that he built
in the thirties yr kind of place really but for me it‘s a form of punishment/hand
made planks cut from local Cedar trees Oregon joists with those sap filled knots
the roof flat asphalt tar sheets the asbestos dust glistening in the sun/torn plastic
sheets in the windows /ahhh these photos you promise to send me will remind
me of dreams of Surreal blooms and living in St Kilda when I used to read Anias
Nin in the Blessington St Gardens to escape from the hateful diatribes of the
shaved head Lesbian I was sharing the flat with/8 months I spent in that damp
dark back room sleeping on the floor one bar radiator burn out the O2
swallowing Temazapan sleepers and bottles of Port trying to knock me out get
enough sleep to work the next day/I saw a lot of soggy desperate dawns in
those months wishing I had more control over my circumstances/right thru
Melbourne winter the windscreen of the Vanguard leaking vandals stealing the
hubcaps/coming back to Unknown City on weekends to find you drunk
wrapped in shagpile carpet this particular one bar radiator left on for days
takeaway food wrappers butts in the teacup/ one bar radiators are a much
neglected plot/using the bar to light his cigarettes the acrylic carpet melting
dreaming of Queer Jane he realised that she wasn‘t going to turn off the final
switch just yet eyes of broken china blue without a trace of the flashpoint their
love had reached [there s that word again]/always on the lookout for love/what
wasted efforts are spent on its behalf/But im big in JAPAN/GBH short circuits the
main arteries to the cerebral lobes bloat up that muscle in the chest pumping
nicotine around the venal system/avocado on rye bread for late breakfast when
you are used to pursuing states of oblivious unconsciousness thru various illegal
means death comes as no surprise/it has always been there at yr elbow only
now that it moves into focus you realise what that shadow was/reminds you in
the silence of its exit like the allure of the BIG Hit the obsession to turn off the final
switch/it wont be me that gives it any sense of direction/let the history of the rise
of silicon bonded to carbon flesh decide/I don‘t care/I love it go on resting here
on the couch listening to other peoples musak watching the afternoon sun fall
below the blue Nevada hills recognition of close others never enters my
thoughts/the vastness of the landscape and the brilliance of the colours
obliterates the need for human presence/let that be stated for the Archives/for a
few seconds I am emptied of grinding anticipation and anxiety/The seasons are
fuked the planet has gone awry its February here in Arizona Desert and fuking
cold/greasy roads squalls of rain grey trombone clouds the cold seeps thru into
my shell of bones frost screeches from the barren fig tree beech trees peeling
paper white bark buds and nodes mixed with leaves already starting to fall off
rupturing from black branches/I take a day off/no point looking at the clock/it‘s
the same time as it was yesterday at this time/and what have you done?/as I
always say no one intrudes before lunch/I‘m walking down Rue Git le Coeur
dressed in leather pants and black and red lumber jacket/picked up a pair of
Navy Seals Boots from the OpShop/12 hole lace-ups the ones Doc Martin copied
for his boots only these are more water proof/good for the snow/heading
towards the Arizona Herald Tribune Building to take some photos of the Elm trees
roots bulging out of the asphalt they look like amputated torso of alien forms
gnarled and twisted spreading across the footpath/I am free from the Job of
thinking for a day I feel released from the asylum of my head/I have flushed the
toilet/I have a spring in my step and a voracious appetite to take in every detail
of my walk/these unbearable long periods at The Job of thinking soak up the
energy and time I should be spending on writing/the crock of inspiration besides
being cracked is almost empty/I have to stop and fill it up again/Reading books
/I will give you a synopsis of each one so you don‘t have to bother reading them
yrself/Julia Kristeva Black Sun Melancholia and Depression/very good/she
says thus the depressive affect and its verbalization in psychoanalysis and also
in works of Art is the perverse display of depressed persons contemplating their
ego driven uniqueness/ confessing their illness to another creates a certain kind
of perverse intimacy/their ambiguous source of pleasure that fills a void and
evicts death protecting the subject from suicide as well as from psychotic
attack/for many without the healing ejaculation of creativity expressed there is
only death/the relief that precedes the decision to suicide may translate as the
archaic regression by means of which the act of a denied or numbed
consciousness turns the death drive back on its self and reclaims the non-
integrated selves lost paradise/one without others or limits/a fantasy of
untouchable fullness enfolded in death/a deep sadness is the fundamental
mood of depression and even if manic euphoria alternates with it sorrow is the
sign that gives away the desperate person/for being-ness to occur the loss of
the mother is essential/the first step to becoming an autonomous
individual/Matricide is our vital necessity to achieving selfhood/but if this drive to
matricide is interjected the depressive or melancholic putting to death of the self
is what follows instead of matricide/ thus my hatred is safe and my matricidal
guilt is erased/I need not find the other sex as erotic object/so in the case of the
feminine male there is no hatred only an implosive mood that walls itself in and
kills secretly through permanent bitterness bouts of sadness or even lethal
sleeping pills that are taking in smaller or greater quantities as if to deceive the
self that only sleep is intended a sleep that immerses us in the oceanic void/and
what use for us is there in the death of the [M]other/a sense of superior survival
skills?/Mourning for an archaic and indispensable Object of wholeness that
perhaps in death we can grasp/and finally a sense of desperation that we are
left behind with so many unanswered questions/the pressure to complete what
was started/
Strindberg Collected short stories The Algebra of Identity

Exterminated says in a short story called The Ethics of Disappearance
…let us keep in mind the speech of the depressed repetitive and monotonous
they utter sentences that are interrupted exhausted drag to a standstill of
obsessive litanies arms waving fingers around their throat…utter not words but
sounds grunts glossolalia/the original language of the Imaginary State wherein
symbols had not yet been invented to enunciate the unknown things that
prowled the night/Rene Crevel Prelude to a Tragic Rape…the Artist
consumed by melancholia is at the same time the most relentless in his struggle
against the manic phases of exultation until death strikes or suicide becomes
the only imperative/as Nerval said walking his lobster in the Jardin de Plantes I
have nothing but my life to throw at you/a disguised act of WAR against the
codes of restraint the Artist becomes nomadic and dreams about the Nagazaki
Desert/The work of Art as fetish emerges when the activated paranoid sorrow
has been repudiated and transformed into flashes of genius for nothing less will
satisfy us/some imagine that creativity will save them that there is something to
celebrate in their grunting and scribbles and we are all drawn up into a sudden
vortex of hysteria mediated by endorphins hallucinating schizophrenic
joy/inevitably falling back from the sky into a state of fugue the sorrow returns
that much sharper/the evidence of the imagined fetish remains in the materiality
of the object and constantly reminds us of our failures to translate one into the
other/the object remains mute no matter how much psychic energy we focus
on it/it will not speak/the shoe/the stocking/the car/the empty roll of film whose
white and black particles unexposed make you so excited you shit yr self/Then
there are The Complete Works of Antonin Artaud /All writing is shit
says this The Tyrannical Judge of the anxiety punishment side of the writing
subject brings out into the open the realization that the complaint against
oneself is a reversed hatred for the other which is without doubt a fabrication of
the substratum of unsuspected traumas inscribed within us/without memory a
fringe of strangeness haunts the writer as victim/the buried accomplice of
regressive data day dreg drift drone-dreams rises and invigorates those frailties
that entertain suicide/ Anality is a bonus with Obsessive persons who list all that
must be done in multiple lifetimes of texts and believe that there are those
around them that perform this miracle and are published/Its all in the editing
says Artaud/One kills the self not the body and to kill the self one needs to be
painfully aware of the self as inadequate a weak and vulnerable self unable to
save its multiple of selves/The anxiety of being destroyed from within denotes a
tendency towards disintegration into SkiTZoid fragmentation/Artauds problem
was physical not psychological/The depressive mood move mode mutation
constitutes itself as a narcissistic inability to see the needs of the Others/
Negative to be sure and often leading on to the suicidal act /the erotization of
the suffering of the Other/primarily in passive images in which the other entices
the depressive subject to sorrow thru pain is the major sign that gives away the
desperate person/Artuad was tortured to death just as Van Gogh was suicided
by society/a psychic representation of energy displacements caused by
external or internal traumas/producing anxiety of images that are not stable
enough to coalesce as verbal or written signs/Literary creation is that adventure
of the body and signs that bears witness to the body without organs and to the
affects of desire and other aleatory moods/What makes a triumph over sadness
possible is the ability of the self to identify no longer with the lost Object [the
maternal breast] the not Father of the Law the Oedipus Syndrome or Electra
Complex but instead the Father as Primal Phallus on the margins of the
socias/What escalates this escape from the death of the self?/coded forms of
abrasive raw data drawn immediately from the sub conscious moving in a
continuous visual loop/Illicit machinic schema of nightmares unbearable to the
uninitiated/erratic series of points of departure and standard
stoppages/Gendered succession of others redefining feminine self/women as
dominating objects/women as nothing as zero as circle of void complicity with
fecundity/circularity/reciprocity/The manic position states: no I haven‘t lost
meaning/I evoke/I signify thru the artifice of signs and for myself which up to this
point has been parted from me/This phallic or symbolic identification insures the
subjects entrance into the Universe of signs and creations/The supporting Father
of such symbolic triumph is not the Oedipal father of domination that Lacan
speaks adversely of but the phallic Father of the Real /and because there is no
absence or loss or lack there is no language in the Real/Language is always
about loss or absence/you only need words or images when the object you
want/the I or the Self of desire is gone/Or was never there/For the ego can never
take the place of the unconscious or control it because the ego or the self is
only an illusion/a product of the unconscious itself/the unconscious after all is
the ground of all being/A difficult death to contemplate each time we take up
the pen and hover over the blank sheet//
Kenji Siratori /Blood Electric /Japanese data trash viral icon hunts trash
embryo/speed velocity at self violence decapitation of modular prosthesis
ganglion hangs blood and mutilate cutters failure mere interlude in the brutal
conflict Deserts of Nagazaki Boy-Roid fights Adam Doll for control over mirror
image of mutual hatred and atrocity rights to huminax murder splattered cluster
bombs lie in wait for reckless amble of limb turned viral terror axis of EVIL stem
cells fuk low level lunar-sphere hits sub-vocal cyber-lines indirect murder person
cause post birth mutations to half consumed dog cadaver Viral Ikon hunts
flagella in the murky swamps of Kkrate City/stranger violence of speed circle
erased space particles disguised flight into Guignol dances on tight rope of
choking DNA infection leaps parasite zero that gradation aims just below brain
loop of Nazi swastika grils free the Aryan Front kill all Jews and Arabs/sadist
embryo text of Nagasaki Desert emotional replicant hides artificial black sun
solar anus retrofluid blunt razor sonic protocol hunts trash-grils
riptnightmaremigrates thru cellular blackhole suction intervals evaporate
internal spasms thru flesh modulations corpse mechanism hits GasHGriLs on
infinity perimeter obtuse angle of electron circuit eats SKz to coda DNA instant
reload lubricants transformed matrix rotation across electrode sparks rays of
space murdered for itself personal time velocity atoms of self is expanded into
fractured galactic black-holes suck engines dry lubricant to zero gravity the
viral insanity of the uterus engines reciprocates anamorphic memory loss of
glossy photomontage to synaptic metal reticulum which despairs spermatozoa
abortions surfing the horror of desiring reptiles rectal jaws ooze mucous assassin
corrodes metallic artery and explodes dissection device slices information
system at the frontal lobe cortex flickers before it has time to be interpreted
across neon desert of ice dead clone grils transmute code visions that torment
stage of heat mechanism inscribed into nail incision of neural cock nodes at full
extension/I am fear and afraid saturated with terror of time missing in action I
am frozen in the shadow of our death mission subsided to the hope of a quick
extinction/crushed by inbred fatalities migrate from time interval laughter of the
mask frozen scatter of ray space limiter at fingertips/Effulvia anxious that she is
thinking again what is forbidden internal organ sewn up autopsy leads to
techno-crisis explosion of a jellyfish stretched hot on the suns rock flesh machine
scanned drone parasite lobe raped the coefficient syndrome something cut
inside the celibate autopsy that leaves the taste of blood and rotting meat in her
mouth cavities/She masturbates furiously furtively figuratively using books maps

traced nebula voyages looking for love but finding only the burnt out collapse of
the organ crushed by her mental grip becomes extinct sucks up mouthal chaos
of dilated head thrust into reality concussion analogue image fades to dust
under heating of Nagasaki Desert converting gold into hated desire of Edge City
where malaise hits pandemic infection concussion/Two shrouds fall to the floor
and she stop breathing out of pure terror at banality of life she so bored so
morose so depressed head butts the brick wall burns the ends of her fingers with
lighter so bored slashes her arms she builds a Palace of inordinate mind
numbing boredom when she should have built a fortress/Even death is
preferable to boredom of this magnitude/writes to scathe scratch data sphere
Akihabara Electric Town slash dot electric credit bureau of integral motion
support hard to find logic in the concept that our personal data is private
property in the Age of Appropriation you audio slave to coaxial links atrocity
coefficient stiffens resistance to Urban Warrior hang out with the Harajuku Grils in
hot City Tokyo play with logic of fashion speed and curious depravity of camera
eyes lying by omission missing in the ethics of fatal disappearance body
apparatus with synthetic organs metabolic atrophy of scarred wartime visuals
the parasite drone of diseased replicants scanned heavy decipher of sexual
tragedy module of the primal junkie hooked on evolution hits frontal lobe with
GBH thorax ript by reptile dogs excoriates insanity of brain entrails burst from
stomach hits zero gravity of random factors held in the grip of pin point metal
eyes/YES all these words were mine once but I fell into a deep coma walking a
windy street exploded ball bearings marbles and rusty nails disposed of my
sense of reality/sad muttering along the water front the barge was easily seen
thru a telescope unloading second hand books for the Evening Star book
shop/Back to the screen watch rockets fall on kitchens and bathrooms in foreign
suburbs of once elegant resorts/Palm trees explode into fringed umbrellas of
scorched stalks/children from the old Eastern Block countries get crated up and
sent to America as prostitutes/Syria delivers another shipment of rockets to the
Hezbolah/gene shearing the pre born DNA of faults/essentially that‘s where the
image is going in Tokyo/Plastic livers and stainless steel kidneys/
trips walks ending up on the corner of 24th and Smith Street at the Evening Star
Book shop /Even second hand books cost 8 to ten American dollars these
days/The River InSane is frozen and skaters swirl in arabesques hands held out
for balance/Along the sides of the bridge over the river also called Alaska there
are small crates and boxes set up where vendors sell everything from cheap
porn to postcards to sweets and magazines glass paperweights with frozen

salmon in the glass/thru the partially opened door I see a multicoloured totem
pole of car parts which looks like some one from the back reading a notice on
the board/ what words would I have to use to make this letter interesting enough
for you to read it?/there would have to be some stuff about you and yr work that
would be a must/ But let me tell you I am dying of boredom/I have had enough
of life/there must be something else/I have my sickness which lowers my
pleasure threshold to about 30% good and I have the misery of containing and
controlling my addictions which brings the level of smiles down to about 10%/ I
grateful I‘m not in Lebanon or any where in the Middle East/but gratitude and
happiness are too different psychological states/Its getting dark here and they
are turning the lights in the bookshop out/I will finish this at the Industrial Cafe/
Later that night/
My last rejection slip from the Editor of The Boston Review said my work falls into
the blankness of asymbolia or the excesses of an un orderable cognitive chaos
pure dogmatic disjunctive synthesis of non sense/I stick the rejection slips on the
ceiling of my bedroom in order of brutal negative to slimy positives but we still
wont publish you/gargoyles fall from the roof wings spread and fly off into the
Black Sun/the pressure of silence/too much speed or too much slowing down of
neural flow/drunks on benches at side of building run terrified bottles of port
slopping valuable drink /the rhythm of overall behaviour is shattered and there is
neither time nor place for acts or sequences to be carried out/some just drop in
fright and pray/is this the day of Rapture?/as for the discourse of the depressed it
is the normal surface of a psychotic risk/the sadness that overwhelms us the
retardation that paralyses us are also a shield sometimes the last one against
madness/
Female cyborgs descend from the clouds in silver ships full sail god the Mother
being the undercover identity of huge electronic Computer circuit that runs the
brains of the people reterritorialising the 80% they don‘t use with mutant clones
and rewiring the synapses to flow along code lines into interstellar space where
they are used to power machines we will never understand/they cannot be
discussed in the limited terms of nonuniversal language users like humans/IF we
were totally conversant with quantum physics/atomic particle
accelerators/Relativity/time warps/anti matter/quarks black holes /philosophy
at its most abstract level/the linguistics of Singularity /if IF we had all this we
would not even be able to understand the instructions for operating the Device
much less comprehend what it DOES/
This alien terrorist axis of evil is a transgression of human white jewish

decency/all that angst and awful sorrow on the Screen close up of face torn
apart by shrapnel/you have to learn not to take it too seriously/you wont catch
me moaning except perhaps in the privacy of my ulcerated mouth pushed
against the glass top of my desk/or in the shower/it‘s a private affair/all this
public moaning and self mutilation screems into the mouth of neural intervals
best left empty/this is the result of centuries of indoctrination/ proselytising
annexation of the imaginary brain by the symbolic crap of creeds and beliefs/I
fill you with chaos I make the sign of the word on yr sweating forehead the
surface upon which pornography and adultery killing and hating self loathing
breeds/our greatest pleasure to feel guilt and false witness/ I swing my censor of
THC and administer forgiveness/the Police on point duty watch me out of corner
of eyes I can feel they fingers on stock of gun/ Plasma Red horizon this light
crackles under propeller thrust wind hits target loop the antenna embryo interior
manhole covers explode under the pressure of ignited hydrolytic Sulphide gases
mixed with methane gases from the sewers/overturns the highway Patrol car/
Anti Person Mine explodes under bullet proof black Mercedes/KABOOM/The
Chief of Police is wandering about in his Perspex panopticon nude torso/all he
can think about is War and Killing/ black and blue striped braces over fat hairy
belly belt weighed down by tools of trade multiple mobiles/ intercoms/ bull
horns /various guns batons rings of keys/electric prodder/tank traps /mortars
/crowbar/hammer and sickle/cordless electric drill/food rations/master key that
opens all doors and locks/Sunrise drips body tissue viral and bone hard
ejaculation shoots eyeball socket zonal entry thru blockade/Lapse of memory/ I
wait to hear his gravelling instructions echo from the tower/I catch revolving
video surveillance cameras rotate into position/Hal al Hal Halal MutherFuk/I am
hemmed in/I step out of the picture frame thru a gap a shift in times/between
their thoughts/I plunge a diatribe of illogic into their vacant skulls an erasure of
pathetic sexual routines/an opening of the discourse of desire that spirals
upwards carrying them away like dried leaves whirling and tossed thru currents
of vapours boundary after boundary cannot remain static with this notion of
reaming out every seam or wrinkle in yr vulva in effort to inflame you/ A sun of
Howl speed to molecular gravity suicide arms inhibited spectacle of fatality to
sleep deprived extremities artificial desire to inhabit liquid/drop over future tense
into separate being riddled with speed velocity gift of the Word /I plunge into a
diatribe of instructions propeller thrust of big V8/self violence and mutilate cutter
failure to extract interlude of recognition of mirror image/hatred breeds huminax
murder protocols/Speakeasy turned viral terror stem-cells injected into dying
cerebral flesh fuking fly low under the enemy radar/ Finally its night in Kkrate
City/the artificial suns tremor thru colour spectrum until they heat up magnesium
vapours to blue white throwing contorted shadows as lights cross over each
others cone of illumination/ Dark Violet night sky swept clean immaculate
reflects a forbidding world on the brink of the crater/will sentient technology
arise and walk the deserts under nomad tents /before the utter corruption of the
human species has taken place/This is the question the writer must answer/
Pleasure from the wind in every toilet/telephone booth/tarnished flaking

mirror/pissoir/ship hull armed fuselage/single digit error causes mass collateral
damage but what the fuk it‘s a War in the Middle East again/a chance to try out
the latest hardware/get the munitions assembly line moving/kiss each shell and
some woman squatt over them rubbing acrid hatred across the apex of the
phallic device/heres up yr arse you moslem pigs and other such
messages/hope someone finds this fragment/give you the clap or addiction or
loss of faith in the Mountain/deep seated longing for American democracy/New
World Order in their blue and black uniforms march down Main street protesting
about loose morals and sexual pornokratics the right to life Save the Whales
and trees put an end to the acting out of debauched roles between Secretarial
and Corporate Executive Burokrats/The Family that most sacred Institution and
its holy sacrament Marriage to be preserved at all costs from the Gay/Lesbian
anal reamers/ out the front of Ziggys Bar and Grill/ a few street girls $60 for half
hr/junkies of course rolled up in stained coats and left over white lengths of
newspaper thrown into the bins down side street/Rain starts to pelt down/no
umbrella/shelter under tramstop wind blows rain in from the north/The Lunatic
tram stops at the intersection/Bringing in the Lost Spirits of Dementia thrown out
of Mont Park now in the process of being demolished/went out there last
weekend/all the apparatus of mental assessment still in place the odour of
stainless steel the electro shock plungers hanging on the wall foundations built
on a pit of cranial surgery and lobotomised homeless inmates/Crazy leering
dreadnought faces/pensioners/unemployed/ bored artisans/mentally
disturbed/they pile thru the doors laughing kicking the side of tram one guys
beating the grill behind which the Driver hides/They see me with camera/Take
our photo take our photo/No film left/They look dangerous/ I pretend to take a
few portraits/they ask for my address/fuk off/they are distracted by an

ambulance siren police cars/they scatter into doorways and construction site of
Foundation Square that most hideous conglomerate of appalling architecture
abstracted covered in bilious mosaics a real failed post modern attempt to
display fashion not style/God I stagger to the left when ever I see it/its bad and
with age it will get worse/makes no attempt to slot in with the terrain/Walk down
to Delaware street up towards 54th and 3rd/in behind pile of demolished bricks
the night shift cranes and bulldozers still at work filling the air with toxic black
smoke every time they change gears/a crazed laboratory mutant cunt fingering
her self jerks her arms and babbles repetitive glossolalia just off her meds men
went in after shut down for lunch and came out screeming with scar where cock
used to be was a neat seamless plateau yr sperm lies like glass splinters around
the beauty of purple lips flecked with blood silhouette projected on back of
retina I cant help myself intoxicated by the loss over whelmed by delicacy of
procedure on the spot autopsy of the still flopping organs /quiet
suffocation/what after all is an unconscious that no longer does anything but
believe the imaginable rather than produce the unimagined/What are the
operations/the artifices that inject the unconscious with beliefs and faiths that
are not even irrational but on the contrary only too reasonable and consistent
with the established Order which the Skitzoid with his myriad of codes and
partial flows disrupts and allows the repressive structures to dissolve but only if
the unconscious believes it since all the ambiguity lies there in full symbolic
deceit/and this is what must be suppressed by psychiatry which is the Despotic
Control Apparatus which mediates the normal and separates it from the
paranormal/What does it matter if I die says the General since the Army is
immortal and the shell craters will fill with rusting bones and skulls and shrapnel
enough to render the field poisonous for one thousand years/More than vice it is
madness and its innocence that disturbs us/the phobic person can no longer be
sure whether he is parent or child the obsessed person whether he is dead or
alive or rather whether the objects he obsesses over are more alive than he is
trapped in his unconscious fear of objects/take that power switch for instance/is
it secretly leaking electricity?/
I hear the bird feathers in my pillow flutters about/my eyes tolerate the
dark/quiet suffocation of my desire fear of teeth being sucked back into birth
cycle and coming out exactly different/Never afflicted with transparent
psychosis so you don‘t understand the suffering of the lunatic/a trapeze just out
of reach/Mental illness is a thankless task/
the planet took an erotoscopic lean to the left/human remains before birth in
slime pits thick green microbacteria carrying the genomes and chromosomes in
fragments forming molar beings and the start of a sexd existence/last attempts
of a doomed species/this Age demands a Medieval level of torture hysteria and
violence/saturates the air with futility/disaster/frustration/brutality/a heavy blunt
instrument of political rhetorical weapons Holy Wars and threatened plagues a
weapon of terror grips the Chief Executive as he opens the dome of the world in
half and takes out a bottle of Chivers Regal/View over the cess pool of Kkrate
City above it all/Could send stocks soaring/Gold and oil already on the
rise/grips the suburbanites at the petrol pump the fat liberals get another tax
break a thin tide of immotile sperm flooding the subway mixing with the spit the
vomit the deitrus of bodily evacuations morphing sardine bone creatures weeds
grow between the tracks the air is snarled with the headlines of empty war
fuselage/sad tonight need some women to talk too but that part of my life
seems over/I have become the celibate autopsy incarnate /
World war 111

I am the lighting I am the heat the forensic interrogation of fused cervix I am the
spy before the blade of the cutter I am phallic razor of visceral engines soft
metronome arrests exposure to chaos of machinic nomads/ Assemblages… she
calls back to me… look serious act subversive under the weight of debris of
recent lies/this was the last we saw of each other/she was heading for Tokyo to
join up with the HaraJuKa grils in the Akihabara District /critical cross dressing
was in its last desperate phase so that forgetting and ignoring became a matter
of survival/The skitzo has his own system of co ordinates for situating himself at
his disposal and his own recording code which does not coincide with the social
code or coincides with it only to parody it with ironic disgust/the code of
delirium or of desire proves to have an extraordinary fluidity/the skitzo passes
from one code to another scrambling all the codes never responding the same
way to questions from one day to the next never involking the same genealogy
never recording the same event in the same way/this made him an ideal
candidate for that elite 10% of the Army that is taught and learns and
remembers how to survive/the remaining 90% are bred to be victims to come
home in body bags/ The soldier pulls on his hard leather boots laced up tight
thick soles so he cant feel the bones and skulls he will need to march over his
uniform pressed the small silver skull on the pocket identifies him as Private first
class Kwo 98360/Special disposal Unit wired to explode should capture be
imminent/ he feels the weight of his dog tags hang from his neck shaved up to
the scalp polished boots orders clear/kill/he thinks of the Rolling Stones
particularly Keith Richards the way he holds that cigarette in his mouth/he
imagines his machine gun is a guitar/ The Corporal screems OK MEN lets rock
and roll/Private first class Kwo 98360 rests the weight of his gun into the contours
of his hip he feels the metal stock weld into the bone the cold metal nerves
snake up his spine to the temporal lobe of his brain/he is ready and leaves the
tent blinded for a second by the hot morning sun/he adjusts his night vision
implant to automatic and the lens focuses on the terrain ahead his heat sensors
scan for body shadows/nothing else is in his head/he thinks of the fact 1000
dead soldiers/something in their heads made them a casualty/distracted by
memories fears excited at the prospect of moving out into battle zone eyes
limited to the topography ahead no peripheral vision no intuition no eyes in the
back of their heads/they are deployed to a known village harbouring
terrorists/Private Kwo moves across the terrain in a zig zag motion close to the
ground strategy runs across open ground to door way of demolished
house/others walk in the street like it‘s a shopping arcade/these are the
deployed casualties/they are over come by the immensity of the Desert of the
thought of Nakasaki Ovens of the destruction around them they have questions
in their heads that have nothing to do with survival/their boots creak/perhaps
they want to become killers/a means of revenge for all the dead American
boys/the adrenalin blinds their instincts / A phutt from a distant Mosque and the
man stumbles/drops his weapon eyes wide open as he stares down at the hole
in his chest big enough to put a fist in/he falls to his knees for a few seconds then
the white face hits the dirt/his heart has burst and a pool of blood forms a brief
puddle around the corpse then soaks away into the sand/Private Kwo is relaxed
the cavity of the event subsiding sweeps the frontier with his telescopic sight
attaching eye to gun/the way it should be machine and organism/he sights the
shadow of the assassin in the distant watchtower squeezes the oiled trigger and
is bemused by the look of shock as the assassin takes a 20 calibre shell in the
face/Private first class Kwo is a molecular element in his own desiring machine/it
is in his own interests to survive/the shivering corpse behind him is a molar
element an easy target bunched up in a group called the Army/He is
expendable/He salutes the flag/he believes in God/he has a family/Private Kwo
has no allegiance /Perhaps sympathy for the enemy he will eventually kill/he
doesn‘t need the army with its noise and technology/he is a secret
mercenary/the next move is already in place the next kill decided in his
favour/how can it be otherwise/death ejaculated from thrombotic veins atrocity
coefficient stiffens resistance to slow wave of neural deviating from the rules of
the game/he was a stealth bomber flying below enemy radar/his body was a
prosthetic killing machine made of hard flesh and impenetrable bone and
muscle/he glides along the parapet already his last position is being searched
for by a new assassin/But Private Kwo has become sand and moved to the next
line of attack slipping a polished brass shell case into the breach/he never fires
from the hip/always the shoulder taking the recoil steadies the path of the
shell/Blatt Blatt two shots at the most/
Dreams ground down by unfulfilled desire dreams of a fragrant patchouli oil

vaporized queen sized bed under loft ceiling fan with curved Victorian window
throwing glimmer of light thru thick embossed velvet curtains/with matching
thick ironed cotton sheets and pillows that flutter/not a stain to be seen not a
pubic hair or a crumpled wad of tissues not a tooth brush of a shaver not a
cigarette butt no pile of dirty clothes vacuous beige carpet central heating
discreet bar hidden in Globe of the World/no mirrors no florescent lights/no
shadeless electric lights/high gloss brush mark free walls dark blue/single book
hardcover on side table with discreet marker/no dog ears no yellow pages no
broken spines/book changes every time you pick it up to read or have finished
current version of virtual reality/Becomes any text you want to read/ I would like
The Red Room by Strindberg/ all dust sucked up by the automatic ducts of polite
disputations on hygiene/No barbaric nipple piercing track lines covered up by
tattoos bruises scratched mark scars of battles/perhaps two pearl ear rings
glimmer milk droplets clouded tears of joy an intestinal embrace skull showing
no sign of forceps marks/I catch the tram back down Saint Genet St and get off
at the Greyhound Bus Station/ Black tea at the Cafe Birko read a few books left
on the tables/I hate those Cafe Book stores where women in red and black
coats with fur trim read Jackie Collins or you know what skin crème to use when
you hit fifty or setting up a spa bath or a Japanese pond/at least they aren‘t
dreaming out the window and scribbling down fuking notes for the BOOK they
are gonna write/ never take notes in public/slide around a corner and into a
doorway and maybe write out a few key words/ always in disguise as you
know/ don‘t want to be seen or spoken to/s/he hate crowds s/he love it early in
the morning when the waitress are just throwing the first starched table cloth
over the tables and the s/he have first cup of coffee in a vacant room a
cigarette and a certain kind of lunacy takes over/s/he want solitude to remain/
Close the doors turn up the heating some ambient musak lean into the corner of
the room/S/he have used this café for a number of scenes in recent books/
Gluttony also very good/ Binary Bar/ Evening Star Books just down the
road/never buy anything but good for titles by new authors read a bit in the
shop end up glad you never bought the book full of shit prose badly written
hypertexts stolen material you recognise immediately/How do they have the
arrogance to do it?/never have lunch in these places/Crowded damp noisy
preposterous too many suits and braces smell of hairsalons and manicure
utensils/Fat wallets exhausted with carrying all those big bills a round pull out a
fifty or 100 to pay for double lattes and huge slices of mouse and mudcake/
loaded down with shopping bags from Harrods and Le Shop and Diamaru/ I
don‘t sweat over it but it gets to me now and then/so these are the fugitive
expectations of my middle aged longing whose boundaries know only the
neurochemical modulations of the nerve endings as attenuated by foreign
pharmaceuticals /this self has never had a reliable face that it recognises nor
any face a reliable self that it can depend on/and it is the technology of
reflection thru which the fundamental self deceit is reflected back to us/So we
can only hallucinate ourselves into a reflexive unreliable being that repeats
itself thru habit that is what it has learnt to be the most painless routines/The zero
body without organs self comes into existence at the moment of its self
conception and may slip away into another self as the background changes/as
hard as I try I cant remember how I have been in the past/I clash with other
peoples opinion of me before I moved from Clarke St and left pauline before I
had kids before I was medicated before I gave up drinking before I lost my mind
/Each of these events had major implications for my so called self /I think
this/The illusion of Existence is merely the faculties observation of the physicality
of existing under the reflection of contaminated thought thinking itself out
loud/BUT who observes??? Who is behind the eyes so to speak?? This who is the
normalised self that only imagines it is an individual/ Regimentation and
socialised discipline makes individuals and it is not self conception /
unmediated conception that is responsible for individualised existence/But
rather we learn to perceive ourselves under the shadow of discipline/we are all
role modules for our selfs constructed from bits of him and bits of her/ we also
learn to forget/if we remembered all that we did and thought even for one day
that we would have to do it again the next day we would truly go mad/for the
normalised self is not quite normal if it does not also think itself thinking itself/the
normalised self is one that is discip0lined into self idealised conception/limited

and controlled by that false consciousness of conception/indeed one that has a
vested interest in maintaining the false conception of itself as
autonomous/disciplined into autonomous self perception what is forgotten as a
condition of autonomous being is that BEING was never and can never be
autonomous/the state of this being is an implant a malignant tumour growing
deep with the temporal lobes that needs to be dug out/How peaceful those who
have had lobotomies are drooling in the corner/
a flat plane of linear time I am two dimensional and there is no injustice no

motion no illusion of truth/this space is heavy with waiting for life to become
tolerable before death invades the undreamed of miracles of final things the
possibility limitless but no one dream of without giving up their miserable life of
lies/Just one last chance I develop the least resistance to destinies drift towards
shore and wait/Nothing so far has destroyed me/But this is not for lack of
trying/when you ask me how I am what sort of answer do you expect?/Laid low
below sea level forced/yes forced to work in a job I loath/but need the
money/yes the fuking money/ every weekday wasted come home too tired to
write or read/living shit baked hard for evening meal/V watches TV Claire is on
the internet and sam plays video games/there is very little conversation/about
as reclusive as you perhaps more/OCD is haunting me again/the power points
are melting as I stare at them trying to reassure myself that they are turned off
and not going to explode as soon as I lay down my head/I take my handful of
pills and wait until they hit the CNS almost too spaced out to reach the bedroom
I crash into the kitchen table/ My arthritis is ACTIVE as the Specialist says and will
have to up the chemotherapy soon/the cortizone I am taking is causing
cataracts in my eyes/the zyprexa dries out my mouth and with no saliva my
teeth are rotting below the gum line/I play the soft keyboard notes of my
wounds almost alone I see no one I hear from no one/I am wreckage of
psychotic corrosion/drag factor of betrayal chemically attenuated reading
futility code to termination/On my leather couch I drift into haze of recall of past
actions and wish I had the same energy /I send you a small memento of my
exercises in levitation/this is my favourite coat moth eaten byte warmth my red
cowboy boots bought in 1979 and still going/let me tell you this/there is no love
in the house of the lord/and I can only function when I have a companion/its
been six years since I felt the vitality of love/I dread the possibility that I may
never find it again/It really takes all my psychic energy to get out of bed and
DO something/
I think of suicide quite often but never tell Dr Degout/he calls it suicide ideation
and usually insists on carer to watch over you/Im tired Dogma tired and
exhausted/writing this letter to you is the only writing I can manage/Well I guess
that‘s it/
Zodiac Poet
By Wayne Russell
Life Amongst the Dead
Is their life amongst the dead?
Somewhere out in moss covered marble
slate grey...
Carcasses
pearl covered white bones
beneath level earth
trodden in sorrow
set free at long last.
Souls driven out by a labored final breath...
Skin
the bodies largest organ
decomposing
dropping off in order to feed
a myriad of famished worms.
It does not matter what race we were
nor if the race was won
this is where it ends...

unless
if upon rapture
he has called us to be
by his exalted side.
Alone With Thought

alone here in perpetual darkness
searching for the perfect thought
do not lead me into into the debauchery
of neurotic mind
for i have been there before
i do not wish to venture back again
into pits of
drunken hell
dead bloated concoctions of
mythical winged damnation
primal cloaked wilderness
beer soaked dance floors

and
one night stands
with enchantresses'
never to be seen again
Peace Has Not Found Me

deep in this place of horizontal, concrete, slab
and quiet rest,
a tear is shed for those
gone before.
lone seagulls cry,
and willows weep, framing this panoramic
view, of jettisoned mind,
now conformed
a little boy of 5, lost at solitary play,
feeling unloved,
out at sea, the forlorn man of 20,
finds his way on through,
cool, black, shrouded ocean,
on starless night...
and still at 40, he has not found inner peace,

after all these years,
it's still so illusive.

On the Edge of the Salton Sea

By Jack Henry
dope craving
as I sit in the lobby of a Marriott hotel in Tempe Arizona
I can only think of dope and the razor blade rip
into my sinus when I inhale a line of speed
through a tube rolled from a hundred dollar bill
I can only think of the nirvana
sweet euphoria
my cock erect and ready to fuck
each cell alive
screaming
dopamine and serotonin blaze my veins
eyes dilate
vision clear
focus absolute
I can only think of her eager ass
shaved pussy
endless fucking until sweat dampens each pillow

air grows too heavy to breathe
light too stark to see
we cut another line
another line
another line
day blends to night to day and back
we don't eat or drink
just watch TV
go to movies
walk through bookstores
fuck in bathrooms
snort off of counter tops
I can only think of getting home
making a call
picking up product
grinding crystal
snorting drugs
spreading legs
but for now I sit and wait
a dubious future when I return
depression will cloud my judgment

and I will buy a gun instead
beyond Rasputin's beard

i need a dream
a life
a lie i can believe
a moment
a glimpse beyond Rasputin's beard
a shore without sunset
a tree that won't bend
i need a hope
a future
beyond the next lamppost
a scream
suddenly answered
a prayer
understood
i need to gaze
and reflect
and see beyond blue-gray horizons
to feel beyond fingertips
to touch fire that does not fade
i need to laugh
without caution
speak without fear
dance without worry
the suddenness of living
never denies me temptation
my needs feed my ego
no starvation so far
i need a vice
without consequence
of a final defeat
self destruction
is wearing me out
four
1.
can you fold back that red blanket
laying rumpled at the foot of my bed -
can you show me light from the inside
of an empty bottle -
can you share a breath before the last gasp
rattles home -
can you taste the vice of intimate fear?
2.
a voice in my head rings true -
past incantations of glorious lies
build upon rock and stone -
grave markers add to the mystery
of moments that still bleed -
3.
a judge's gavel reminds my guilt -
association to circumstance
beyond my control -
i am but a copy lost in the machine,

coiled tight in corners, awaiting
the rip that tears me free -
4.
cold echoes of dying voices
bounce off concrete windows
and windows slide shut as
the disaffected no longer
have time to care -
there is nuance in breathing
but my breath remains short -
digging through ashes

1.
we met at a gas station off Interstate 5 just outside Modesto, California
on a day filled with heat, dust and a wind that gave no quarter
in a relentless pursuit of total annihilation -
out of gas, no cash
her smile stops me mid-stride
and i say,
hello -
we banter a bit as i fill the tank of her brokedown red Honda Civic
with premium unleaded gasoline -
2.
at 6 pm i found myself alone at a truck stop
parked between SUVs and Mini Vans -
footsteps crunch across gravel -
front door swings wide -
a waitress (shaped like an inverted pomegranate)
leads me to a table up against the glass -
truckers in John Deere caps drink coffee at the counter -
she walks by
suddenly
and i say,
hello
she slides in across from me and asks my name -
3.
a short waitress with large feet and simple features takes our order -
4.
my name's Christa,
she says
and eats her meal
without another word -
5.
a young Mexican boy
stares down Christa's top
and clears the table -
6.
Christa and I fall into conversation -
usual topics -
- music
- love
- and sex
i pay the bill,
wish her good luck
stop mid-stride
when she smiles up at me -
7.
an old man at the counter of the Easy Eight motel
looks at Christa then at me and takes my cash without question -
we keep the room dark -
open a new bottle of Jack Daniels -
turn the TV to evening news -
8.
i ask her age -
she tells me to guess -
i say nothing and take off my pants -
Christa hits straight from the bottle
and i laugh -
9.
i crawl into my hiding deep under thin bed sheets -
my tongue traces circles and trapezoids on her breasts -
she pushes my head down past her stomach,
past a thin patch of soft hair -

you're not done yet,
she says -
10.
i stand at the window,
watch a highway still buzzing with life at three am -
steam pours from the bathroom -
mirrors fog -
Christa walks to me,
wraps her arms around my thick body -
how old are you?
i say
i think you know,
11.
Christa's hair whips angelically
from wind pouring through
open windows -
she smiles at me -
i touch her skin and say something stupid -
her hooded eyes
glare a moment
but fall placid once again -
we pass an old red Honda Civic -
unwanted and forgotten -

Disconnected
By Gillian Prew
DISCONNECTED #3
Mourning comes early when the silence misfires;

when the days, slack as old skin, fall about our necks
and the indecent sun hotter than all life - all living -
browbeats to the discomfort of not blinking. I,
now holding the pages further away, squinting

with time passing, shifting the skin neater, and
longing for sleep. Sleep, where it is never easy;
where it is more than dark and any colour grey.
It is more often winter, even with the heat rising

and wetter, even though the rain halts; provides
pieces of air from the past and a caesura enough
for a breath; enough to forget any umbilicus. Still,
there are the beloved; they thread lurex

our veins: they sparkle blood.
DISCONNECTED #4
Before she lost herself; before

he slowly suicided; she was
a burst of blood, and he
full of foul straw fingers.
I, wrapped in the tyranny of birth: the clamp;

the cut of umbilicus a contaminated liberty,
and howling for the isolated pulse.
I have wanted silence since;

a ring; authentic surfaces.
I have wanted the scream of affinity.
What if I exalt the contused beauty?

It is not home this trashy compendium.
DISCONNECTED #5
Live or die, but don't poison everything...

Anne Sexton
Today is a slow drowning -

even the birds are waterlogged.
Still, my breathing has style:

death-bed breathing
and the rim of life all around.
Where am I?
Encircled.
I sit by a surprise of orange lilies

and the laundry hanging,
begging for bodies
shaking in the febrile wind.
Is all living a malicious adjustment?
But the flowers are bright as painted mouths

eating the sun. Hell
over the wall

where the people live.
And Anne, her feet mostly bare,

heralding death like a comrade
- so very comforting.
DISCONNECTED #6
You grabbed for the world,

For straws, for your morning coffee – anything
To get airborne.
- Ted Hughes
I am bravest under a noon sun in summer,

lungs looser than the lost ceiling of winter
coffee cooling in my veins to a warm hush
- even if I am less than fiction;

less than the demented flowers
hurling themselves over the wall
despite the tragedy of their roots.
Even if I am a deciduous struggle

that always meets the ground
- even if I am
beneath the veil,

occluded
in the selective acedia of reverie,
realising that age is the layering of time

and all my old heroes suffocated within -
there is a moment that puffs the lungs,
my fat toes stuck in childhood;

a tank full of dead fish.
A Simple Ginsberg
By Tarringo T. Vaughn
A Simple Ginsberg
A Simple Ginsberg
She brought it to me
just the way I liked it.
There was nothing like a nice cold green tea
with just the right sip of ginseng. The waitress smiled
as I thanked her for remembering my style
and finally she walked to the other side of the café
where a young couple stubbornly flipped their menus
to order the toast and runny eggs with
slightly burned home fries and decaffeinated coffee.
They were not from town. A slow song
Played in the background but I don‘t remember
the words, just a voice humming
behind me. But my mind refused to turn around
as I heard a scent of marijuana in his tone.
He sounded like one of those beat poets
who challenged academia. Again I refused to acknowledge
his presence. This was my time, my Saturday morning
in this peaceful little dump that overlooked suburbia;
my escape from the judgment of sinners
marked with hidden tattoos of homophobia.
This was my time to examine the thoughts

of the useless and the arrogance of my own self-reflection.
The man behind me whistled annoying
the young couple from out of town who were
now on their second cup of decaffeinated bullshit.
They looked at me as if I put the dollar in the jukebox
stubbornness. The waitress sat outside on a broken bench
puffing hurriedly on a Marlboro cigarette
with her apron blowing in an uneasy wind
that continued to blow out the lighter
just in time for her to light her second lung filler.

She was a woman with no story blowing her history
out into the air for nosey eyes to inhale. Just a witness
in this democracy of free ignorance and closed expression.
And she exhaled
just the way they liked it.
A bulletin board just under the Van Gogh
was filled with coffee shop flyers and business cards
selling individuality and odd commodities
that only tree huggers and retired teachers find interesting.
Maybe I was being too harsh on my surrounding
this day but the endless whistling and humming of the asshole
behind me made my mind snarl. I turned around finally
and his appearance howl(ed). His tinted glasses, his rugged
goatee and balding head resembled someone I met back
in college on the seventh floor of a library.
On a dusty shelf right next to the window that overlooked
the university.
He stopped his whistling as I studied him. The young couple

asked for their bill and the waitress stumbled in
working even less hard for her non-tip (from them).
My green tea was now a glass of melted ice cubes
as I continued to research this man‘s structure. He barely glanced
back at me and continued scribbling in his notebook.
His pleasure that day seemed to be his lemonade
and the joy of annoying society with truth.
I turned back around just to hear him ask:
―young man have you ever been to a supermarket
in California?‖
I hesitated my answer as I turned around. But he was gone.

He was who I thought he was
and he challenged my critique
just the way I liked it
on a simple Saturday, sitting in a simple café
with a simple Ginsberg.
Down in the Hollow …

By Jimmy Ray Davis, the Wordmachinist
THE TREES!
The trees!
The trees!
hobbled with Annie's hammer, I limped to Sheldon's book signing.
To know true horror...

is to look inside oneself
to the misconceptions
placed on a proverbial shelf.
"Ghosts cannot hurt me"
you proclaim, based on all you've seen
But have you looked closely...
at the trees?
The Trees.
Those goddamn trees

limbs etched against the sky
mocking.
the arms of a skeletal wizard
talking.
Black magic
dead magpie
red majesty
of the blood.
dripping ever
dripping ever
Cracked bark, wooden teeth, splinter splay

sorry my friends...
I cannot come out to play.
Master Kean Hargrove tried

with ballhammer axe
and the will of God.
Hit!
Victory? Bark compromised,
split.
wooden maw
closing claw
trunkteeth jaw.
axe eaten.
gone forever
gone forever
Wild-eyed Hargrove, bramble dove.

branch. reach.
the good master...now a puddle of blood
ungreen
unseen.
For like an animated corpse

rustles maddeningly, the copse.
only at night
only at night.
Shotgun vigil...no sight.

I am a mere farmer, simple plight.
Alas my Potter's field has gone to pot.
amid the scrape...of wooden laughter
Sweet Lucinda
fell into
a plethora of trouble
while passing by
heard her cry
The trees were...ALIVE!!!

trunk muscled
branches groping, scratching, hoping
for the tender taste
of her fleshy face
snaking under her dress
and the place
at which it tore her to pieces...
...was the epitome of horror.

that's my story...
For when the wind blows too cold

and the heart tends to shrivel
like dry, dead leaves
Look beyond the trees

BEWARE the trees!!!
look beyond...
Beware!!!
Somewhere in an empty abattoir

beyond the trees, behind the hills
Sits a weathered man named Old Bill
waiting...for you.
The Gloaming was what we called it.

For the dun of dusk's dark moon quarter was ruled by the Fourtnight. I guess you could
call them a cult, for their black robes would hint at as much and the stench of their
atramentacious slaughter permeated homes and nostrils alike. For these were the days
of dark Samhain and spirits were said to wander, roaming and killing like a Temple
Hollow abattoir. Me, Bob Cousins, Adrienna, and the nameless brunette laid low...biding
our time.
From the adumbral of the Gloaming,

to the shack on Potter's Creek.
Where the silt spills, opaque and foaming
seven days make not a week.
For the blades of the nebulous hordes
slick with lurid, aphotic death.
Drive hearses, not Chevys or Fords,
hauling chimera's of dismembered flesh.
Bob and Addy seemed to want to fuck all the time. Guess it was just a symptom of last
days jitters or the thought of a coke bottle molotov ruining your whole fucking day.
Grinding to the thrash of Morbid Angel on the old disc spinner, I stood sentry on the
dilapidated porch while the brunette fondled dead flowers. Jesus, what a tenebrific
state of affairs. Crazy Bob's getting tail, I'm on a backwoods bayou porch with a girl that
won't even speak, and the evil of the witch trials couldn't match what was in store for us
and the trickling of survivors. "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh", it was the brunette trying to speak.
"Cover me from Lucifer

play this child's game.
tell me what the blues are for
when no one sings my name
take me to the hollow
never ask what for
murky tears will follow
when I find my sister...Lenore"
Stunned that she spoke, I was reminded of crepuscular secrets pitchy in their forked
tongue of poetry. Seems I remembered the tale of the Hollow and Old Bill. How he led
the innocent Lenore to her impending rape of slaughter and soul languishing. How he
spent the rest of his days making up for it by recruiting the down and out to rescue her.
For it mattered not. You see we had a secret weapon. Just before hitting Ashburg, we
met a cop named Brad who said he knew the way. Trudging through the undergrowth
of kudzu we trampled on to meet him.
Hmmmm now what the hell did he say his last name was? Ah yes....it was Skinner.
Laughing at Funerals
By David McLean
obstinate wax
the obstinate wax of an absolute candle,
burning recalcitrant in a deserted church
where windows seem so high to children
that they fall up past all the stars,
stars where they assume the dead are
watching us, absent gods and fathers
missing; obstinate dreams of persistent living,

harder to shoo from the psychic stable
than a horse hoping for amphetamine oats
that never existed yet. candles burn such a tiny
time, like dreams burn while the dead live
inside, in a mind with only instants to survive;
yet such a voracious burning in that deserted church,

with all our revenge on time inside
scars and blood tattoos

memory and blood tattoos,
flesh stretched under the sky
like a tattered banner
defying time and night
dwelling here a rat

in a huge reservoir
of scars, untidily defined,
this body,
pretending to be mine
dusty pocket
night comes down with terrible medicine
in its dusty pocket, a vast absence
and slight light, the sun hovering
below a squeaky horizon that rims us
like a rat. night comes down like god

and his usual Thursday amphetamine
hangover, all the little insects
that gibber sweet nothings on his sexless
skin - everything i just mentioned

is missing, but night comes down
and we pretend to live, like everything
that isn't an actual living thing
Hermetic Hippo
By Glen Lantz
Canceled Row of Fades

lies to kid themselves
covered brown stain
god‘s flat stick
a roll of rusty nickels
falling slower
all over the floor
you gonna crucify
pills hard to swallow
a double dose fit
bends over brushes
the electrodes smile
swelling up and rattling
hands nailed out
floating over the controls
a dial for each life
schematic drawings and equations
a dusty bottom teeter
counterpoint and nemesis
a hammer instead of a bomb
letting loose the wild animal
the carnival barker shouts
and chops away
at the meat on the table
hisses and spits
the devil is always hard to kill
seeing visions
of heaven and hell
smoke on the horizon
eyes aimed full bore
bouncing against the walls
even before departure
last saw month ago

in a bad way then
far ahead of the crowd
standing out angry
burn the luminous
bunched in on self
losing the plot
out of control
a concealed pain
something come loose
sliding around
killing me
a void of repetition
attacking with fervor
a web of habits
Your Grim Brothers

a three headed doll
stirring space with milking cows
in groups of four
brimming with broken down
selling you the milk
gone with the falling rain
shades, shoes, and suntan lotion
living the legend
too many book covers
the bleeder ink
and stains of injustice
played in my own
it‘s for the suckers
exposed by your primitive behavior
living inside your life-force
giving four o‘clock tours
through black dawn window
no divine interventions
sunset plow
leave them in the fields
they can have each other
ignorance is still there
even if we can‘t see it
it finds behind the trees
we are lost and stone
lost again
You Step Into the Void

your steps are electric
each step a blue brilliance
something of eternity
you are tempted by the worm
he knows the razor sunrise
when you pray with tainted lips
banging around in the dark
the blue stare of those lips
watching me move
grabbing and shaking me
calling out my name
the slight flicker
and the moment arrives
a white cloud of expression
stirring the desire
you retrieve love‘s sting
asking in a small voice
coaxing down the reed
gathering the respectful distance
unfolding, simply unfolding
swaying and blurring
onto the trolley
it rolls us along
and you whisper
something from a sacred text

liberating
All Over My Garden
The smile that illuminates

My heart of darkness
Like the crack
In the pavement
The rust stain in the sink
A course brush
Against my skin
It is not soft and pliable
It is hard and unmoving
Standing out in the rain
While everyone laughs
Seeing the last breath
Escape into eternity
She‘s a daylight naked ninja
Sipping on her scotch
Behind her pink shades
The thoughts of grandeur
Laugh about the abduction
Remember your lines
And things will go well
That Wonderful Little Dress

you party till midnight
a lifetime of hips
riding the bronco
you think you know me
with your calculator
and sun charts
but, there is a venom
you can‘t calculate
rumbled and predicted
your reason for summing my digits
making me more easy to consume
you uncork me
and pour me out onto your table
I pool in the spots carved by your steak knife
Josie loves
etched into the oak
I know you through the war
of our crisscrossed lives
oblivion packaged in any other way
is too sweet for our senses
maybe it is too bleak
to ride up the wire‘s promise
to find our way in the darkness
no matter how many times
we have gone here before
don‘t say no to me again
I want to hear you say yes
with your sexy southern drawl
that melts my resistance
it reminds me of tomorrows
Suffered All the Furies

muttering between teeth
her notes always flat
never sharp
nothing holds fast
eating me alive
tearing me apart
by rack and torture
roasting me little by little
suffered slings and arrows
in the name of duty and religion
crashing into the barriers
alive and teeming
streaming pugnacious
the magic talisman
too supple
the resistance has been beaten out of you
you know that all heroes will be shot
in the name of liberty
as the sun rises over the mountains
this rubble we call home
where the ignorant rule
the brave worry about their numbers
their contracts
their publicity campaigns
shaking like the naked in the wind
afraid of their shadows
concocting schemes to defraud the public
marching over your red coat
as it lays in total disregard
climbing into a minimalist speech
the first line of hallway banter
lost to the forgotten question
that never left your lips
Contributors
A.D. Hitchin is a poetry and prose writer published in small press and
independent journals.
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.
Dan Kellett is poet living in the Eastern United States.

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 writes a lot of poems but really dislikes poetry. Up to
date details of over 1000 poems in various zines over the last three years or so 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
Cadaver's dance at Amazon
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.
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.
Glen Lantz is the editor in chief of Deep Tissue Magazine.
Glen Still is a wandering poet who currently resides in Oklahoma.
Gillian Prew is currently living in Argyll, Scotland with her partner, two
children and a cat, Gillian Prew ditched philosophy in favour of poetry even though the
former still haunts her. She has three collections of poems and has been published at
Full of Crow, Counterexample Poetics, Gutter Eloquence, Gloom Cupboard, Fragile Arts
Quarterly, 'ditch', and The Glasgow Review among others. She also recently became a
'Featured Artist' at Counterexample Poetics.
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.
Jimmy Ray Davis is the Wordmachinist.
Lee Kwo is an Australian poet, artist, and philosopher.

Meera Flame is married with 3 gorgeous boys. She has been doing
jewelry design for 17 years and has had her own workshop for 16 years with her
talented husband.
Newamba is a poetic terrorist roaming the streets of Miami. His bombs are
made of insight and reason.
Rose Aiello Morales is a poet.

Tarringo T. Vaughan always believed he had a love affair with

literature. Tarringo 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 social site and two writing groups.
Wayne Russell is a poet that originally hails from Florida in the USA,
however now resides in Wellington, New Zealand with his wife and two young children.
Wayne has been published in Poet's Espresso, Iclement, Shoots and Vines, and Fragile
Arts, amongst others, you can read more of his work at the following site.
www.myspace.com/thezodiacpoet
Support These Zines

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http://calliopenerve.blogspot.com/
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http://clockwisecat.blogspot.com/
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http://www.counterexamplepoetics.com/
The Curious Record
http://www.ozpoeticsociety.com/curiousrecord/
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http://evisceratorheaven.blogspot.com/
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http://www.fullofcrow.com/
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You can find Deep Tissue at these

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Thank You for Reading
© Copyright 2010 Deep Tissue Magazine

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Deep Tissue August 2010 1

Issue 7, August 2010

Sex, Death, and Taxes by A.D. Hitchin 3

Mystic Lady by Meera Flame 10

Ponder This by Rose Aiello Morales 13

Ghosts of the Pawtucketville Night by James Crafford 18

Living in the Underground by Glen Still 22

Reliving the Past by Lucem Ferre 23

Spillings by Dan Kellett 31

American Party Poet in Pearls by Babs Martin 33

On My Way to the Grocery Store by Newamba 36

Exhumation of the Post Verbal Gap by Lee Kwo 42

Zodiac Poet by Wayne Russell 62

On the Edge of the Salton Sea by Jack Henry 66

Disconnected by Gillian Prew 77

A Simple Ginsberg by Tarringo t. Vaughan 81

Down in the Hollow by Jimmy Ray Davis 83

Laughing at Funerals By David McLean 88

Hermetic Hippo by Glen Lantz 90

Other Zines 102

Deep Tissue URLs and e-mail 104

Sex, Death, and Taxes

walls inter-spliced with parasite

Sodom and Gomorrah Jehovah interloper

energy splits time

god ancestry black memories

Permutation: Birth name

this is the name my Mother and Father gave me

whining tea-pot sputter suspended in grin, cradled faintest trace of

red thrombosis, soft and bloody, naked

[Rigor mortis lips a stiff rictus

Zombie bite causes severe neurological reaction. Victims administered a

Relentless legions dismembering legs, gorging mucous membranes. Their core

[howl dog hubbub

New silicon Zombie is poisonous, secreting hallucinogen from rotting skin. In

Zombies never sleep.

look mind the gap!

Cyclops tentacled mass

Lovecraft intelligence black rites

unholy portals opening

menstrual blood psyches,

they all move to

puncture weeping gods squashed,

snow falls as Angels, marshmallow white,

brain stem product penetrated with

hot mammal in metal machine

black rubber insulated Isis reflecting carcasses sting

grenade abyss death clicks injects computer!

Jungian mind hypnotic illusory artifice flickering

supermarket begging attention, facsimile winding

endless franchise bars, logo kids

not quite within them.

Sugar coated memories

Left alone In isolation,

Redefining its beauty,

Worn out words,

Ponder This (Tourettes Raises Its Ugly

The other impossibly good, un-tempted

The dichotomy is endless, the choice unfair;

And we poise on the precipice, knife held in trembling

And God is even more so.

Looking For ken

She just wanted a little nip

So she searched on Google for "godhead"