In her own words, "kerryn tredrea doesn't suck, except for money." Visit her Facebook page here.
__________________________________________
so you’re travelling…
so you’re travelling down the road, riding, yeah, you’re riding down the road on motorbikes, no horses, you’re riding down the road on big white horses (although yours is piebald, but no one seems to notice) and you can feel the stretch in your pelvis, the way it really opens you up and the horse underneath you is solid, like a block of concrete, only it’s flesh ‘cos it’s moving and you’re moving with it, dilated and panting. and although you’re still a learner you need to gallop, you need to gallop and hope like fuck that the horse comes with you. a sentient beast, he is known as a bit of a people whisperer among his own kind and he’d like to think that he planted the idea, so consensually you dig your heels into his ribs to break from the pack. and the horse knows what you want and how to give it to you because there’s no speed like this speed as you rise up, rise up from the saddle to stand on unsteady stirrups and your legs are the champions in this scenario as you go fast, fast enough to feel the wind in your hair (only you cant, because you’re bald, though no one seems to notice). so you’re galloping, galloping fast, galloping crazy fast and you wonder if you’re gunna keep your balance with your arms outstretched and the increasing speed and the wind and you can and it’s fucken excellent.
it’s quiet now, calm as you crest the last dune to the beach. there’s the smell of the sea and the spray of the horse and the knowing how close you came... your blood beat slows and the horse shakes his mane and neighs as you’re walking down the beach and you get the sense that he’s strangely attracted to your reckless naïveté. so you’re walking on the beach, well the piebald’s walking, you’re just sitting there, higher than normal, sitting there stretched and swollen, chaffed like you’ve just had sex but he forgot to bring his penis, and you wish you’d bought the dildo but decide instead to explore the horse in a more physical way now that you can loosen your grip on the reins. you find yourself rubbing, using your hands to brace yourself, and his hair is rough under your palms, rough when it’s rubbed up the wrong way and the right way. and your legs, though aching are moving to the rhythm, to the pace set by the horse because he’s the one whose really in charge here, he’s the one with all the control. if he chose to bolt and throw you onto the hard wet sand close to the water’s edge – he could. if he took it into his horsey brain to crush your chest right here, end your life right here on the beach then display over your rapidly cooling body – he could. so with fantasies of your own demise you find that the warm moistness that began in your belly is spilling down through channels that are familiar and spreading to the cloth between your legs (only it lands straight on the saddle, because you’re naked, though no one seems to notice).
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
George Gaudet
George Gaudet is the pen name of a charming Puerto Rican poet who was born and raised in New York city. He began writing poetry at the age of 15 and has been writing ever since( a little over a decade now). At first he used poetry as a means of venting his frustrations, But now the making of poems has become the main source of his stress. A blissful stress he's grown quite addicted to ( he believes the reading of a genuine poem feels like an injection of heroin directly into the head).
Find him on Facebook
______________________________________________
Chopin
Midnight dreams of my desire to possess you. Your shadow encircles me while fleeing; it is a shifting shape of love in bloom; it is the spark of tragedy in a piano tune. - And Chopin, I imagine poor Chopin, well-dressed and good-looking, demanding flames and flowers from you.
And now, as I sit here in my moonlit room, remembering; after the drinks and singing are through, and the bar has closed, and the shreds of voices and cigarette smoke are far from me...through the deserted avenues... at 5 O'clock in the morning ....on the corner of an empty street.... I stop to look at the moon and think of you.
The Poem That Fell Out Of My Headbone
1.
- A potpourri
of prisms
- the perfidy
of prose
- a perfect
Pandemonium
- a punishment
of pulse
-Parsimony
- a prison
in skull
a sad
syndrome a
Puzzled
"think and know"
- a heart all pigs and pope
2.
This room fits like a shoe
The bed's too low and small
and nothing's written on the walls
- mute walls with nothing much
to say at all walls
which are sometimes so thin and tall
- I've heard the loud lady next door
cough or curse the baby or tell
her lousy husband off...- the jerk
- once
A door slammed of a sudden
and popped the bauble silence
with an intimate though pitiless big
Rattle- the-windows- loose- through-
the-roof- big-boom!
Boom!
and then this pome this dumb
pome fell out of my headbone:
3.
I've stuffed and filled my headskull with pills
[ reduced]
To kill the thrill of ill
[amused]
- from moon to moon alone
Aloof in rooms of " No"
- Poppy poems
Poison dreams
Pistils pills and snow
- diffused
- Patterns prim
Plot numberings
- twin axis of a soul
Which proffers its poultice
Of livid skin and bones
to oblivion.
- a posthumous protuberance
- a past tense stiff disturbance
some future ghost postpones
in the sunless plural interim...
- decided then a little Yes
of a sudden twist though nothing more than dull
if not skillful
in its meridian of pendulous mood
in a meinkampf of mind
- a drowning fish and slow
- sinks and then the bubbles burst
themselves in verse
the water's silence
an emptiness and full....
Find him on Facebook
______________________________________________
Chopin
Midnight dreams of my desire to possess you. Your shadow encircles me while fleeing; it is a shifting shape of love in bloom; it is the spark of tragedy in a piano tune. - And Chopin, I imagine poor Chopin, well-dressed and good-looking, demanding flames and flowers from you.
And now, as I sit here in my moonlit room, remembering; after the drinks and singing are through, and the bar has closed, and the shreds of voices and cigarette smoke are far from me...through the deserted avenues... at 5 O'clock in the morning ....on the corner of an empty street.... I stop to look at the moon and think of you.
The Poem That Fell Out Of My Headbone
1.
- A potpourri
of prisms
- the perfidy
of prose
- a perfect
Pandemonium
- a punishment
of pulse
-Parsimony
- a prison
in skull
a sad
syndrome a
Puzzled
"think and know"
- a heart all pigs and pope
2.
This room fits like a shoe
The bed's too low and small
and nothing's written on the walls
- mute walls with nothing much
to say at all walls
which are sometimes so thin and tall
- I've heard the loud lady next door
cough or curse the baby or tell
her lousy husband off...- the jerk
- once
A door slammed of a sudden
and popped the bauble silence
with an intimate though pitiless big
Rattle- the-windows- loose- through-
the-roof- big-boom!
Boom!
and then this pome this dumb
pome fell out of my headbone:
3.
I've stuffed and filled my headskull with pills
[ reduced]
To kill the thrill of ill
[amused]
- from moon to moon alone
Aloof in rooms of " No"
- Poppy poems
Poison dreams
Pistils pills and snow
- diffused
- Patterns prim
Plot numberings
- twin axis of a soul
Which proffers its poultice
Of livid skin and bones
to oblivion.
- a posthumous protuberance
- a past tense stiff disturbance
some future ghost postpones
in the sunless plural interim...
- decided then a little Yes
of a sudden twist though nothing more than dull
if not skillful
in its meridian of pendulous mood
in a meinkampf of mind
- a drowning fish and slow
- sinks and then the bubbles burst
themselves in verse
the water's silence
an emptiness and full....
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Aaron Goldberg
Aaron Goldberg is a Melbourne Australia based writer, some-time musician, try-hard film-maker, masturbator, I.T loser and father. He toured the English speaking world in the early 90s with his indie band 'the Earthmen', then studied screenwriting in the early 00s thinking like every shlepper he'd make it in 'Cannes'. He completed three screenplays and was rejected each time despite his teachers telling him he had more talent than his peers. So much for their advice and the subsequent mental illness. After siring some offspring he has retreated to the serene suburban confines of the suburb Eltham, once legendary for it's art communes, now another dull suburb like all the rest. This has made him a very 'Angry Penguin'. His debut novel 'Foutre La Merde, Dans' and a book of essays on rock n' roll culture 'Whenever I feel like it' will be out on obscure P.O.D label 'Leda Tape' in August 2010.
See more of Aaron at
His BLOG
And HERE
___________________________________________________
Excerpt from the novel 'Foutre la merde, dans' by Aaron Goldberg© 2010
It was Yuval’s cravings that brought him the rubbish-bin full of misery. Craving after craving after craving. In the best Freudian tradition, it was the sexual cravings that kicked them off. Those primal genetically encoded desires for flesh, and more, softer, firmer, smellier, warmer, stupider, whatever. Being an only son in the Holy Land made it difficult. The shadow of the Holocaust, the fear of annihilation, the strong binary, disciplined society, and the Logan’s Run styled realization that you not only turn a man at 13, but you repeat it again for real at 18, when compulsory army service came around. But dickheads in the Diaspora would never know with their upper middle-class liberal existences. Yuval’s confrontation with death was a daily chore - he’d imparted death, and he died himself on duty. His encounter with death happened while was laying a communications dish in the Occupied Territories of Palestine. A routine job by any standards, he wasn’t aware that the Fatah University Students had decided that this day was ' the memorial day for the Martyr Mohammad El Nazir'. And so, it just happened to be Yuval’s stupid luck that he copped the arse end of a Molotov cocktail, the blast knocking him unconscious and rupturing his trachea. He died for about 3 minutes as he stopped breathing, but luckily, the Israeli military doctors, let alone their standard hospital trauma doctors, were the absolute best in the universe. Cutting a hole in his throat and inserting a straw kept him breathing, and a week later he awoke in hospital to see his teary mother and his girlfriend. His dad had long left to live in Australia and start a ‘Sour Snake lolly stall’ in a Gold Coast shopping centre. Cheating death, Yuval’s positive lust for life was immense, but so too was his lust for that other life, sex.
In the greater scheme of things, sex was simply a craving. The girls loved his deep ‘Sabra’ melancholy, his brusque machismo. Israeli men are the Old Testament’s spit in the eye to that frumpy old Australian feminist’ treatise ‘the Female Eunuch’. Israelis didn’t get bashed by their alcoholic fathers, and if they did, their mothers would break their fathers' nose, most but not all times. Israeli women don't take as much shit as Anglo-Saxon women who always seemed to take the punches, that’s why they shit things out like ‘the Female Eunuch’ while Israeli women cavort around holding Uzi's, the Israeli's voted a woman into power well before Australia or America ever have. But alas, another distraction.
Craving, craving, craving. Aversion, aversion, aversion. Yuval sat in the meditation room, going out of his mind, as some old, fat, Burmese man who looked like some weird creation out of a George Lucas ‘Star Wars’ movie, drummed the words into his head. ‘Craving’. ‘Aversion’. ‘Misery’. That brunette’s arse wobbled so effortlessly. She must do lots of exercise. I bet she walks around the suburbs in her ‘skins’ just to accentuate that perfect shape. Then she walks into this room of intense self-reflection to show us her 'symbols'. Or the hippie with her perfect posture, for instance. She sits for 5 hours in the same Buddha posture. Unlike the other losers who hunch and stoop and fidget, her posture is perfect, sublime. A persons’ body, their posture, their face, their look, will tell you more than anything that comes out their mouth. All these thoughts, these distractions caused Yuval’s snake to rise. The venom filled its' head, and he became fully aware of the simplicity of his cravings. And then, just as simply entered the misery. 'The Misery'. Annica. The snake became inert, impotent, and since no-one saw his interjected humiliation, he started to feel, strangely....calm.
Like all the other Israelis of Gen X/Y/Z he took the ‘spiritual’ path to India, not that he actually gave three shits about India, since he was ultimately a Hebrew. Most Israelis went to India because India was Israel's ally, and one of the few countries in the world they could go to and not get spat on, or kidnapped or worse, be You-Tube’d of them getting their throat cut. The Indians didn’t hate Israel. Just like the Thais. So the Israelis went there for post Army freak-outs as well. The Thais just thought, well at least they aren’t Paedophiles from Germany or England or Australia.
In Thailand it was like a scene out of Coppola's 'Apocalypse Now'..Weird, beach-side parties full of people completely out of their minds on powerful psychedelics, listening to blaring beat-noise that sounded like it was a fanfare inviting people to the gates of hell. A thumping head-smash of horrible, horrible death.
Leaving Thailand he made his way to Australia, Melbourne precisely, and found himself in a sharehouse in the Jewish fringe suburb of Elsternwick. He found Melbourne oppressive and didn't want to stay there for long. He found the place oppressive because the Jewish community there reminded him of his grandparents. Most of the community in Melbourne were from first generation Holocaust survivors, and because they were stuck in the arse end of the world in Australia, were far more conservative and neurotic than Jewish communities elsewhere in the world. He shared the weatherboard house with two other Israelis, Pini and Fria. Pini was able to get himself involved with the lucrative ecstasy drug dealing scene, and had set himself up perfectly amongst the upper middle-class Jewish university students, most of whom would follow their Israeli brothers and sisters into the spiritual gates-of-hell beat-music listening faddish group of the Global-consciousness trance disco party scene. Such was the disposable income of his clientele, that Pini would regularly bring in over $2000 cash per week. Fria found occasional work as a child minder, working for South African Jews in nearby Caulfield, and orthodox Jewish families with a minimum of four children, in the nearby borough of Balaclava. She would turn up in their modernist homes and look after their children, who loved to talk Hebrew with her and ask her about Israel. Yuval didn't work much, and when he did, he basically did lackey work for Pini. But it wasn't in vain. Pini had a regular customer called Jake, a 22 year old male Jewish stoner who grew a beard like Bob Dylan and was really into trance music and Jeff Buckley. Jakes' parents were multi-millionaires, their family owning a large fruit processing company, as well as owning a substantial real estate port-folio. Jake had done his year's pilgrimage to Israel where he met his girlfriend and future wife, Tali. His life was set, and his parents managed to get him into the law school he needed to go to, and he was planning to have a career in the entertainment industry or 'arts', away from all that 'corporate bullshit, like my folks'. Jake would often share a bong with Pini and Yuval as thanks for keeping him supplied with skunk marijuana, and it was during one of these 'peace pipes' that Yuval was able to use his innate Israeli persuasion to hook up a job at one of Jake's parents warehouses. Yuvals' tasks were simple and soon he was bringing home around $120 cash per day, and he worked the odd day over a weekend where he would get double. Yuval shared his warehouse duties occasionally, with the brother of Jake, a 16 year old called Angus.
Yuval soon noticed that Angus had no idea about life, sex or war. Angus always asked Yuval about what it was like fighting in the army against the 'fucking Arabs'. Yuval took pride in explaining that they were 'fucken stupid' people, and that he doesn't understand why the media refers to Palestine as the 'occupied territories' when they really run their own shop down there, and really, most 18-21 year old Israelis would prefer to be in active combat action like a Golan-Globus movie, rather than punch young Palestinians in the head for throwing rocks or yell at old Arab ladies who can hardly walk. Yuval would ask Angus about whether he has a girlfriend, of which Angus would reply in the negative. Being Israeli and forthright, he asked Angus if he's gay, Angus replied in the negative. From there, in order to break up the monotony and boredom of stacking boxes of cranberry juice, or shifting around palettes of prune juice with a forklift, Yuval would talk constantly to Jake about sex. He would proudly tell Angus how horny the young female soldiers were in the Israeli army. About how much fun it was to spy on the girls as they took their showers, or how kinky it was to fuck a woman in a soldiers uniform while her Uzi would rattle against door of their jeep. He loved to tell stories how once he fucked one of the communications officers, a blonde from Petah Tikvah, in the arse just after they had done a search on a suspected Hamas activists apartment, and how he ejaculated all over the sheets of the activists' bed. In fact he regarded that the most successful 'covert' operation he had ever done, and in his words: 'at least no-one got killed, and my point of view was explicitly and effectively expressed.' Angus thought that was 'pretty rad'. One morning, Angus was instructed to open the warehouse. Upon arrival, Yuval noticed Angus struggling with the lock. Here let me do it, Yuval ordered. Angus obligingly gave Yuval the key, and after a few moments of fiddling, the door opened. Yuval was quick to explain to the bewildered Angus: You have to understand opening a lock is the same as putting it inside a girls pussy. You have to slide it in the right way first, and you have to know how to use the key properly once inside. Angus though he was cool as shit. The conversations between Angus and Yuval would continue, Yuval never had enough stories to tell and Angus never had enough questions to ask. Yuval promised Angus that when he finally fucked a woman, it would be the greatest thing he ever experienced. Better than punching and shooting Arabs, better than trying to dance to undanceable blare from the gates of hell while smashed out of your brains on drugs that made you impotent anyway, and even better than eating Kosher food. Remember one golden law of nature Angus: “They want it as much as you.”
See more of Aaron at
His BLOG
And HERE
___________________________________________________
Excerpt from the novel 'Foutre la merde, dans' by Aaron Goldberg© 2010
It was Yuval’s cravings that brought him the rubbish-bin full of misery. Craving after craving after craving. In the best Freudian tradition, it was the sexual cravings that kicked them off. Those primal genetically encoded desires for flesh, and more, softer, firmer, smellier, warmer, stupider, whatever. Being an only son in the Holy Land made it difficult. The shadow of the Holocaust, the fear of annihilation, the strong binary, disciplined society, and the Logan’s Run styled realization that you not only turn a man at 13, but you repeat it again for real at 18, when compulsory army service came around. But dickheads in the Diaspora would never know with their upper middle-class liberal existences. Yuval’s confrontation with death was a daily chore - he’d imparted death, and he died himself on duty. His encounter with death happened while was laying a communications dish in the Occupied Territories of Palestine. A routine job by any standards, he wasn’t aware that the Fatah University Students had decided that this day was ' the memorial day for the Martyr Mohammad El Nazir'. And so, it just happened to be Yuval’s stupid luck that he copped the arse end of a Molotov cocktail, the blast knocking him unconscious and rupturing his trachea. He died for about 3 minutes as he stopped breathing, but luckily, the Israeli military doctors, let alone their standard hospital trauma doctors, were the absolute best in the universe. Cutting a hole in his throat and inserting a straw kept him breathing, and a week later he awoke in hospital to see his teary mother and his girlfriend. His dad had long left to live in Australia and start a ‘Sour Snake lolly stall’ in a Gold Coast shopping centre. Cheating death, Yuval’s positive lust for life was immense, but so too was his lust for that other life, sex.
In the greater scheme of things, sex was simply a craving. The girls loved his deep ‘Sabra’ melancholy, his brusque machismo. Israeli men are the Old Testament’s spit in the eye to that frumpy old Australian feminist’ treatise ‘the Female Eunuch’. Israelis didn’t get bashed by their alcoholic fathers, and if they did, their mothers would break their fathers' nose, most but not all times. Israeli women don't take as much shit as Anglo-Saxon women who always seemed to take the punches, that’s why they shit things out like ‘the Female Eunuch’ while Israeli women cavort around holding Uzi's, the Israeli's voted a woman into power well before Australia or America ever have. But alas, another distraction.
Craving, craving, craving. Aversion, aversion, aversion. Yuval sat in the meditation room, going out of his mind, as some old, fat, Burmese man who looked like some weird creation out of a George Lucas ‘Star Wars’ movie, drummed the words into his head. ‘Craving’. ‘Aversion’. ‘Misery’. That brunette’s arse wobbled so effortlessly. She must do lots of exercise. I bet she walks around the suburbs in her ‘skins’ just to accentuate that perfect shape. Then she walks into this room of intense self-reflection to show us her 'symbols'. Or the hippie with her perfect posture, for instance. She sits for 5 hours in the same Buddha posture. Unlike the other losers who hunch and stoop and fidget, her posture is perfect, sublime. A persons’ body, their posture, their face, their look, will tell you more than anything that comes out their mouth. All these thoughts, these distractions caused Yuval’s snake to rise. The venom filled its' head, and he became fully aware of the simplicity of his cravings. And then, just as simply entered the misery. 'The Misery'. Annica. The snake became inert, impotent, and since no-one saw his interjected humiliation, he started to feel, strangely....calm.
Like all the other Israelis of Gen X/Y/Z he took the ‘spiritual’ path to India, not that he actually gave three shits about India, since he was ultimately a Hebrew. Most Israelis went to India because India was Israel's ally, and one of the few countries in the world they could go to and not get spat on, or kidnapped or worse, be You-Tube’d of them getting their throat cut. The Indians didn’t hate Israel. Just like the Thais. So the Israelis went there for post Army freak-outs as well. The Thais just thought, well at least they aren’t Paedophiles from Germany or England or Australia.
In Thailand it was like a scene out of Coppola's 'Apocalypse Now'..Weird, beach-side parties full of people completely out of their minds on powerful psychedelics, listening to blaring beat-noise that sounded like it was a fanfare inviting people to the gates of hell. A thumping head-smash of horrible, horrible death.
Leaving Thailand he made his way to Australia, Melbourne precisely, and found himself in a sharehouse in the Jewish fringe suburb of Elsternwick. He found Melbourne oppressive and didn't want to stay there for long. He found the place oppressive because the Jewish community there reminded him of his grandparents. Most of the community in Melbourne were from first generation Holocaust survivors, and because they were stuck in the arse end of the world in Australia, were far more conservative and neurotic than Jewish communities elsewhere in the world. He shared the weatherboard house with two other Israelis, Pini and Fria. Pini was able to get himself involved with the lucrative ecstasy drug dealing scene, and had set himself up perfectly amongst the upper middle-class Jewish university students, most of whom would follow their Israeli brothers and sisters into the spiritual gates-of-hell beat-music listening faddish group of the Global-consciousness trance disco party scene. Such was the disposable income of his clientele, that Pini would regularly bring in over $2000 cash per week. Fria found occasional work as a child minder, working for South African Jews in nearby Caulfield, and orthodox Jewish families with a minimum of four children, in the nearby borough of Balaclava. She would turn up in their modernist homes and look after their children, who loved to talk Hebrew with her and ask her about Israel. Yuval didn't work much, and when he did, he basically did lackey work for Pini. But it wasn't in vain. Pini had a regular customer called Jake, a 22 year old male Jewish stoner who grew a beard like Bob Dylan and was really into trance music and Jeff Buckley. Jakes' parents were multi-millionaires, their family owning a large fruit processing company, as well as owning a substantial real estate port-folio. Jake had done his year's pilgrimage to Israel where he met his girlfriend and future wife, Tali. His life was set, and his parents managed to get him into the law school he needed to go to, and he was planning to have a career in the entertainment industry or 'arts', away from all that 'corporate bullshit, like my folks'. Jake would often share a bong with Pini and Yuval as thanks for keeping him supplied with skunk marijuana, and it was during one of these 'peace pipes' that Yuval was able to use his innate Israeli persuasion to hook up a job at one of Jake's parents warehouses. Yuvals' tasks were simple and soon he was bringing home around $120 cash per day, and he worked the odd day over a weekend where he would get double. Yuval shared his warehouse duties occasionally, with the brother of Jake, a 16 year old called Angus.
Yuval soon noticed that Angus had no idea about life, sex or war. Angus always asked Yuval about what it was like fighting in the army against the 'fucking Arabs'. Yuval took pride in explaining that they were 'fucken stupid' people, and that he doesn't understand why the media refers to Palestine as the 'occupied territories' when they really run their own shop down there, and really, most 18-21 year old Israelis would prefer to be in active combat action like a Golan-Globus movie, rather than punch young Palestinians in the head for throwing rocks or yell at old Arab ladies who can hardly walk. Yuval would ask Angus about whether he has a girlfriend, of which Angus would reply in the negative. Being Israeli and forthright, he asked Angus if he's gay, Angus replied in the negative. From there, in order to break up the monotony and boredom of stacking boxes of cranberry juice, or shifting around palettes of prune juice with a forklift, Yuval would talk constantly to Jake about sex. He would proudly tell Angus how horny the young female soldiers were in the Israeli army. About how much fun it was to spy on the girls as they took their showers, or how kinky it was to fuck a woman in a soldiers uniform while her Uzi would rattle against door of their jeep. He loved to tell stories how once he fucked one of the communications officers, a blonde from Petah Tikvah, in the arse just after they had done a search on a suspected Hamas activists apartment, and how he ejaculated all over the sheets of the activists' bed. In fact he regarded that the most successful 'covert' operation he had ever done, and in his words: 'at least no-one got killed, and my point of view was explicitly and effectively expressed.' Angus thought that was 'pretty rad'. One morning, Angus was instructed to open the warehouse. Upon arrival, Yuval noticed Angus struggling with the lock. Here let me do it, Yuval ordered. Angus obligingly gave Yuval the key, and after a few moments of fiddling, the door opened. Yuval was quick to explain to the bewildered Angus: You have to understand opening a lock is the same as putting it inside a girls pussy. You have to slide it in the right way first, and you have to know how to use the key properly once inside. Angus though he was cool as shit. The conversations between Angus and Yuval would continue, Yuval never had enough stories to tell and Angus never had enough questions to ask. Yuval promised Angus that when he finally fucked a woman, it would be the greatest thing he ever experienced. Better than punching and shooting Arabs, better than trying to dance to undanceable blare from the gates of hell while smashed out of your brains on drugs that made you impotent anyway, and even better than eating Kosher food. Remember one golden law of nature Angus: “They want it as much as you.”
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Holly Carver-Lee
Holly Carver-Lee a native of Maryland, her eye for photography evolved working as a graphic designer and photo stylist. She loves exploring and viewing life through her camera which has become an indomitable hobby. Holly observes her everday life through photography and journal writing as a way of healing and process with a desire to share her hope and love to others.
See More of Holly's work on
Facebook
See More of Holly's work on
Friday, June 4, 2010
Review
Here are the posts for the week... May 28 - June 5
Share your thoughts. Don't be shy. We wouldn't be!
Have a great weekend. We look forward to bringing you more poetry, an excerpt from a book, and much more!!
Keep the submissions coming! redcentpublishing@gmail.com
David Rat
Georgia Griffin
Shane Jesse Christmass
Si Philbrook
Share your thoughts. Don't be shy. We wouldn't be!
Have a great weekend. We look forward to bringing you more poetry, an excerpt from a book, and much more!!
Keep the submissions coming! redcentpublishing@gmail.com
David Rat
Georgia Griffin
Shane Jesse Christmass
Si Philbrook
Si Philbrook
Si Philbrook is a militant atheist married to a catholic. Lend him a tenner and he'll buy you a pint. His favourite food is gruffalo crumble.
Find Si's other work at
Myspace
_____________________________________________
thoughts on kaplowitz
if he didn't exist we'd have to invent him
he is a poem
the one about how your mother
caught you wanking
over the lingerie section of kays catalogue
when you were ten
"i was lucky enough to learn with the bra section
of sears catalogues and the onset of 976 numbers.
national geographic would have been a challenge.
every generation has it easier than the last"
he is a poem//the one about your piss-stinking granny
who died alone in some care home
cos she was too much trouble
and a bit embarrassing
"Do I owe you an apology for almost making you think?"
he is a poem
the one about how crap you are in bed
lacking the imagination
to talk dirty
or use a blindfold
or spend an hour //just kissing her cunt
"I told you I don't fuck dogs anymore"
he is a poem
the one about children
with feet and hands blown off
by british-made american-planted
landmines
"Thanks for catching my typo.
As far as everything else you said,
fuck off."
he is the poem you don't want to read
but can't help yourself
car crash poetry
"it's simply my lack of imagination"
____
Recognising the smell of shit
I sit down and decide to write a shit poem
so shit that everyone has to say
"jesus this is shit"
and i start writing
sitting in the backroom
of an irish pub in Boyce Street
and then this girl walks in
all split skirt and legs
and suddenly i'm thinking of a poem by bukowski.
Yeah i see you, charles bukowski
sitting in your californian betting shop
eyeing up young legs
and guessing which horse
might just come in at 40-1
and laughing at me
and all the stupid-fucking-dimwit-poets
like me
who spend so long with their heads up their own arse
that they are no longer able
to recognise the smell of shit.
_____
Kenny
Kenny was a mate of mine,
we used to go and watch Millwall together
managed to blag a couple of season tickets
on account of his disability
I went along as his carer;
too bloody funny.
Kenny had Down's Syndrome.
He didn't worry about it;
he had some trouble speaking
and the most evil sense of humour I ever knew
I can still hear his laugh
worse than Mutley.
Kenny swore a lot
but
"Fuck off" came out "Fug all".
He was proud that he could say his own name,
properly,
H
he'd tap his chest and say
"Kenny Evans" when introduced.
I didn't know better when I first met him
so I tapped my chest and said…"Philbrook, Simon Philbrook…"
He roared with laughter
and ever after when I arrived he'd tap me on the chest saying..
"Fug-all, Fug-all, Smime"
then fall about laughing.
I miss that.
Kenny loved football,
he loved the cheering and the chants,
and anyone who scored…..them or us!
Upper tier behind the goal
whenever "the referee's a wanker" could be heard
you knew that Kenny would be standing up conducting
like it was last night of the proms.
At home to some crap nobody's in the cup
Thatcher steps up to head away a corner
perfect own goal
silence,
visitors end was always empty then,
Kenny stands up
shouts "GOAL" in perfect diction,
I couldn't look.
then from a couple of rows behind the chant began
"Stand up if you love Kenny…..Stand up if you love Kenny".
He conducted’
I cried.
this is why I fucking love football.
Find Si's other work at
Myspace
_____________________________________________
thoughts on kaplowitz
if he didn't exist we'd have to invent him
he is a poem
the one about how your mother
caught you wanking
over the lingerie section of kays catalogue
when you were ten
"i was lucky enough to learn with the bra section
of sears catalogues and the onset of 976 numbers.
national geographic would have been a challenge.
every generation has it easier than the last"
he is a poem//the one about your piss-stinking granny
who died alone in some care home
cos she was too much trouble
and a bit embarrassing
"Do I owe you an apology for almost making you think?"
he is a poem
the one about how crap you are in bed
lacking the imagination
to talk dirty
or use a blindfold
or spend an hour //just kissing her cunt
"I told you I don't fuck dogs anymore"
he is a poem
the one about children
with feet and hands blown off
by british-made american-planted
landmines
"Thanks for catching my typo.
As far as everything else you said,
fuck off."
he is the poem you don't want to read
but can't help yourself
car crash poetry
"it's simply my lack of imagination"
____
Recognising the smell of shit
I sit down and decide to write a shit poem
so shit that everyone has to say
"jesus this is shit"
and i start writing
sitting in the backroom
of an irish pub in Boyce Street
and then this girl walks in
all split skirt and legs
and suddenly i'm thinking of a poem by bukowski.
Yeah i see you, charles bukowski
sitting in your californian betting shop
eyeing up young legs
and guessing which horse
might just come in at 40-1
and laughing at me
and all the stupid-fucking-dimwit-poets
like me
who spend so long with their heads up their own arse
that they are no longer able
to recognise the smell of shit.
_____
Kenny
Kenny was a mate of mine,
we used to go and watch Millwall together
managed to blag a couple of season tickets
on account of his disability
I went along as his carer;
too bloody funny.
Kenny had Down's Syndrome.
He didn't worry about it;
he had some trouble speaking
and the most evil sense of humour I ever knew
I can still hear his laugh
worse than Mutley.
Kenny swore a lot
but
"Fuck off" came out "Fug all".
He was proud that he could say his own name,
properly,
H
he'd tap his chest and say
"Kenny Evans" when introduced.
I didn't know better when I first met him
so I tapped my chest and said…"Philbrook, Simon Philbrook…"
He roared with laughter
and ever after when I arrived he'd tap me on the chest saying..
"Fug-all, Fug-all, Smime"
then fall about laughing.
I miss that.
Kenny loved football,
he loved the cheering and the chants,
and anyone who scored…..them or us!
Upper tier behind the goal
whenever "the referee's a wanker" could be heard
you knew that Kenny would be standing up conducting
like it was last night of the proms.
At home to some crap nobody's in the cup
Thatcher steps up to head away a corner
perfect own goal
silence,
visitors end was always empty then,
Kenny stands up
shouts "GOAL" in perfect diction,
I couldn't look.
then from a couple of rows behind the chant began
"Stand up if you love Kenny…..Stand up if you love Kenny".
He conducted’
I cried.
this is why I fucking love football.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Shane Jesse Christmass
Shane Jesse Christmass is a Perth-born, Melbourne-based writer. That’s in Australia by the way … In 2008 Paroxysm Press published an anthology of his short stories called Croak & Grist … He’s also published a number of stories including “Shut Down the Pick Up” (Waste, 2004, Paroxysm Press), “5”, (Shotgun, 2006, Paroxysm Press), “The Arvo & Early Evening of the Axe”, (10 Years that Didn’t Kill Us, 2008, Paroxysm Press), and “The Charnel Stink Within”, (Mini Shots, 2008, Vignette Press) … He’s also the editor of Queen Vic Knives … He likes drinking soda water …
You can find more of his work at these sites!
Where he edits!
LauraPublishing
Paroxysm Press
LuparaPublishing
Fairtilizer
______________________________________________
Cold to the Point Past Death.
Cold, colder, warm, freezing, warm, warmer, hot, hot, cold, freezing. You … only … was in it for a minute, looking for you, you who in that minute was rearranging what love was and then writing down the corresponding cycle of death. You who breathed so until all elements of me were invented & comprehensible in terms of normal mental processes. You who had those secondary delusions which were never understood as being, influenced by your background or identified by a map, the map that lineates between me & you.
You walked onto the television … set & grabbed - a small handful of mints. They were spearmint, a quite odd choice for mints. You was in the Laotian Medicine shop, the permutations were out of order … the mania was palpable. You were okay with the inversions into overactivity. The police were making dioramas - participating in the mania.
The old Laos guy took you into the back room.
‘This isn’t a fucking brothel!’ he delectably winced.
You didn’t believe in positive physics, but you gathered he was inferring his daughter. Was it his daughter? - the woman standing over by the window, wearing a blue pencil skirt & a yellow t-shirt?
Heartbeats & ions sometimes knot & then generate values. Sometimes they also generate a distinct amorous feeling. The daughter was sultry, but you couldn’t see her face. She curled her hair around her finger & and stepped toe to toe in the midday sunlight. It poured into the medicine shop. The old Laos guy then started to unpack boxes of herbs, compost, plant-like and fibrous, gnarled root materials. He was going to affect and cure your disorder. You were now a terminally-ill individual. No hope, no sound for you!
The old Laos guy didn’t know - couldn’t quite work out what type of concoction would help you out. He was humming about … drifting through drawers of medicinal revenue. It looked like all dross to you. You were more interested in his daughter. You thought her permutations needed to be composed. You weren’t composed; you set off … to walk toward her, thinking what the definition of a one-to-one was. Was it sex itself?
Such a map associated itself to the rearrangement of sin – deadly integers to the majority much of people. You tapped her on the shoulder & she turned around like she was expecting to be picked, to be selected. It was like she was expecting you, but she hadn’t been waiting. You motioned with your hand for her to follow you, but she was all ready all over it. She nodded her head and did so.
What was your dysfunction? … bounded like a primary male? Is that what the old Laos guy was trying to cure, but how so, & for which many other names and notations are in use?
You closed the door on the old man. He was still pottering around out the back anyway, so he was unaware. You took his daughter downstairs, but downstairs were just the same as upstairs. She stood over by the window, wearing the blue pencil skirt & yellow t-shirt. Heartbeats & ions knotted & then generated values; sometimes they also generated a distinct amorous feeling. The daughter was still sultry; her face still couldn’t be seen. She curled her hair around her finger and stepped toe to toe in the mid-afternoon sunlight. With her arse facing you to slowly hitch up the pencil skirt. You were walking up to her door. The welcome light was on. Was it the same girl?
The door was open. You walked inside. A naked girl lying on an ottoman reading. It was another moment, very precise, horrible & weird activity; it was the old Laos guy’s daughter. She stilled contained what was once confused with love. There was a pewter tray of cocaine on the coffee table, sitting there like a secondary fragment.
Your doctor had once told you that you derived the sex from sex. Funny how it just felt like tired old amphetamines then. You placed your hands upon her forehead. If your hands hadn’t touched the matter on her forehead, it would’ve been just one meanwhile, one that was perfectly without a neutral, composite, language or brain-tonic, and is never expected.
You lent in & kissed her neck, there was happiness suffusing the predictable time of her.
“Where have you been?” you asked.
“Just a 3-4 day crack-binge, my nipples are sore, they’re sharp when the day begins.” she whispered
You lay down on the carpeted floor; the sense of it all was more. She was a model. She had cultural prejudices against interviews, most magazines. Cannot be as rapid hit as MDMA / mashed - however cocaine is better than language itself
You asked her if she had any movies to make, which partners the person of a human being move … a sudden to ignite. You wanted to desperately eat her out; hence she no longer bears the act introduced. She opened her thighs, performative is rare. The leaves fall through the open window. She strokes your groin. You ease within a personal faith of woman.
She walks to the bathroom … the destruction of the release.
“When it is unaware of woman what shall we do?” she yelled from the shower.
“I’d really like to catch that new movie?” but she couldn’t hear you over the showerhead. Is it distress? She wrapped a towel around her wet body … performative.
She was a rare extract of a transcendentally woman. You were out in the driveway … talking to your neighbour. She was asking about whether you had ever cried in extreme. You revealed to her that you had exceedingly done so. You’d once known this girl & you shed tears. They were a good use … big and wet. The tears had form … the daughter exclusively never stopped calling their drug-induced overstimulation.
She spoke to it every morning … woven from words without history … biography … full words from the book … her amorous ridiculousness indicates precisely.
You were walking up to her door. The welcome light was on. Was it the same girl? The door was open. You walked inside. A naked girl lying on an ottoman reading.
It was another moment … very precise, horrible & weird activity; it was the old Laos guy’s daughter. She stilled contained an intense craving. You let yourself be filled by her tiny arse … has always been God and his who produced it. You could barely work your cock out of your trousers, could barely work as never closer to the truth.
You were liking this & its delay delivers the great arse. None of them knew the pain of death. Every voice of prowess was intensified in her arse - intensified not dulled by passions. It stops ending up making humours … feelings … impressions.
The daughter’s nakedness felt fashioned by a Clinometric O. Crack-cocaine is sensible … by a crash called the well-being.
Enunciation is not accord for classicism
leading
flapping
overlapping of pain … stuffed up.
Written in Fitzroy.
14 – 17th May 2010.
You can find more of his work at these sites!
Where he edits!
LauraPublishing
Paroxysm Press
LuparaPublishing
Fairtilizer
______________________________________________
Cold to the Point Past Death.
Cold, colder, warm, freezing, warm, warmer, hot, hot, cold, freezing. You … only … was in it for a minute, looking for you, you who in that minute was rearranging what love was and then writing down the corresponding cycle of death. You who breathed so until all elements of me were invented & comprehensible in terms of normal mental processes. You who had those secondary delusions which were never understood as being, influenced by your background or identified by a map, the map that lineates between me & you.
You walked onto the television … set & grabbed - a small handful of mints. They were spearmint, a quite odd choice for mints. You was in the Laotian Medicine shop, the permutations were out of order … the mania was palpable. You were okay with the inversions into overactivity. The police were making dioramas - participating in the mania.
The old Laos guy took you into the back room.
‘This isn’t a fucking brothel!’ he delectably winced.
You didn’t believe in positive physics, but you gathered he was inferring his daughter. Was it his daughter? - the woman standing over by the window, wearing a blue pencil skirt & a yellow t-shirt?
Heartbeats & ions sometimes knot & then generate values. Sometimes they also generate a distinct amorous feeling. The daughter was sultry, but you couldn’t see her face. She curled her hair around her finger & and stepped toe to toe in the midday sunlight. It poured into the medicine shop. The old Laos guy then started to unpack boxes of herbs, compost, plant-like and fibrous, gnarled root materials. He was going to affect and cure your disorder. You were now a terminally-ill individual. No hope, no sound for you!
The old Laos guy didn’t know - couldn’t quite work out what type of concoction would help you out. He was humming about … drifting through drawers of medicinal revenue. It looked like all dross to you. You were more interested in his daughter. You thought her permutations needed to be composed. You weren’t composed; you set off … to walk toward her, thinking what the definition of a one-to-one was. Was it sex itself?
Such a map associated itself to the rearrangement of sin – deadly integers to the majority much of people. You tapped her on the shoulder & she turned around like she was expecting to be picked, to be selected. It was like she was expecting you, but she hadn’t been waiting. You motioned with your hand for her to follow you, but she was all ready all over it. She nodded her head and did so.
What was your dysfunction? … bounded like a primary male? Is that what the old Laos guy was trying to cure, but how so, & for which many other names and notations are in use?
You closed the door on the old man. He was still pottering around out the back anyway, so he was unaware. You took his daughter downstairs, but downstairs were just the same as upstairs. She stood over by the window, wearing the blue pencil skirt & yellow t-shirt. Heartbeats & ions knotted & then generated values; sometimes they also generated a distinct amorous feeling. The daughter was still sultry; her face still couldn’t be seen. She curled her hair around her finger and stepped toe to toe in the mid-afternoon sunlight. With her arse facing you to slowly hitch up the pencil skirt. You were walking up to her door. The welcome light was on. Was it the same girl?
The door was open. You walked inside. A naked girl lying on an ottoman reading. It was another moment, very precise, horrible & weird activity; it was the old Laos guy’s daughter. She stilled contained what was once confused with love. There was a pewter tray of cocaine on the coffee table, sitting there like a secondary fragment.
Your doctor had once told you that you derived the sex from sex. Funny how it just felt like tired old amphetamines then. You placed your hands upon her forehead. If your hands hadn’t touched the matter on her forehead, it would’ve been just one meanwhile, one that was perfectly without a neutral, composite, language or brain-tonic, and is never expected.
You lent in & kissed her neck, there was happiness suffusing the predictable time of her.
“Where have you been?” you asked.
“Just a 3-4 day crack-binge, my nipples are sore, they’re sharp when the day begins.” she whispered
You lay down on the carpeted floor; the sense of it all was more. She was a model. She had cultural prejudices against interviews, most magazines. Cannot be as rapid hit as MDMA / mashed - however cocaine is better than language itself
You asked her if she had any movies to make, which partners the person of a human being move … a sudden to ignite. You wanted to desperately eat her out; hence she no longer bears the act introduced. She opened her thighs, performative is rare. The leaves fall through the open window. She strokes your groin. You ease within a personal faith of woman.
She walks to the bathroom … the destruction of the release.
“When it is unaware of woman what shall we do?” she yelled from the shower.
“I’d really like to catch that new movie?” but she couldn’t hear you over the showerhead. Is it distress? She wrapped a towel around her wet body … performative.
She was a rare extract of a transcendentally woman. You were out in the driveway … talking to your neighbour. She was asking about whether you had ever cried in extreme. You revealed to her that you had exceedingly done so. You’d once known this girl & you shed tears. They were a good use … big and wet. The tears had form … the daughter exclusively never stopped calling their drug-induced overstimulation.
She spoke to it every morning … woven from words without history … biography … full words from the book … her amorous ridiculousness indicates precisely.
You were walking up to her door. The welcome light was on. Was it the same girl? The door was open. You walked inside. A naked girl lying on an ottoman reading.
It was another moment … very precise, horrible & weird activity; it was the old Laos guy’s daughter. She stilled contained an intense craving. You let yourself be filled by her tiny arse … has always been God and his who produced it. You could barely work your cock out of your trousers, could barely work as never closer to the truth.
You were liking this & its delay delivers the great arse. None of them knew the pain of death. Every voice of prowess was intensified in her arse - intensified not dulled by passions. It stops ending up making humours … feelings … impressions.
The daughter’s nakedness felt fashioned by a Clinometric O. Crack-cocaine is sensible … by a crash called the well-being.
Enunciation is not accord for classicism
leading
flapping
overlapping of pain … stuffed up.
Written in Fitzroy.
14 – 17th May 2010.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Georgia Griffin
Georgia Griffin is a multimedia artist and writer.
See Georgia Griffin's
Artwork
_________________________________________________________
"miniskirting around"
miniskirting around like some dime store ice pop
any color you like, no flavor but sweet
the cool dripping off your wrist before it hits your lips
who are you with when you lay in my arms
do i register in your mind as you caress my flesh
what do you hear when you render me senseless
is there anyone with me in the heat of the night
silent as death and twice as lonely
sex alone with the one you love
where are you going with me in your pocket
am i with you or just stuck in the seams
miniskirting around like some cheap ass whore
any type that you like, no scent but sweat
the sap dripping off your groin before it hits my lips
slime encrusted mattress memorial to the night
broken clock, broken table, dead bulb, dead bug
there's an ache but i can guess where it came from
can guess it was you, who ever you were at the time
pain, stone, fire, rage, ice, ice pop, ice queen
ice cream in your hair from lapping the cone of some
some dime store ice pop with his hair down to there
his pants full of melt in your mouth, not in your hands promise
miniskirting around like a sad tired breeze fighting
working its way from the shore to the boulevard with
the mist dripping off the air before you hit my lip
© 2004 georgia k griffin
___________________________________________________
"buying Jesus"
i was at the grocery store buying Jesus
i was standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
a yellow nightie with a smiling
red apple
i was five years too hold for it
but it had happy memories
it used to have happy memories
he was a man of God
a friend of Dad's and a
Man of god
and it was ok because
i was nearly a woman
i was 14 and i knew it all
i knew it all because
well, i was 14
and he was a man
of god
women and priests
the keepers of men's secrets
so it was ok
i was standing at the grocery store buying Jesus
standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
a darkened theatre and i
making my way to the popcorn
winding out the the seats to go pee
and get popcorn
his hand was fat and warm
his cock was flaccid and hot
it was ok he said
he was a man of god
and i was an innocent
children and priests
the keepers of men's secrets
so it was ok
i was at the grocery store buying Jesus
standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
telling the truth and being told
it wasn't enough
it wasn't enough because the truth
does not set you free
no, it does not set you free
for once you have told the truth
you have to prove it
it being truth is not enough
now you have to relive it
you have to face it down
face the lying man of god
as he says you've got it wrong
as he says you're just trying it on
how can you ruin his life's work?
his reputation
for your small truth that
meant nothing
was nothing compared to the work
of god
was simply a secret
between you and a man of god
victims and priests
keepers of god's secrets
so it was ok
to be standing on the corner
buying Jesus
because absolution it is still too high
© 2005 georgia k griffin
See Georgia Griffin's
Artwork
_________________________________________________________
"miniskirting around"
miniskirting around like some dime store ice pop
any color you like, no flavor but sweet
the cool dripping off your wrist before it hits your lips
who are you with when you lay in my arms
do i register in your mind as you caress my flesh
what do you hear when you render me senseless
is there anyone with me in the heat of the night
silent as death and twice as lonely
sex alone with the one you love
where are you going with me in your pocket
am i with you or just stuck in the seams
miniskirting around like some cheap ass whore
any type that you like, no scent but sweat
the sap dripping off your groin before it hits my lips
slime encrusted mattress memorial to the night
broken clock, broken table, dead bulb, dead bug
there's an ache but i can guess where it came from
can guess it was you, who ever you were at the time
pain, stone, fire, rage, ice, ice pop, ice queen
ice cream in your hair from lapping the cone of some
some dime store ice pop with his hair down to there
his pants full of melt in your mouth, not in your hands promise
miniskirting around like a sad tired breeze fighting
working its way from the shore to the boulevard with
the mist dripping off the air before you hit my lip
© 2004 georgia k griffin
___________________________________________________
"buying Jesus"
i was at the grocery store buying Jesus
i was standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
a yellow nightie with a smiling
red apple
i was five years too hold for it
but it had happy memories
it used to have happy memories
he was a man of God
a friend of Dad's and a
Man of god
and it was ok because
i was nearly a woman
i was 14 and i knew it all
i knew it all because
well, i was 14
and he was a man
of god
women and priests
the keepers of men's secrets
so it was ok
i was standing at the grocery store buying Jesus
standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
a darkened theatre and i
making my way to the popcorn
winding out the the seats to go pee
and get popcorn
his hand was fat and warm
his cock was flaccid and hot
it was ok he said
he was a man of god
and i was an innocent
children and priests
the keepers of men's secrets
so it was ok
i was at the grocery store buying Jesus
standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
telling the truth and being told
it wasn't enough
it wasn't enough because the truth
does not set you free
no, it does not set you free
for once you have told the truth
you have to prove it
it being truth is not enough
now you have to relive it
you have to face it down
face the lying man of god
as he says you've got it wrong
as he says you're just trying it on
how can you ruin his life's work?
his reputation
for your small truth that
meant nothing
was nothing compared to the work
of god
was simply a secret
between you and a man of god
victims and priests
keepers of god's secrets
so it was ok
to be standing on the corner
buying Jesus
because absolution it is still too high
© 2005 georgia k griffin
David Rat
DAVID RAT is an Expatriate American Author and founding member of Rat At Rat R..a pioneering New York City rock and roll band...Married to award winning British poet Sara Tritt, the couple and son James currently reside in Nottingham,England
See David Rat at these sites as well:
ParoxysmPress
Facebook
David's Band
See David Rat at these sites as well:
ParoxysmPress
David's Band
__________________________________________________________________
HAPPY ENDING
Part 18
Greer...
The east village early 80's...
our 14 square blocks
of pure boho glory...
we sold our televisions for drug money
and sat on blurry stoops
seceding from the
United Hate of America...
fed by the hare krishna's
we smoked dope on the street
and bathed in tenement kitchens
filled with
garbage
and
glitter...
a few months off the bus
from pennsylvania farmlands,
I met her
at civilian warfare...
a gallery owned by
another oh so beautiful dead friend
named Dean Sarvard..
my price of freedom was
a graveyard for a rolodex...
and sometimes survival seems
like my only friend left alive...
She wasn't my type at all
tall blonde....
forlorn hazel eyes
legs like
a newborn colt...
we got high
and paraded around
the city together
arm in arm
like ragged tangled up ghosts...
lunch at cafe orlin
then a dinner party
on central park west
a cast of luminaries..
in attendance...
Lydia was there with Rollins
Sonic Youth, Swans,Live Skull etc.
Henry had somehow procured new
charlie manson recordings...
.
amid schmoozing
and bites of tortellini
a woman remarked
"you have such a lovely deep voice Greer"
when I walked in her apartment
it was like disney on purple mescaline
life-size horrific dolls
modeled after Herself,
Terri Toye, Divine and Candy Darling..
ripped apart stitched up
and strewn everywhere...
a ballerina hacked in half was
outdone only by
a doll on her deathbed,
littered with empty pill bottles.
staring at gold stars
painted on the ceiling...
ok so every idiot in the village
with a can of spray paint
was a "visual artist"
but Greer was for real
her work was truly visceral...
like surgery without anesthesia...
she had been part of Warhol's factory
and knew simply everyone...
she had shown at the Whitney
and worked for Jim Henson
actually applying yellow feathers
to the very first big bird costume...
..
a little cocaine
one soul wrenching
red wine kiss
and I was hopelessly
searching for something
eloquent to say...
"you must have been a really pretty little girl"
I stammered clumsily...
"um no...
I was a really confused
fucked up
little boy"
she (he) replied softly...
ok...now remember dear reader
I had only been in New York
a few months..
granted...
they were crazy
life changing months..
but where i came from
we didn't even have chinese food..
let alone
beautiful
post op
transsexual
art superstar
chicks....
So yeah
in the pit of my stomach
my head exploded
but outwardly
i kept my cool
remembering my idol
Lou Reed
had supposedly
married a transsexual...
i lit two marlboro lights
and we talked about it...
"Greg"
was the effeminate son
of a presbyterian minister
from Illinois...
bullied
beaten
and teased
relentlessly...
he retreated into a world of
solace and doll making..
at 21 years old
with financial help from
his father's church
Greg became Greer...
so I did what any
red blooded american farm boy
would do...
i kept seeing her...
aside from kissing and hand holding
we never had much of a
physical relationship
after that...
but I loved being with her...
we were decadent
we were glamorous
and we were
truly
truly
beautiful...
in 1996
after desperately trying
to starve herself to death...
my love finally overdosed
fading away from me...
under a deep blue ceiling
painted
with gold
coloured
stars...
Part 18
Greer...
The east village early 80's...
our 14 square blocks
of pure boho glory...
we sold our televisions for drug money
and sat on blurry stoops
seceding from the
United Hate of America...
fed by the hare krishna's
we smoked dope on the street
and bathed in tenement kitchens
filled with
garbage
and
glitter...
a few months off the bus
from pennsylvania farmlands,
I met her
at civilian warfare...
a gallery owned by
another oh so beautiful dead friend
named Dean Sarvard..
my price of freedom was
a graveyard for a rolodex...
and sometimes survival seems
like my only friend left alive...
She wasn't my type at all
tall blonde....
forlorn hazel eyes
legs like
a newborn colt...
we got high
and paraded around
the city together
arm in arm
like ragged tangled up ghosts...
lunch at cafe orlin
then a dinner party
on central park west
a cast of luminaries..
in attendance...
Lydia was there with Rollins
Sonic Youth, Swans,Live Skull etc.
Henry had somehow procured new
charlie manson recordings...
.
amid schmoozing
and bites of tortellini
a woman remarked
"you have such a lovely deep voice Greer"
when I walked in her apartment
it was like disney on purple mescaline
life-size horrific dolls
modeled after Herself,
Terri Toye, Divine and Candy Darling..
ripped apart stitched up
and strewn everywhere...
a ballerina hacked in half was
outdone only by
a doll on her deathbed,
littered with empty pill bottles.
staring at gold stars
painted on the ceiling...
ok so every idiot in the village
with a can of spray paint
was a "visual artist"
but Greer was for real
her work was truly visceral...
like surgery without anesthesia...
she had been part of Warhol's factory
and knew simply everyone...
she had shown at the Whitney
and worked for Jim Henson
actually applying yellow feathers
to the very first big bird costume...
..
a little cocaine
one soul wrenching
red wine kiss
and I was hopelessly
searching for something
eloquent to say...
"you must have been a really pretty little girl"
I stammered clumsily...
"um no...
I was a really confused
fucked up
little boy"
she (he) replied softly...
ok...now remember dear reader
I had only been in New York
a few months..
granted...
they were crazy
life changing months..
but where i came from
we didn't even have chinese food..
let alone
beautiful
post op
transsexual
art superstar
chicks....
So yeah
in the pit of my stomach
my head exploded
but outwardly
i kept my cool
remembering my idol
Lou Reed
had supposedly
married a transsexual...
i lit two marlboro lights
and we talked about it...
"Greg"
was the effeminate son
of a presbyterian minister
from Illinois...
bullied
beaten
and teased
relentlessly...
he retreated into a world of
solace and doll making..
at 21 years old
with financial help from
his father's church
Greg became Greer...
so I did what any
red blooded american farm boy
would do...
i kept seeing her...
aside from kissing and hand holding
we never had much of a
physical relationship
after that...
but I loved being with her...
we were decadent
we were glamorous
and we were
truly
truly
beautiful...
in 1996
after desperately trying
to starve herself to death...
my love finally overdosed
fading away from me...
under a deep blue ceiling
painted
with gold
coloured
stars...
Greer Lankton American Artist 1958-1996
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