Monday, 27 February 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
Web Lit Roulette #6
A semi-random selection of highlights from the world of online literature...
Beauty Remains Beside the Point by Paul Hostovsky (from Frigg Magazine)
Quarter Cherry Lips by Craig Pay (from Litro)
Deer Among Huntersa story from Kevin Brown (from Muscle and Blood)
Excerpt from A Mortal Affect by Vincent Standley (from Sleepingfish)
Four Poems By Melissa Lee-Houghton (from 3am Magazine)
Beauty Remains Beside the Point by Paul Hostovsky (from Frigg Magazine)
Quarter Cherry Lips by Craig Pay (from Litro)
Deer Among Huntersa story from Kevin Brown (from Muscle and Blood)
Excerpt from A Mortal Affect by Vincent Standley (from Sleepingfish)
Four Poems By Melissa Lee-Houghton (from 3am Magazine)
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
The Wrinkle Maker by Marcel Béalu
Here's a link to a classic short story, republished in the current edition of Cafe Irreal:
The Wrinkle Maker ("Le Fabricant de rides") by Marcel Béal
The biography...
Marcel Béalu (1908-1993) was best known for the delicacy with which he explored dreams and the unreal in poetry, prose, and painting. A retiring figure, he ran a bookstore by the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris named Le Pont Traversé after a novel by his friend, critic and editor Jean Paulhan. There he held readings for a small circle of surrealist and fantastical writers; it is said Lacan, among his first customers, purchased Shakespeare's complete works and forgot to pay for them.
The Wrinkle Maker ("Le Fabricant de rides") by Marcel Béal
The biography...
Marcel Béalu (1908-1993) was best known for the delicacy with which he explored dreams and the unreal in poetry, prose, and painting. A retiring figure, he ran a bookstore by the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris named Le Pont Traversé after a novel by his friend, critic and editor Jean Paulhan. There he held readings for a small circle of surrealist and fantastical writers; it is said Lacan, among his first customers, purchased Shakespeare's complete works and forgot to pay for them.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Interview with Steve Skeewiff
Steve Skeewiff interviewed by Frank Burton.
Steve Skeewiff's comedy and poetry collection, Someone Stole My Siesmograph, can be downloaded for free here.
As a humorous writer with something to say, is your primary motivation to make people laugh or to make people think?
I’d have to say being funny is the most important thing. I suppose about 50% of Someone Stole My Seismograph is just pure silliness. There are a number of rants and a certain amount of serious stuff, but hopefully I’ve done it all in a humorous way.
The same applies to poetry. I’m a comedian first and a poet second. Maybe one day someone will compare me to Spike Milligan. That’s my one ambition.
Some of your stuff is pretty “close to the bone”. Are you concerned about offending people?
As far as I’m concerned I’ve never written anything offensive, but I see what you’re saying – some of the ironic humour could easily be misinterpreted. There’s a couple of pieces where I’m satirising (or attempting to satirise) bigotry and offensiveness in the media by saying things like “All Muslims are terrorists” and “All women enjoy being raped” etc. Quoted out of context, it sounds appalling, but anyone who reads the book ought to realise I believe the opposite to be true. So, I suppose I’m concerned about being quoted out of context.
Who are your influences?
Too many to mention here (I’ll never remember them all for one thing), but as far as poetry goes, I’ll say John Hegley, Les Murray, Fred Voss, Benjamin Zephaniah.
Hands down, my favourite comedian is Steven Wright (not to be confused with the DJ, or indeed, the serial killer of the same name). Anyone familiar with Steven Wright may notice my attempts to imitate him at times. I make no apology for that.
Why did you decide to stop performing your work live?
Basically, I can’t be bothered. It’s as simple as that. I’ve performed at a number of small comedy and poetry events, and I greatly enjoyed the experience, but I didn’t feel like it was getting me anywhere. I’m much more interested in being an online writer, because the audience is so much bigger. I’ve always been a writer first and a performer second. Maybe one of these days I’ll pick up where I left off, but for now, I’m happy where I am.
You say you’re happy for other spoken word artists to use your material as part of their act. Would you be happy if a comedian became massively successful using jokes you’ve written?
That would be great. Their success is my success, even if I don’t make anything out of it. The work isn’t for me, it’s for everyone.
Steve Skeewiff's comedy and poetry collection, Someone Stole My Siesmograph, can be downloaded for free here.
As a humorous writer with something to say, is your primary motivation to make people laugh or to make people think?
I’d have to say being funny is the most important thing. I suppose about 50% of Someone Stole My Seismograph is just pure silliness. There are a number of rants and a certain amount of serious stuff, but hopefully I’ve done it all in a humorous way.
The same applies to poetry. I’m a comedian first and a poet second. Maybe one day someone will compare me to Spike Milligan. That’s my one ambition.
Some of your stuff is pretty “close to the bone”. Are you concerned about offending people?
As far as I’m concerned I’ve never written anything offensive, but I see what you’re saying – some of the ironic humour could easily be misinterpreted. There’s a couple of pieces where I’m satirising (or attempting to satirise) bigotry and offensiveness in the media by saying things like “All Muslims are terrorists” and “All women enjoy being raped” etc. Quoted out of context, it sounds appalling, but anyone who reads the book ought to realise I believe the opposite to be true. So, I suppose I’m concerned about being quoted out of context.
Who are your influences?
Too many to mention here (I’ll never remember them all for one thing), but as far as poetry goes, I’ll say John Hegley, Les Murray, Fred Voss, Benjamin Zephaniah.
Hands down, my favourite comedian is Steven Wright (not to be confused with the DJ, or indeed, the serial killer of the same name). Anyone familiar with Steven Wright may notice my attempts to imitate him at times. I make no apology for that.
Why did you decide to stop performing your work live?
Basically, I can’t be bothered. It’s as simple as that. I’ve performed at a number of small comedy and poetry events, and I greatly enjoyed the experience, but I didn’t feel like it was getting me anywhere. I’m much more interested in being an online writer, because the audience is so much bigger. I’ve always been a writer first and a performer second. Maybe one of these days I’ll pick up where I left off, but for now, I’m happy where I am.
You say you’re happy for other spoken word artists to use your material as part of their act. Would you be happy if a comedian became massively successful using jokes you’ve written?
That would be great. Their success is my success, even if I don’t make anything out of it. The work isn’t for me, it’s for everyone.
Friday, 17 February 2012
More from our two new authors
Here's a couple of excerpts from our two new ebooks...
First, a poem by Steve Skeewiff:
This poem is an anti-climax
This poem is an anti-climax.
Like fireworks while it’s still light,
Like a psychic without second sight,
Like a Marmite sandwich without the Marmite.
Like The Godfather Part 3, like the Pistols comebacks,
This poem is an anti-climax.
Like the New Labour landslide,
Like a deflated balloon,
Like 22 when you’re playing Pontoon,
Like Lawrence Oliveir’s performance in Transformers the cartoon.
Like a pay rise that hits you with a higher rate of tax,
This poem is an anti-climax.
And that’s not just me being unjustifiably self-deprecating,
You see, it seems this poem really is progressing onto something,
A crescendo of word, meaning, simile and sound,
Like I’m on the verge of saying something truly profound,
And then at the end it just stops.
Download the full collection here.
Next, here's Frederick A. Lierman's inibitable introuction to his short story collection, Buryin' Gran:
Author's introduction
The editor of this site, Frank Burton, said I could include a short autobiography and a picture, if I wanted to, so I’m supposed to introduce myself, a task for which I am not well suited. Here goes. I like stories. I like a good story, word by voice, words on paper, probably better than a visual story, although I like visuals without words that allow me to make up my own story. I learned to read when I was six, first grade, living in Northern Illinois. The books used then were ‘Dick and Jane’ books that went like this: ‘Oh, look. See Dick. See Dick run. Run, Dick, run.’ Followed by, ‘Oh, look. See Jane. See Jane run. Run, Jane, run.’ Followed, naturally, by putting Spot through the same exercise.
If I had stayed in Northern Illinois I might be a functional illiterate. Instead, we moved to Northern Florida where I was introduced to Alice and Jerry, who had an uncle with a toy store and a mule and the stories were much more interesting, so much more interesting that when I was called upon to read in class, I couldn’t, because I was about a hundred pages ahead of everyone else.
The South, at that time, seemed to specialize in stories, producing some great writers, which is immaterial because I wasn’t reading their material. Instead, I was listening to my teachers, all of whom put story time into the class schedule. And my mother, who gathered the four of us after supper was done, and read to us the classic stories she remembered. Then, she put us to bed.
As I grew a bit older there was radio, kids’ radio in the late afternoon and early evening, and more adult radio as the evening wore on. Radio for me was all stories. Some were drivel, some fascinating and exciting, some not understood.
At any rate, I wasted many a study hall when I was supposed to be doing homework reading stories. In ninth grade the study hall was in the library. I borrowed a book a day from the fiction section, and finished each one by the next day.
So, you can see, I like stories. They are in my history, in my very blood. I’ll tell you two here, very short and not in this collection.
The first begins with me in mid-afternoon on a Sunday before Christmas, half-way up a rickety, shaky stepladder in our den trying to fix a light fixture that hangs in one corner of the room. Even without the light the room is bright because it has large windows on two sides, and the lawn and shrubs are covered thickly with new snow. The TV is on in the corner of the room, tuned to Public Television even though there is a football game on another channel. You don’t watch football when your team, which was exhumed from the previous Sunday’s loss, is well on its way to being reburied. I am swearing. For those of you who don’t know, if you are doing a home project and it isn’t going well, swearing helps. It usually gets rid of the audience.
Anyway, I hear, “I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.” Knowing me, even as little as you do, don’t you think that got my attention? It is the second sentence in ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” Dylan Thomas’ work, and, as I watch, I see it being done in black and white silhouette, with a little man down in the lower left corner signing the story for the hearing impaired. But I can hear it. What a story, what a song that story is. I lean on the ladder and watch it to its conclusion.
If I could, I would own it, and my children, each would own a copy, and I would watch it again with their children every Christmas. I can’t. It appears that particular edition is not for sale, and I’ve never watched another version. I read it, though, sometimes aloud when I am alone.
Here is the second story. It’s called:
‘Coming Back From Town the Last Day of Camp.’
Each time I’ve seen
that Monet
I feel,
as I did the first time,
the shimmering heat
steaming the roadside flowers open
the summer I was fourteen.
Sun-furnace air
clings to my skin, again;
heat squeezes my lungs.
I squint
against near solstice sun
reflected from the baked dirt road.
In my memory
I taste salt,
and old dust finds my teeth and tongue.
We lag behind the others.
She walks beside me, slowly,
in head-down silence.
I can feel her hand in mine
against the rules.
I am aware of being
all knobs and ribs and angles,
that my ears stick out,
and that she is beautiful.
She has brown hair, I think,
and dark eyes that meet mine
when we say we’ll write.
But we never do,
and now, I can’t recall her name.
So this is the picture of me, a romantic noir, who likes stories. I hope you enjoy the collection. There could be more, and if there is, we’ll fold them into the collection if we can. Thanks, and good reading.
Download the full collection here.
First, a poem by Steve Skeewiff:
This poem is an anti-climax
This poem is an anti-climax.
Like fireworks while it’s still light,
Like a psychic without second sight,
Like a Marmite sandwich without the Marmite.
Like The Godfather Part 3, like the Pistols comebacks,
This poem is an anti-climax.
Like the New Labour landslide,
Like a deflated balloon,
Like 22 when you’re playing Pontoon,
Like Lawrence Oliveir’s performance in Transformers the cartoon.
Like a pay rise that hits you with a higher rate of tax,
This poem is an anti-climax.
And that’s not just me being unjustifiably self-deprecating,
You see, it seems this poem really is progressing onto something,
A crescendo of word, meaning, simile and sound,
Like I’m on the verge of saying something truly profound,
And then at the end it just stops.
Download the full collection here.
Next, here's Frederick A. Lierman's inibitable introuction to his short story collection, Buryin' Gran:
Author's introduction
The editor of this site, Frank Burton, said I could include a short autobiography and a picture, if I wanted to, so I’m supposed to introduce myself, a task for which I am not well suited. Here goes. I like stories. I like a good story, word by voice, words on paper, probably better than a visual story, although I like visuals without words that allow me to make up my own story. I learned to read when I was six, first grade, living in Northern Illinois. The books used then were ‘Dick and Jane’ books that went like this: ‘Oh, look. See Dick. See Dick run. Run, Dick, run.’ Followed by, ‘Oh, look. See Jane. See Jane run. Run, Jane, run.’ Followed, naturally, by putting Spot through the same exercise.
If I had stayed in Northern Illinois I might be a functional illiterate. Instead, we moved to Northern Florida where I was introduced to Alice and Jerry, who had an uncle with a toy store and a mule and the stories were much more interesting, so much more interesting that when I was called upon to read in class, I couldn’t, because I was about a hundred pages ahead of everyone else.
The South, at that time, seemed to specialize in stories, producing some great writers, which is immaterial because I wasn’t reading their material. Instead, I was listening to my teachers, all of whom put story time into the class schedule. And my mother, who gathered the four of us after supper was done, and read to us the classic stories she remembered. Then, she put us to bed.
As I grew a bit older there was radio, kids’ radio in the late afternoon and early evening, and more adult radio as the evening wore on. Radio for me was all stories. Some were drivel, some fascinating and exciting, some not understood.
At any rate, I wasted many a study hall when I was supposed to be doing homework reading stories. In ninth grade the study hall was in the library. I borrowed a book a day from the fiction section, and finished each one by the next day.
So, you can see, I like stories. They are in my history, in my very blood. I’ll tell you two here, very short and not in this collection.
The first begins with me in mid-afternoon on a Sunday before Christmas, half-way up a rickety, shaky stepladder in our den trying to fix a light fixture that hangs in one corner of the room. Even without the light the room is bright because it has large windows on two sides, and the lawn and shrubs are covered thickly with new snow. The TV is on in the corner of the room, tuned to Public Television even though there is a football game on another channel. You don’t watch football when your team, which was exhumed from the previous Sunday’s loss, is well on its way to being reburied. I am swearing. For those of you who don’t know, if you are doing a home project and it isn’t going well, swearing helps. It usually gets rid of the audience.
Anyway, I hear, “I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.” Knowing me, even as little as you do, don’t you think that got my attention? It is the second sentence in ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” Dylan Thomas’ work, and, as I watch, I see it being done in black and white silhouette, with a little man down in the lower left corner signing the story for the hearing impaired. But I can hear it. What a story, what a song that story is. I lean on the ladder and watch it to its conclusion.
If I could, I would own it, and my children, each would own a copy, and I would watch it again with their children every Christmas. I can’t. It appears that particular edition is not for sale, and I’ve never watched another version. I read it, though, sometimes aloud when I am alone.
Here is the second story. It’s called:
‘Coming Back From Town the Last Day of Camp.’
Each time I’ve seen
that Monet
I feel,
as I did the first time,
the shimmering heat
steaming the roadside flowers open
the summer I was fourteen.
Sun-furnace air
clings to my skin, again;
heat squeezes my lungs.
I squint
against near solstice sun
reflected from the baked dirt road.
In my memory
I taste salt,
and old dust finds my teeth and tongue.
We lag behind the others.
She walks beside me, slowly,
in head-down silence.
I can feel her hand in mine
against the rules.
I am aware of being
all knobs and ribs and angles,
that my ears stick out,
and that she is beautiful.
She has brown hair, I think,
and dark eyes that meet mine
when we say we’ll write.
But we never do,
and now, I can’t recall her name.
So this is the picture of me, a romantic noir, who likes stories. I hope you enjoy the collection. There could be more, and if there is, we’ll fold them into the collection if we can. Thanks, and good reading.
Download the full collection here.
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
New review for Mr If's "Violence is the Answer"
Many thanks to Christopher Frost for his great review of Mr If's Violence is the Answer in Neon Magazine. (And thanks to Neon for continuing to support the Philistines.)
It was always going to be a difficult book to review, and this is a frank and fair assessment.
"Violence Is The Answer says some terrible things, but it’s one of the best chapbooks I’ve read in a long time. It is intimate, honest, and completely open. Having read it, I feel as though I’ve met and talked with the author in person, and though I didn’t actually like him as such, what he had to say was powerful, intelligent and shocking. Some will enjoy this book, and many more will simply be offended by it. Either way it gets a reaction."
Read the full review here.
It was always going to be a difficult book to review, and this is a frank and fair assessment.
"Violence Is The Answer says some terrible things, but it’s one of the best chapbooks I’ve read in a long time. It is intimate, honest, and completely open. Having read it, I feel as though I’ve met and talked with the author in person, and though I didn’t actually like him as such, what he had to say was powerful, intelligent and shocking. Some will enjoy this book, and many more will simply be offended by it. Either way it gets a reaction."
Read the full review here.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Oktober by Vak Beakon
Another free online novel here: Oktober by Vak Beakon.
This is a pretty weird project. Weird in a good way - as you'll see from the author's explanation on the website. What isn't explained, however, is why all the letter Ks are highlighted in red. It's freaky, if nothing else. Freaky in a good way.
This is a pretty weird project. Weird in a good way - as you'll see from the author's explanation on the website. What isn't explained, however, is why all the letter Ks are highlighted in red. It's freaky, if nothing else. Freaky in a good way.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Pixelnyx
A new discovery here: http://pixelnyx.com/
Some extraordinary online literature, including the novels, "Consider What Becomes of the Ashes" and "The Komatsu Wombat and the Fantastical Anticlimax" - all available to read online for free (although you can also purchase them in print).
Who is the mysterious Pixelnyx? Very interesting question.
Some extraordinary online literature, including the novels, "Consider What Becomes of the Ashes" and "The Komatsu Wombat and the Fantastical Anticlimax" - all available to read online for free (although you can also purchase them in print).
Who is the mysterious Pixelnyx? Very interesting question.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Two new ebooks from Philistine Press
Our first two ebooks for 2012 have now arrived online...
Buryin' Gran and Other Stories by Frederick A. Lierman.
Bittersweet tales about love, life and death. Preview online or download for free here.
Someone Stole My Siesmograph by Steve Skeewiff.
Steve Skeewiff's collection of poetry and comedy mixes sublime silliness with furious satirical outbursts. Preview online or download for free here.
(Many thanks to Ben Heine for allowing us to use his fantastic image, Thought Shower, as the '...Siesmograph' cover.)
Buryin' Gran and Other Stories by Frederick A. Lierman.
Bittersweet tales about love, life and death. Preview online or download for free here.
Someone Stole My Siesmograph by Steve Skeewiff.
Steve Skeewiff's collection of poetry and comedy mixes sublime silliness with furious satirical outbursts. Preview online or download for free here.
(Many thanks to Ben Heine for allowing us to use his fantastic image, Thought Shower, as the '...Siesmograph' cover.)
Friday, 3 February 2012
Fur-Lined Guettos
Writers of absurdist literature may be interested in this new magazine, created by Sophie Essex and Andrew Hook. They say:
"We enjoy the surreal, the absurd, the nonsensical, the complicated, the simple, the truth, the lies, the complexity of words, the ecstasy of genius, the delightful power we find in the spaces between and dancing at the discothèque."
They're currently accepting submissions for their first issue.
More information on their website, http://fur-linedghettos.weebly.com
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
The Campus on the Hill by W.D. Snodgrass
Up the reputable walks of old established trees
They stalk, children of the nouveaux riches; chimes
Of the tall Clock Tower drench their heads in blessing:
``I don't wanna play at your house;
I don't like you any more.''
My house stands opposite, on the other hill,
Among meadows, with the orchard fences down and falling;
Deer come almost to the door.
You cannot see it, even in the clearest morning.
White birds hang in the air between
Over the garbage landfill and those homes thereto adjacent,
Hovering slowly, turning, settling down
Like the flakes sifting imperceptibly onto the little town
In a waterfall of glass
And yet, this morning, beyond this quiet scene,
The floating birds, the packyards of the poor,
Beyond the shopping plaza, the dead canal, the hillside lying tilted in the air,
Tomorrow has broken out today;
Riot in Algeria, in Cyprus, in Alabama;
Aged in wrong, the empires are declining,
And China gathers, soundlessly, like evidence.
What shall I say to the young on such a morning?—
Mind is the one salvation?—also grammar?—
No; my little ones lean not toward revolt. They
Are the Whites, the vaguely furiously driven, who resist
Their souls with such passivity
As would make Quakers swear. All day, dear Lord, all day
They wear their godhead lightly.
They look out from their hill and say,
To themselves, ``We have nowhere to go but down,
The great destination is to stay.''
Surely the nations will be reasonable;
They look at the world—don't they?—the world's way?
The clock just now has nothing more to say.
More at The Compendium.
They stalk, children of the nouveaux riches; chimes
Of the tall Clock Tower drench their heads in blessing:
``I don't wanna play at your house;
I don't like you any more.''
My house stands opposite, on the other hill,
Among meadows, with the orchard fences down and falling;
Deer come almost to the door.
You cannot see it, even in the clearest morning.
White birds hang in the air between
Over the garbage landfill and those homes thereto adjacent,
Hovering slowly, turning, settling down
Like the flakes sifting imperceptibly onto the little town
In a waterfall of glass
And yet, this morning, beyond this quiet scene,
The floating birds, the packyards of the poor,
Beyond the shopping plaza, the dead canal, the hillside lying tilted in the air,
Tomorrow has broken out today;
Riot in Algeria, in Cyprus, in Alabama;
Aged in wrong, the empires are declining,
And China gathers, soundlessly, like evidence.
What shall I say to the young on such a morning?—
Mind is the one salvation?—also grammar?—
No; my little ones lean not toward revolt. They
Are the Whites, the vaguely furiously driven, who resist
Their souls with such passivity
As would make Quakers swear. All day, dear Lord, all day
They wear their godhead lightly.
They look out from their hill and say,
To themselves, ``We have nowhere to go but down,
The great destination is to stay.''
Surely the nations will be reasonable;
They look at the world—don't they?—the world's way?
The clock just now has nothing more to say.
More at The Compendium.
Monday, 30 January 2012
my father moved through dooms of love by e.e. cummings
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why man breathe—
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
More at The Compendium website.
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why man breathe—
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
More at The Compendium website.
Friday, 27 January 2012
The Shirehorses: Why is it Always Dairylea?
Mark and Lard's parody band The Shirehorses may be a hazy memory now, perhaps due to the fact that most of their songs were based on Britpop tunes that most people have either forgotten or not even heard of. (Remember The Seahorses?)
Still, you'd have to have lived a pretty sheltered life musically-speaking if you've never heard "Why Does it Always Rain on Me?" by Travis which forms the basis of this masterpiece.
(This is a recording from Mark and Lard's final show for Radio 1.)
Still, you'd have to have lived a pretty sheltered life musically-speaking if you've never heard "Why Does it Always Rain on Me?" by Travis which forms the basis of this masterpiece.
(This is a recording from Mark and Lard's final show for Radio 1.)
Monday, 23 January 2012
John Hegley
Is John Hegley a genius?
Well, that's up to you, isn't it?
All I'm going to say is that it's almost impossible to be a comedian a musician and a poet and succeed at all three at the same time. John Hegley's been consistently doing it for years, and I can't think of anyone else who has.
Well, that's up to you, isn't it?
All I'm going to say is that it's almost impossible to be a comedian a musician and a poet and succeed at all three at the same time. John Hegley's been consistently doing it for years, and I can't think of anyone else who has.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Conspiracy Theory Rock
This classic was removed from You Tube by NBC who cited "copyright issues". Never mind, it's available elsewhere (at least until NBC get their hands on it). Apparently this was aired once on US TV, but was never shown again. I wonder why.
Conspiracy Theory Rock | Break.com
Conspiracy Theory Rock | Break.com
Monday, 16 January 2012
Web Lit Roulette #5
A semi-random selection of highlights from the world of online literature...
The Boy With Two Mouths by James Coates from Stanley The Whale.
Not so Young Man by Paulus Kapteyn from Bad Penny.
Journal of the Rossignol Expedition to Yunnan by Inderjeet Mani from Blip Magazine.
Lost Dream by Joan McNerney from Step Away.
Car Trouble by The Doktorfrom Winamop.
The Boy With Two Mouths by James Coates from Stanley The Whale.
Not so Young Man by Paulus Kapteyn from Bad Penny.
Journal of the Rossignol Expedition to Yunnan by Inderjeet Mani from Blip Magazine.
Lost Dream by Joan McNerney from Step Away.
Car Trouble by The Doktorfrom Winamop.
Friday, 13 January 2012
Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction by Kyle Hemmings
Pleased to see the appearance of this free ebook by Kyle Hemmings, published by Nap Magazine - top quality flash fiction.
Read it here:
TOKYO GIRLS IN SCIENCE FICTION
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Six Word Stories
This is from 2006 but I've only just discovered it so apologies for being 6 years late.
That Hemmingway bloke's got a lot to answer for. Forgive the sweeping generalisation, but usually six-word stories don't work at all (I guess because they're the lazy writer's form of choice), but there are some very big names featured in this article, some of whom have created mini-masterpieces.
Very Short Stories (Wired Magazine).
Monday, 9 January 2012
You're an Animal, Viskovitz!, by Alessandro Boffa - a one word review
Forgive my the inarticulate nature of this post, but here's my one word review of You're an Animal, Viskovitz! by Alessandro Boffa:
'!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'
I'll admit 17 exclamation marks don't strictly constitute a word, but this most accurately sums up my reaction to this book. I'm a sucker for non-human narrators in serious literature, so this series of anthropomorphic tales hooked me before I'd started reading. (You may have gathered I'm a sucker for wacky titles too.) I use the term 'serious literature' despite the fact that it's described as 'comic' on the cover. For all its laugh-out-loud moments, Boffa's book is thoughtful, philosophical and pretty mind-blowing, hence my '!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'.
More information here.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Web Lit Roulette #4
A semi-random selection of highlights from the world of online literature...
Donal Mahoney - People Who Live Above Stores from Carcinogenic Poetry.
Yellow by Howie Good from (This is)Disingenuous Twaddle.
A love story that takes place on the inside of a whale by J.A. Tyler from This Zine Will Change Your Life.
Spams by Hairee Lee from The Medulla Review.
The Back of Our Kneecaps And Our Shoulder Pits Sweat Into Another Day of Pavement by Mark Baumer from Kill Author.
Donal Mahoney - People Who Live Above Stores from Carcinogenic Poetry.
Yellow by Howie Good from (This is)Disingenuous Twaddle.
A love story that takes place on the inside of a whale by J.A. Tyler from This Zine Will Change Your Life.
Spams by Hairee Lee from The Medulla Review.
The Back of Our Kneecaps And Our Shoulder Pits Sweat Into Another Day of Pavement by Mark Baumer from Kill Author.
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