Wednesday, February 19, 2014

2nd floor rear

James Griffin is a straight edge anarchist philosopher. He has been writing in small rooms for 25 years. Sometimes with hot water, sometimes without. James has haunted St. Louis, New York, Chicago, and Seattle. All of them have a Chinatown.

2nd floor rear

the television loudly
bites at my attention
the curve
of your body
under my hands
is 
louder still
simple and familiar
as a comic book
reread for the first time
in 10 years

the nervousness
of your laughter
is undemanding

the trash can wait 
till tomorrow
maybe the car will
start
in the morning
i'm tired of
police
and one more night
of violence, too
many sirens
calling out to me
the studied ease
of a bullet

Sunday, February 16, 2014

INTERVIEW: ANGELO M. GENORGA


name?
Angelo M. Genorga

age ?
36 next month.

location?
Al Barsha, Dubai. Originally from Cavite, Philippines.

how long have you been writing?
started in high school. wrote lovepoems to impress girls.

do you have a specific writing style?
metaphor free? - well shit, almost.

do you write as a career?
no. poetry made a starving writer out of me.

do you write full time?
i can't but i do welcome the challenge.

what do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as a writer?
this interview w/ piggpenn is climbing the fucking charts.

what is your ultimate goal as a writer?
writing a bunch of poems for almost 25 yrs & not getting published is crazy. i'm looking forward to self - publish my first baby this year.

what is your greatest challenge as a writer?
now, i'm trying to recall some of the poems i had in mind 20 years ago because i never got to put the words in paper. i was taking a lot of drugs then and had the words and verses
meander in my head until i completely forgot about it.

what projects of yours have been recently published?
a couple of poems here & there. so far, that silver birch press bukowski anthology is my highest profile gig.

what are you currently working on and what inspired this work?
i just finished a script for a documentary about the rap metal scene in the Philippines in the mid 90's and aside from pinning down poetry, i have this 4 panel comic strip i wrote called dem bed bugs. it's all about the hassle of sleeping/living in a bug infested room w/c we got. put a lil' twist on it. one can be really creative living in such a dump and just complaining all the time.

where can we find your work?
enjoy my empty handshake anytime at wordpress.com

how often do you write?
i write at work when genius strikes. can't focus at home. goddamn internet is always a distraction.

how do you react to rejections?
i write about it sometimes. let me put it this way :

cut and dried

"...if no one discovers you
      then time will "
- excerpt from " Unsung "

yeah, i should repeat
on saying this to myself
like a mantra and forget
it’s my poetry as i read
these three emails i’d just
received today —

the first one saying that
they had already selected
the writings to be featured for
their next issue;

the other two almost saying
the same thing like they
enjoyed reading the poems
except the other never mentioned
i can try again.

i tell you this,

convincing yourself goes
on a different ball game
when you start getting an
inkling that such kind words
really mean otherwise.

i’ve heard kindness kills many times
and three more of these rejections
are enough to destroy a man —

” let the whole world catch up,
   if no one discovers you
   then time will. “

but the other guy inside my head
kept saying,
                          i should just quit
and feed the fire of anonymity.

how do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication?
post it on facebook hahaha..tell the wife...&  read the fucker over and over on the blog that published it.

what is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as a writer?
be desperate.

what is your favorite book?
i always go back reading Ladies And Gentlemen, Lenny Bruce !! by Albert Goldman.

who is your favorite author?
Lourd De Veyra, a Filipino poet is actually pretty good.

if you could have dinner with one fictional character, who would it be and why?
probably Raoul Duke but i'm not sure if eating would be preferred. or maybe Professor X so i can ask him to check my head after dinner and fish out those poems i had never written down some 20 yrs ago.

what is the greatest occupational hazard for a writer?
running out of creative juices.

what is your favorite word?
i used to like the word envy. dreamt about it too but now it's lowbrow.

what makes you laugh?
i'm in a Kevin Hart - phase right now. don't ask me why.

what makes you cry?
delayed salary

what is your preferred drink while you write?
i don't write when i'm drinking but i used to do drugs way back and write a bunch of poems on my notepad or whatever sheets of paper i had in my pocket that time.

beach or mountains?
i can't swim so mountains.

cats or dogs?
dogs said the wife.

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?
how about The Black Crowes?

Jimi Hendrix or Frank Sinatra?
Hendrix. hands down.

Shakespeare or Bukowski?
Charles Bukowski made poetry simple. he shoved metaphor out of his way and never look back. something Shakespeare can never understand.

please provide as much  or as little of the following information as you'd like :

personal website/blog

facebook profile or page

twitter profile
none

other pages/profiles
none

books for sale and/or for press
In Nov 2014 The Book Of Envy

anything you'd like to say about your country, it's people or native animals?

Philippines is a mixed bag but one thing you can say about Filipinos is that we have a great fighting spirit. go check what typhoon Yolanda ( Haiyan ) had done and how the people rise up to the adversity. A lot of people is puzzled because we can still laugh and even joke about the gravest condition we may have. Even the animals laugh and make jokes but don't believe me when i say it.









Friday, February 14, 2014

INTERVIEW: JANNE KARLSSON


Name? Janne Karlsson

Age? (Feel free to ignore this question completely) born 1973

Location? Linköping, Sweden        

How long have you been drawing? I can´t remember when I wasn´t drawing. I probably made my first comic strip at the age of four or five.

Do you have a specific style? I guess so, but I´m not very good in describing it myself.

Do you draw full time as a career? Well, I try. Occasionally my art pays the bills alone. I´m lucky enough to be able to teach drawing too, and those jobs are fairly lucrative ones.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as an artist? Tough question. I really don´t know…

What is your ultimate goal as an artist? To live entirely off my ink and paper. I don´t need riches, just enough money to survive and not having to prostitute myself by going back to my previous career in the psychiatry/addictive health care.

What is your greatest challenge as an artist? Illustrating poetry. It´s a fantastic feeling when you nail someone else´s words and emotions in ink. And most enjoyable too…

What projects of yours have been recently published? Hearts for Brains by Rob Plath (illustrations), Alchemy by John Yamrus (illustrations) and Factory Reject by Wolfgang Carstens (illustrations). And there´s a bunch of different poetry/art magazines coming out this spring with my work in them. The Stray Branch, just to mention one.

What are you currently working on and what inspired this work? I´m always involved in many different projects. I´m making one comic project with genius poet Wolfgang Carstens, and another with brontosaur maniac Catfish McDaris. I´m also constantly hunting for publishers for older scripts and projects yet to be published, one of which is “Vägsjäl” with the Swedish horror novelist/poet Stewe Sundin.

Where can we find your work? Anywhere. Where there´s filth and fury, you´ll find my musky artwork covering the panic. My website www.svenskapache.se or the Epic Rites Press website www.epicrites.org are two good spots for smelling my dirt.

       How often do you draw? Constantly. I only pause to eat, shit, fuck, sleep and sip red wine.

       How do you react to rejections? I react with an archaic smile. I´m used to it. Hell, I was born rejected. The first 20 years of my active and ambitious drawing career has been an uphill mountain walk with anchors chained to my feet. The last four or five years the rocks have finally begun moving.

       How do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication? With happiness. And if I also get paid, I react with more happiness.

       What is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as an artist? Don´t. Madness and tunnel vision are the keys to success.

       What is your favorite book? Crudely mistaken For Life by Wolfgang Carstens. And I´m not saying that because he and I are friends. The poems in that book are breathtaking.

       Who is your favorite author? Swedish novel author Torgny Lindgren.

       Who is your favorite artist?   You mean drawing artist? Don´t have any really. I do like Picasso and Munch though. Medieval artists. And I love European caricature artists of the 1800:s.    

        If you could have dinner with one living or dead person, who would it be and why? I´d love having dinner with my father. Living company? Doubtless Seth McFarland, the creator of Family Guy. Now there´s another genius.

        What is the greatest occupational hazard for an artist? Except for being ripped off by false people, I´d say lack of focus. You can´t stay at the factory when your heart is crying to create. Again, madness and tunnel vision.

        What makes you laugh? Family Guy on tv.

        What makes you cry? anything. As a matter of fact, today as I walked home from the gym I met the husband (and sons) of a former colleague, who told me she´d died yesterday. Seeing this old man shaking with tears and desperation, clutching my arms, crying “I don´t know if I´ll make it on my own”  really did the trick. Briefly I cry for the living, not for the dead.

What is your preferred drink while you draw? Red wine or coffee.

Beach or Mountains? Both.

Cats or Dogs? I´m not a pet person really. Bulldogs are cool though.

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones? TRS

Jimi Hendrix or Frank Sinatra? Easy one. Jimi Fucking Hendrix, of course.

Shakespeare or Bukowski? Easy one again. Mr B


     Please provide as much or as little of the following information as you’d like.

Personal website/blog: www.svenskapache.se

Facebook profile or page: search svensk apache

Twitter profile:


      Books for sale and/or press Several on epic rites. Soon to come: The Human Unkind, a collection of comic strips. Dark and dirty. Preorder it on Epic Rites, motherfuckers!

      Please share something about your country, its people, & native animals? Good things about Sweden: The nature, the space, the general welfare (in terms of health and social care), beautiful women and great food.
Shitty things here: Increasing poverty, racism and exclusion. Swedish comic industry. Made by morons for morons.

Native animals: crab lice, anal worms, mooses, bears, wolves and me.
     

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

MUNCH'S "THE SCREAM" REVISITED (1995)



Gordon Hilgers
Gordon Hilgers tends to write unpublishable poetry that has not been approved by the Invisible Empire of the MFA.  He has been published via samizdat, little sheets of paper passed from hand to hand that do not necessarily resemble bar napkins with the telephone numbers of hot waitresses embossed with a black kiss from a Gothic bartender, but that would be just fine.  Published in Deathlist 5, Hilgers has not yet been caught by Lucy Liu but would enjoy that immensely.  Also published a poem about real estate for Red Fez, mainly because of its exceptionally simplistic delineation, and has also been published in many zines, his favorite being a story of the lead investigator for the O.J. Simpson murder case, Mark Fuhrman, dying and going to Heaven, only to discover Heaven is an eternal S & M parlor.  Crazed like a broken cup by definition, Hilgers leads a reckless but drearily vague existence somewhere in the inner recesses of the city that killed a president: Dallas. 



MUNCH’S “THE SCREAM” REVISITED (1995)

Who broke-off the bridge before eating his vegetables?
If you can get that blow-up doll to give a yell,
you should get hired, but no naps in the conference
room.  Press on, Eduardo of the North, the Aurora
Borealis, scream of nature under orange skies, is not
so boring.  Think of Jimi Hendrix, tearing it down, Hawaii,
July 30, 1971, not in the Haleakala Crater in East
Maui, but in a horse pasture, Cry of Love tour, mostly
culled-out of the Chuck Wein movie, the band, Gypsy Sun
and Rainbows, jamming roar into “Hear My Train
Coming”, left as background Muzak to montage shots
with spiritual affectations. 

Woken by a flashing dream archetype at 5:32 a.m.,
bridge holler panned from high above, here in the future
black bedroom here in Stepping Stone, some angel
had chewed the rainbow ragged, thinking possibilities
of more candy, the river below patently two dimensional
gray:  Good
 
God it is morning in New Jersey’s Fort Lee spectacle,
Governor Chris Christie’s sagging backside running behind
in believing plastic traffic cones, metallic traffic morphs
willfully golden arches, George Washington Bridge bottled
like marmalade to make way for the Hudson Light vacancy proper
green tea as a one-billion dollar office project’s trim atrium,
access roads arc-welded at the spot Washington took
Manhattan, only to become the movieland home turf
of fabled silent film cliffhangers, the old black piano
tinkling background. 

“Wanna buy some real estate?”  Now scream, Munch, vapidly
polluted river crossing gray as stratus clouds above you.  Try
taking the ferry to Tribeca art openings.  In Hell. 


Saturday, February 8, 2014

CLOCKING HOURS / The Awakening



Toni Barca

Toni Barca was born in Paris, France. Her father ran guns in Ghana, Africa, and held the country's
currency in her bedroom, when she was 3 years old. By the time she was fourteen, she'd traveled the world, played backgammon on junks in Hong Kong with movie stars and drug lords. She was nineteen when her father left hustling films, and became a world financier.


CLOCKING
HOURS

There is a fire in mind.
A wound never cauterized.
A sense of touching life
with fingertips
reaching for it barely grazing the surface.

I can see why people, some people,
make life and death decisions.
Why it's all drama.
For those where a good job,
a car and kids just won't feed.
Money only a tool,
& not the God we slave for.

Suburban thoughts are that gang bangers are not well,
that their choices are stemmed from poor environments.

I've heard of wealthy housewives
becoming hookers by day just to alleviate
the sense of doom,
a life never claimed
Rich kids stealing cars and taking drugs just to
taste life's tongue-

Businessmen eating pussy at lunchtime
bending a secretary over their desk
while they talk to their wife or better still their boss on
the speakerphone-
Little moments of larceny,
stealing only from one's self.
When in fact,
to leave to go to Mexico in a jeep
with a gun, some money & a passport
Would be the 1st step to hand gliding-
Because even robbing a bank can be interesting,
even to experience that
would be more of a life,
than to get up one more time
go to work…
And make believe that you give a shit whether that project gets done.




The Awakening

I am not without compassion for I have walked the dark
forest of men's subconscious.

I have seen fear
in the eyes of men who were called warriors and I have heard the battle cry
rise from women filled with the seed of life.

I know what it is to believe in the impossible.
I have lived million of lifetimes; I remember none and
yet their breaths tickle the back of my neck
and I shiver.

I know the unspoken knowing.

I feel the beginning of my awakening. I am not self-realized,
not yet.
But I rub the sleep from my eyes. I yawn. I reach
for the scrolls of ancient wisdoms.

I will lie in bed and read till the sun sinks
behind a new dawn-
  

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

1-9-7-7


Alfonso Colasuonno has been labeled with multiple diagnoses from the DSM-5. He believes this is so because he doesn't have enough money to be appropriately classified as an eccentric. Help him feed his megalomaniacal tendencies by submitting anything creative (or not) to The Adept Writer (www.theadeptwriter.com) - a website that is one part Star Search, one part writers' circle.


1-9-7-7
by Alfonso Colasuonno

Smoke. Cluttered workspace. Self-reflection. Late thirties. Prematurely gray. Thin. So thin. Sickly looking. Wretched wife – Italian.

The twins in bed. Wife in her’s. Sleep on the couch. No more complaints. No more jackhammering stubborn slits. No more lack of natural lubrication. No more you’re doing it wrong. Slow down. Get off of me. No more. Just eyeing the legs. Eyeing the legs of the young bottle blondes. The slow jerks on slow nights. The television. Those old actresses. Marilyn. Marlene. Ingrid. The slow jerks. The body high of the reefer. The lipstick. The outcome. Simple routine.

Another evening. Tedium. The listings compiled. The distribution arranged. The articles completed. The rag put together. All routine. Door closed. Doobie. Beefheart. Kiss the kids. Chased out of bed.

Preacher man on TV. Saving souls. Mine is gone. Sucked out by a vixen from hell. Italian. Drove in the nails. The bleeding wrists. Smoke. Roaches in the ashtray. Fire and brimstone. Preacher talking salvation. Hates herself. Been raped. Been drunk. Been high. Hated it. Didn’t deserve it. Believed it. Amen.

Preacher man. The man on the cross. Brother-in-law. Atheist. Jew. Exmilitary. Star and bar biceps. Spit in the face of Levitical law. Saved. Preacher man. Perfect. Grab the paper. Grab the pen. Smoke. 

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Downshifting with Hop On Smith


David S. Pointer has new work included in “Noir Erasure” anthology at “Silver Birch Press.” His latest book is entitled “Oncoming Crime Facts” sold at www.lulu.com. David currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN.

Downshifting with Hop On Smith


When her facial prosthetics fell off
mid-sex
         where did that new love fly

It may have been premature to ask
him for a family style wedding

The coroner ruled his erection
had probably been incinerated
mid-thrust
              under false-pretense
perfume….. aflame, amen