Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Them Heels That Went On By / Varnish / Black Wine / Buildings and Rooms



David Mac is a 35-year-old wino forklift driver from the UK whose work can be found in Streetcake Magazine, Bone Orchard Poetry, Ambit, Purple Patch, The Journal, Weyfarers, Ink Sweat & Tears, United Press, Monkey Kettle, Clockwise Cat, Urban District Writer, Erbacce, Urban Landscapes, Heroin Love Songs, Neon Highway, KRAX, Moodswing, Antique Children, Danse Macabre, Mud Luscious, Burning Houses, This Zine Will Change Your Life, Poetry Over Coffee, Global Tapestry Journal, Orbis, Obsessed With Pipework, Howls and Pushycats, Word Riot, Decanto, The Delinquent, Dawntreader, Sarasvati, Black Heart Magazine, Broken Wine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Negative Suck, Naughty Girl X, My Delayed Reactions, The Vaginellas, Mad Rush Magazine, Gloom Cupboard, Yellow Mama, Welcome To Wherever, Thick Jam, Instant Pussy, Camel Saloon, 1/25, Boyslut, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, PPigpenn as well as being a featured poet on The Poetry Kit’s ‘Caught On The Net’. He has collections out with Erbacce Press, Knives Forks & Spoons Press, Ten Pages Press, Like This Press, Writing Knights Press, plus various self-published chapbooks. He lives somewhere deep in the Bedfordshire hell and like cats and Humphrey Bogart movies.


Them Heels That Went On By

The sounds of their heels drove us wild
We’d be in the warehouse and they’d be in the corridor
We could hear them but could not see them
They drove us wild with lust
Here we were trapped like beasts
And there they went
The tapping of high heels
We imagined all that hot mad flesh
All those shapes swaying
We worked and strained in bent-over agony
Everything is for money
And we’d snarl and sweat and lick our lips with desire
10 hour days
We’d not see a woman
But we could hear them and it was good
Solid sounds of bodies
Weight on this earth
And we’d think of skirts and blouses and hair and heels
We could hear them but not see them
Like they were ghosts full of sex
Dreams full of cunt and hips
Belly and tits
They were lucky those heels
We could not devour them with our hungry eyes
But our thoughts chased them
Down corridors of time
Time
It’s all you ever have to pursue


Varnish

The end of the
world 
as she paints her
finger
nail

Pink
soft
pink

And she
blows
shakes and
dips
starts the next
one
until all five
are
complete

And the rest of
us
never
existed
at
all

 
 
Black Wine

The nights burn everything in their path
everything they touch
and have no end

And this black wine
has been
killing us for days

‘Oh you fucking love it’
she said

I nodded and pulled down
the walls
the room
the sky
 
So we were done
with the world


 
Buildings and Rooms

‘I don’t drive’
she said
‘I don’t wanna ever get
that far away’

And she hung a
dark shawl
over the window
and only patches
of sunlight
stabbed through
the holes

And outside
in the town
there were buildings
and rooms
some of which I had been in
some of which I had not

and the people
the people moved about the place
coz that’s what
people do

Saturday, April 26, 2014

What I Propose / Waitress Elegy

What I Propose / Waitress Elegy

John Grey 

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Slant, Stoneboat and US1 Worksheets with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and Soundings East.  

What I Propose

I say your name,
this black night,
devoid of stars,
barely a moon,
trees dead,
air hollowed out -
the veiled time,
the isolated dead hours –

my lungs breathe
your face from the wall,
my lips kiss your mouth
out of that heavy dark curtain
I say your name
but my reaching arms
are unspeakable.


Waitress Elegy 

I slide
your loose coins
from the table,
clunk them deep
into my apron's pockets.

I am not a wanted poster
on your wife's white kitchen wall.
I serve the needs of hungry men.

And I am not a stupid person.
I could get a better job
but the hours suit
And where else can you
pleasure a customer
and effect an immediate reward.
It's not about the money though.
It's the recognition
a third refill of coffee brings.

Sure I could go back to your hotel.
You suggest it often enough.
I could be a one night stand
while you're in this city,
drinking, eating, screwing,
on the company tab.
Maybe you'd give me
the biggest tip I’ve ever seen.
But, even if you did,
my eyes wouldn't widen to accommodate.

You finish your meal,
drink the last dregs of coffee.
You know what's coming.
I hand you the bill.
You open your wallet,
give me some notes.,
say, “Keep the change."
You figure you're being generous
and I'm not
I keep the change. And nothing changes.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

INTERVIEW: QUINN HULL


Name?
      Quinn Hull

Age?
      24

Location?
      Kent, OH

How long have you been writing?
      Since the seventh grade

Do you have a specific writing style?
      Yes

Do you write as a career?
      Unfortunately not.

Do you write full-time?
      I would like to.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as a writer?
      My private journals

What is your ultimate goal as a writer?
      To create a work in which I can reflect my life as it is.

What is your greatest challenge as a writer?
      Writing what I want to write but in a way others will understand and appreciate as well – bridging this gap is probably the crux of all problems with writing.

What projects of yours have been recently published?
      None recently – the most recent was “Gumm Comes Home” in KSU’s literary magazine Luna Negra.

What are you currently working on and what inspired this work?
      I am currently working on a short story about dependency between individuals and its poor outcome. 

Where can we find your work?
      Luna Negra, TeenInk

       How often do you write?
   Everyday, during a good period.


       How do you react to rejections?
            It’s a natural part of writing, like clipping one’s nails.
  
      How do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication?
            I usually feel like it’s just a handout.

       What is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as a writer?
            Stay heavily medicated, early and often.

       What is your favorite book?
   Ulysses

       Who is your favorite author?
            Graham Greene.

        If you could have dinner with one fictional character, who would it be and why?
            George Emerson.  We’d have a lot to talk about.

        What is the greatest occupational hazard for a writer?
            Compromising one’s own personal happiness for success and recognition.

        What is your favorite word?
            Ox.

        What makes you laugh?
            Talking with good friends.

      What makes you cry?
            Break-ups.

What is your preferred drink while you write?
      Ice water.

Beach or Mountains?
      Beach

Cats or Dogs?
      Cats

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?
You can’t have one without the other.

Jimi Hendrix or Frank Sinatra?
Jimi Hendrix.

Shakespeare or Bukowski?
            Shakespeare.  Bukowski is too depressing.

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


Facebook profile or page: facebook.com/fcreview

Twitter profile: @FlyoverReview

Other page(s) or profile(s): www.flyovercountryreview.com

      

Friday, April 18, 2014

INTERVIEW: TONY BATTAGLIA


 Tony Battaglia

Age?
 25.

Location?
 Kent, Ohio.

How long have you been writing?
 Hard to say. I can remember being on the school bus in fifth or sixth grade and losing a bunch of pages of something long and dreadful I was working on through the window. I would say I've been writing "seriously," that is, with something coherent in mind, since I was maybe 16 or 17.

Do you have a specific writing style?
 Probably, but I couldn't tell you what it is. I guess I tend to lean a little toward magical realism sometimes, my "guys" are Marquez (RIP) and Calvino and Pynchon and DeLillo and so on. The last two aren't really magical realists but they have that kind of feverish feeling to them, and I guess that's what I sort of look for in my own writing. But I'm a terrible judge of my own writing.

Do you write as a career?
 Not yet.

Do you write full-time?
 No, I have a completely unrelated full-time job. But there's a lot of downtime in that job and that's when and where I do most of my writing. In some sense, I'm really writing all the time. I'll often write whole pages in my head on my commute and then it's just a matter of writing them down when I get home.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as a writer?
This is a horribly pretentious answer, but it's every time I get past the blank page. I have a terrific ability to procrastinate and in some ways I think I actually really hate the act of sitting down and writing. So any time I can get myself to sit down and work is kind of a triumph, even if what I put on the page at that particular time is shit.

What is your ultimate goal as a writer?
 I guess it's really to finally decide at what point you get to call yourself a "writer," the answer to which changes as you go along. For a long time, for me, the answer was "once you get something published." And then it was "when you get paid for writing something"-- but I've moved away from that answer a bit now. At the moment my ultimate goal is to finish the novel I'm working on, which has existed in some form in my mind for a few years now. So it's just a matter of doing my best translation-work in getting it faithfully down on the page.

What is your greatest challenge as a writer?
 Again, just convincing myself to sit down and do the work. And then keeping the pages long enough once they're written to let them settle in a little and lose that stink that's on them at first-- not to throw them out as wasted time right away.

What projects of yours have been recently published?
 Lately I've been so busy putting together my magazine that I haven't submitted much. The last few publications are all flash-fiction pieces, a couple poems here and there.

What are you currently working on and what inspired this work?
 Right now I'm working on a novel. The working title is "Motherland, Fatherland", and it's a kind of alternate-history detective story that takes place in a universe where the Cold War is still going strong in 2013, in a town of Soviet refugees in Northeast Ohio. It was inspired by an Air Force project commissioned in 1957 called Project A-119, which, to make a long story short, was a plan to nuke the moon in order to scare the shit out of the Russians. Look it up, it's really scary shit.

Where can we find your work?
 You can find my story "Alla Marinara" in this issue of  Composite Arts Magazine: ( http://bit.ly/1ld7KMv ), two stories, "Star Dust" and "HiveDrive" at Red Fez: ( http://bit.ly/1jd08nF ) , and another, "Throwing Knife", at Linguistic Erosion: ( http://bit.ly/1thL7I7 ). Also two poems, "The best in the game" and "Two questions" at Eunoia Review: ( http://bit.ly/1i1OYPX ). Another poem, "Battalion", was published by Circa Review, but unfortunately that publication has since ceased to exist.

       How often do you write?
 I write something every day, even if it's just a few notes. With the novel, I'm in the middle of doing a lot of research right now, so it's a lot of reading and note-taking, plus writing parts of the novel that don't rely so heavily on the research.

       How do you react to rejections?
 I've developed a pretty thick skin. Obviously every rejection is a little disappointing, but especially now that I'm editing a magazine and see what the other side of it looks like, I understand that sometimes a piece, even if it's a good piece, just doesn't fit. And sometimes, of course, it's just a bad piece.

       How do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication?
 Well, it's satisfying, of course. I'm often surprised, because I rarely like my finished work.

       What is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as a writer?
 Don't. What do you want to be sane for?

      What is your favorite book?
 Impossible to answer. Still, probably, "Catch-22".

       Who is your favorite author?
 That's a difficult question, because I use books like prescription medication. I would have to say that the most consistently inspiring to me, not just in his writing itself but also in his commitment to craft and in his seriousness about all of it, is Don DeLillo.

        If you could have dinner with one fictional character, who would it be and why?
 Nikola Tesla. Not the real Nikola Tesla-- the crazy superhuman wizard Tesla. Because I can't even say for sure that they're not the same thing.

        What is the greatest occupational hazard for a writer?
 Netflix.

        What is your favorite word?
 "Detritus."

        What makes you laugh?
 The publishing industry.

      What makes you cry?
 The publishing industry.

What is your preferred drink while you write?
 Gin and tonic.

Beach or Mountains?
 Mountains.

Cats or Dogs?
 I like both, but cats all the way.

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?
 Historically, The Beatles. More recently, The Stones.

Jimi Hendrix or Frank Sinatra?
 Hendrix.

Shakespeare or Bukowski?
Isn't there a theory that they're the same dude? If there isn't, there will be soon.

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

Personal website/blog: No personal site at the moment, but I am co-editor and co-founder of flyovercountryreview.com, an online monthly of Midwestern art and literature.

Facebook profile or page: Personal: https://www.facebook.com/tony.battaglia.56

Twitter profile:
 @FlyoverReview

Thursday, April 10, 2014

INTERVIEW: SONNY GIORDANO

Name?
Sonny Giordano

Age?
28

Location?
Southern California. Specifically, Azusa.

How long have you been writing?
For about 15 years or so. I wrote my first poetry at 12 or 13, but began writing in earnest somewhere around 17. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever stuck with.

Do you have a specific writing style?
I’m not certain I do. I try to write in a style that will best serve the particular piece. Typically I’m very conversational, flowery but also relaxed. Intensely casual. Maybe I’ve “found my voice”, as it were.

Do you write as a career?
Not yet.

Do you write full-time?
I do write all the time. My job gets in the way often enough.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as a writer?
Anytime a reader says that they’ve connected to something I wrote. Anytime I hear that my writing meant something to somebody, made them feel or relate. That always feels like a great accomplishment.

What is your ultimate goal as a writer?
To reach people, to help in whatever many ways art can help. I want to give somebody the feeling I had the first time I read Cohen or Kerouac. Then, to acquire the time and freedom to spend all my days with nothing to do but write and read.

What is your greatest challenge as a writer?
To write, and not just daydream.

What projects of yours have been recently published?
My first published material is my book I’m Sorry I Was Late, But I’m Here Now which is coming out soon on Punk Hostage Press.

What are you currently working on and what inspired this work?
After ‘I’m Sorry I Was Late…” comes out, I’ll be doing readings for that, and immediately start compiling another manuscript. I’ll be behind the scenes at Punk Hostage. There are a lot of short stories I’d like to finish, and scripts I’d like to draft. What has inspired all these works is the same thing; something comes to me in the back of my head with a story to tell, and informs me that I’ve been chosen to tell it.

Where can we find your work?
sonnygiordano.com and the Sonny Giordano Facebook page are the best places for now, until the book is available online through Punk Hostage Press.

How often do you write?
I sit down in front of my computer and write as often as I can, which is usually a few nights a week and Sundays. But whenever something hits me, or I get a thought stuck in my head anytime of the day or night I’ll scribble it in a notebook or type it into my phone.

How do you react to rejections?
I don’t like taking “no” for an answer. But I’m not for everybody.

How do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication?
It’s pretty surreal. It’s a big dream of mine panning out to be published.

What is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as a writer?
Don’t try to stay sane. Feel all of it, and don’t turn away.

What is your favorite book?
Damn. That’s tough. ‘The Black Dahlia’ by James Ellroy was the book that returned me to the love of reading and writing at a time when I had lost my way. For that it holds a special place in my heart. Reading it reminded me of how much I loved to read, it made me feel like I had to try and write again. Knowing a story, a book, could be that good woke me back up and re-ignited my drive and passion.

Who is your favorite author?
There’s so many. Leonard Cohen is my favorite writer to read.

If you could have dinner with one fictional character, who would it be and why?
Gregor Samsa

What is the greatest occupational hazard for a writer?
Either becoming or not becoming one with your art. I’m not sure yet.

What is your favorite word?
That changes often enough. Sometimes “horseshit” or “

What makes you laugh?
Sad things, painful things, scary things.

What makes you cry?
Damn near everything.

What is your preferred drink while you write?
These days it’s a cold club soda. Used to be Jim Beam and Diet Coke.

Beach or Mountains?
My porch.

Cats or Dogs?
My cat is dead, and so is my dog. So, both. But neither.

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?
The Rolling Stones.

Jimi Hendrix or Frank Sinatra?
Sinatra.

Shakespeare or Bukowski?
Giordano.

Please provide as much or as little of the following information as you’d like.
Personal website/blog: sonnygiordano.com
Facebook profile or page: Sonny Giordano www.facebook.com/sonnygiordanowrites
I’m Sorry I Was Late But I’m Here Now www.facebook.com/imsorryiwaslatebutimherenow
Punk Hostage Press www.punkhostagepress.com/
Punk Hostage Press on FB www.facebook.com/PunkHostagePress
Twitter profile: @SonnysWords
Other page(s) or profile(s): Instagram; sonnygiordano
Books for sale and/or press: I’m Sorry I Was Late, But I’m Here Now (by Sonny Giordano) on Punk Hostage Press.

Anything you’d like to share about your country, its people, or native animals?
The natives here weren’t indigenous, and long ago they chose domestication. A hard domestication. Nothing looks like freedom, but they don’t actually care about being captive if you call the captivity freedom. There’s animals, but they’re just like the people, to be food or to be caged.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

shame / Secret Songs of Sirenum Scopuli 2


Miguel Sanchez is a Californian writer currently studying at The Writers Studio. At age 8 wrote "What's wrong about Hippies" a manifesto, followed by "Shut up Grandma" a rock n roll song that was immediately banned. He worked as a bike messenger, bagel baker, carpenter, art model, aviation electrician, photographer, EMT, roadie, and gaffed porn movies. He has graduated nothing and has no degrees.

He is directly responsible for saving 5 lives, performed CPR twice, survived 2 plane crashes. He has seen ball lightning and the North Pole.And now lives with Parkinson’s.


shame

shame comes as a doll  
special delivery,
to your home, to your office, 
finds you on vacation,
you try to ignore it 
you hope it just goes away
it never does
there is no ignoring 
the life like doll of your father 
in sagging superman 
underwear about to fall 
off except for the suspenders
his mouth open, a glory hole
like he’s the town crier
shouting out my secrets 
maybe perform some 
act publicly and blame me
he’s gonna say
i taught him this 
he’s not inflatable
so i can’t pop him and bunch him 
up into a garbage can
no way to cover him up 
fortunately this time i am alone
and i only stepped in dog shit
it is bad enough when he 
suddenly appears while I’m
drinking laughing being charming
everyone loving me
imagine him in bed with me
difficult to explain
and her 
waiting with the rejection slip
but today i am alone
with him and i carry him
down the street and try not to
look like i am hugging him
or have my hands to close
to his ass
all he has to say 
this time is 
you’re an idiot.


Secret Songs of Sirenum Scopuli 2

I answered an ad in the Berkeley Barb. The ad was for a young Filipina tv head nurse. The price was right for living on ramen. My favorite thing about the hobby is going to their houses and not knowing what you would find. I mean where and how they lived. The anticipation, if they were as advertised.

Out front no easement, a discarded couch tagged by the skinny shade of a palm. This tv was in a grease and garlic, dryer lint smelling apartment complex on the 3rd floor by the elevator.

I gently knocked. I didn’t want to alert the neighbors. There was some quiet rustling of fabric, a forced feminine voice said come in. Usually they come to the door and open it on themselves so they are hidden by the door and in order to see them, its dark inside all the time, you have to walk in. The door closes behind you and they come out from behind it. Now you are committed to being there.

She called from the middle of the room to come in. I wondered if I was being entrapped. Fuck it said my boner and we opened the door.

In a robe, wrapped in a blanket was a person sitting in a wheel chair. This IS interesting, I thought. I should turn around now.

“Her” face was hidden like her body, by long disheveled black hair. A bad wig.

“Hello, hon”.  Hello hon. She said that like a three syllable haiku and those words contained the world. A curtsey-less waltz of desire and rejection. She was shaped like a sad accordion, taped up and boxy and waiting to be squeezed.

My hi said I was still figuring it out. I must of spent more time than most. She said get comfortable and told me to put my clothes on the couch, the one with the cats and papers. I can’t tell you why I did it. I can’t. I started with my shirt and ended with my underwear next to the coat checking cats.

I stood in the middle of the room with my diminished chub. She seems to know everything. Come here she says. Her make up is well done cheap slut with blue eye shadow on brown skin.

I walk up to her. Her mouth is large, lips full, and a strong jaw line. I’m as close as I can get without straddling the chair, my junk pointing right at her face. I am expecting her to reach out and grab it with a handful of press-on nails.

She says, straddle the chair. I do. I say i want to see you and I open her blanketed robe. Bolt-ons as I expected but she had flippers for arms and hands. Thalidomide.

I was thinking about her flippers when she began taking me in. It was like surrendering to death. I was shocked but felt warm and safe as everything I felt about the world seemed to melt. I caressed her head and ran my fingers through her hair. She let out a little moan. She wasn’t wearing a wig.

I began to gently thrust, a mumbled uh huh. Then the sound of bump and grind blues guitar coming from behind a bedroom door. It wasn’t the radio and we weren’t alone.