I used to make noise music. Inside me, I probably still do. Maybe it comes out in the writings. If not, that’s okay, too. I’ve played basement shows in Seoul, stood babbling alone into a microphone in Tokyo. I recorded albums on labels like Self-Satisfied, Knife in the Toaster, Swampland Noise, and others whose names I’ve forgotten. I edited sound-art for Rudolf Eb.er and have seen the buckets he kept in the closet.
Christmas is near. It is time for noise.
If you write a review of THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE somewhere on the Internet, especially Amazon or Goodreads, I want to reward you with a batch of my homemade noise, whether that be a rare live set, a collaboration, or an entire album’s worth of quality extreme noise. All you have to do is write the review and send me the link (and the email address where you want me to send the files).
My email address is in the “contact” section (on the left sidebar). Or, you can easily reach me through Facebook.
Thank you to those of you who have already purchased the book. You’re helping to support my dream and my life. Honestly, there were times when I was writing MVM and I was only fingers and eyes, mainly fingers, fingers and music. I think if you read the book, you’ll understand. The vixens do.
If you find yourself in the gift-giving mood and wish to reward me with me a book or three for the holidays, your warm gesture will be most appreciated. View my Amazon holiday wishlist here: APPRECIATION.
Something NEW: all of this year’s (Eraserhead Press) NBAS authors are contributing random gadgets/trinkets/awesome shit so that we can put together awesome grab bags for the people who review all seven of the NBAS books. You might get wind-up tit toys, a voucher to grab Bix’s junk, a handwritten love letter - who knows. The point: there will be a small gift from each author in the package. Message any one of us (Andy de Fonseca, Amanda Billings, Jamie Grefe, Bix Skahill, Daniel Vlasaty, Dustin Reade, myself) with links to the reviews. Once it’s verified, we send you what might be the best (or worst) care package you’ve ever received in your life.
German Chocolate (Birkensnake #6: Wild Conformations)
This is probably the best short story I’ve ever written. It’s also the one I had the most help with from a couple highly perceptive and imaginative editors. You know who you are, Tom. It’s the story of a party gone wrong. It’s a love story. It has blobs that will annihilate you. And Shayla…
I hope you enjoy this story. If I had ten of these gems in me, I could sleep a happy man, but in the meantime, I’m still stuck at that party, probably out on the back deck watching the pontoon make ripples in the black water.
The link is embedded in the first sentence, but if you’ve made it this far: click here.
Hello. If you are interested in reviewing my new book, THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE, either for an established review site, for your blog, or even for Amazon or Goodreads, please get in touch with me. Let’s talk. I am looking for reviewers/bloggers who want to help spread the word. You will receive a digital copy of the book and I will promote your review/thoughts across social media platforms.
Get in touch! If we haven’t spoke, introduce yourself and where you’d like to place the review. I’m looking forward to the interaction.
Since THE EMPRISE REVIEW has been cast into the void, probably for quite some time now. Here is my poem, the only poem of mine that they hosted, although I never received any word of its publication, had to dig and dig and dig until finding it uploaded and, apparently published, but they remained silent and forever out of touch:
Livid Men, Violent Men
They felt the slop of this city when garbled voices bellowed; - crept to the tenth floor and watched through curtained windows. Perched over the drained canal, an orb bled open the train tunnel. Earth: digging, pounding, crushing; a skull stomped on the sidewalk. One worker, on the day of the black haze, slapped men, livid men, violent men. Choking air: his boy spit into a woman’s mouth. Hounds of the Other Waste swarmed, violated bus passengers between stops. The smell of mussed hair, their dirt encrusted nails. Fingers and zipper - his wedding photograph in a stranger’s bedroom. Police officers were napping in the back on the day of the incident. One officer awoke, slumbered an apology. The cameras in this city, he said, will not help you; others might hurt you. Near dark at six. He, engulfed in dust, smoked Chinese cigarettes on the roof after dipping raw mutton slices in boiling oil. Dead adultery in Mandarin. Ah, to be adrift here, the boy said, lashed the whip at the photograph. We have passed all points of departure. The end stop is a train tunnel that will take us out of this city. There are no tickets, he tells the boy. There never were. Never.
I wrote about the experience of reading R.A. Harris’ book, “All Art is Junk.” The review has a lot to do with skin and eggs, but trust me, the book is well worth your time, especially if you are a fan of bizarro and science fiction. Thank you, Rob, for the book.
The title of this post will lead you to my Facebook “Writer” page. The content between this tumblr and that feed will be relatively the same, but the Facebook page is likely to include more links, conversations, and archival material. If you are interested in interacting via Facebook (and all that follows therein), by all means “like” the page and keep in touch. Otherwise, this page will still be used for all published output. Thank you. Read on, my friends.
In preparation for the autumn 2013 release of my Bizarro novella, The Mondo Vixen Massacre, I present five delicious pieces of mine that will help set the table for future stories to come, hand selected for your reading pleasure.
I have two poems in the beautiful Desert Issue of LIES/ISLE. Both written while living in Beijing, China under a most massive veil of smog, sandstorms, and grit, I hope you enjoy voicing these poems over and again. As always, thank you for reading.
06/29/2013 UPDATE: a new publisher (details soon) has acquired this novella with a tentative release date of late 2013/early 2014. I feel like a Spring Breaker. Thank you, world and, readers, prepare yourself for the beast.
I am currently shopping my latest novella, TARANTULEECHEN, an homage to 1980s/90s B-movie/exploitation cinema that features a cheerleader punk band, a most gruesome and hungry monster, an ornery sheriff and his sidekick, plus a whole of hardboiled action, sorcery, gore and punk rock. This 19,000 word novella is looking for a good home with the right publishing house. Please contact me for more. Thank you.
Here is an excerpt from TARANTULEECHEN:
It’s late—the hum of night crickets.
A two-story farmhouse.
Shlurp-clmp-shlurp-clmp: a beastly form, wiggling too many limbs, drags across the lawn toward a shed and enters the dark.
Behind us, slippers shuffle and a throat clears, mumbling grumpy, gravelled spite. A shadow, a man.
Frank Donner throws open the front door, his chin gleaming stubble in the moonlight. He’s all silver hair and bifocals, a lumpy old bastard. Donner scans, squints, leans on the porch beam, hands in his pockets. It’s nothing, only:
Smoke drifts horror-jitters over the yard.
The shed glows green.
He folds his arms, spits. Suddenly—
The shed is a series of fizzles, pops, cracks like bone grinding metal.
Donner grits his teeth.
The roaring shed morphs to a growl.
He unsticks himself from the porch beam. “Can smell you in there,” he says, “and I want you to go back to where you came from.” He coughs. “Counting to three—you, you understand? Leave. This. Family. Alone.” He doesn’t count to three, instead pushes his dentures further into place and clacks.
The thing in the shed ejaculates a splat.
“Wrong night,” he says. “End this legacy.”
The thing farts.
The front door bangs open, slippers on stairs, index finger on book spines. Donner’s weathered hand yanks out a leathery hardback, ancient, faintly glowing green. Those dentures clack, suck dust. He bites his lip, searches inside. He’s muttering. Nervous hands fumble page to page and suddenly stop. “This ends,” he says, tapping the text, “right here.”
Over his shoulder, a bay window frames the yard. Curtains flutter and we focus past them on the monstrous form, how it has emerged from the shed, backlit, ominous, and ready, but it just looms for now, a heaping chunk like smokey knives made of bile.
Lightning snaps the shed.
Those appendages warble, shimmy slow; the beast disappears in a snarl.
The front door kicks back open for round two. Donner stands armed with the book and ready to read. He tips it open, rakes chin stubble—thunderclaps—and grins. He’s found the right page. “Got yourself into a heap,” he says, shuffling to the shed. “Not your fault, still—a fucking heap and this is it.”
He looks up to the sky. He stares ahead at the eerily quiet shed.
Each step is a Morricone harmonica wail of reverbed tension.
Cold creeps over Donner when he stands at the shed door. It’s time, he thinks, time to put a stop to this. He clears his throat, looks down at the opened book and then, his mouth shooting right into our very soul, as if in some kind of witch-trance, growls out, “Beast of the Wretch, and Misery-Monger of the Ceaseless NightFrost GloomHole, I summon your return to the Caverns of UrOoze, to the Vomitous Hail and Sleet Stench of the Vile Clench Rod. May Fire Suckers eat your Soulless Corpssssssssss—.” Cough.
He breathes, stands unsteady, phlegms up snot. Otherwise, it’s quiet. Over, he thinks. It’s finally over. Let’s study this turd.
He yells, “kiiiiiyaahhhheeeeee,” Bruce Leeing open the shed door, but that beast, those appendages, those razored claws, all of its hulking girth stands close, too close, dripping, waiting, just grinning evil down on poor Donner.
Donner turns the page, there is more: another stanza—unread.
Blood Mask: On Room 237 or, Bonny Billy vs. Wendy Carlos
This is our mother-brain: a synth, raga, and a donkey. It shed hair, hard pressed by the question that doppelgangers are hawks carving chairs to disappear. And this beard is how I growl, see nothing but “impossible windows” in the goat-light of a film clip.
Here is the hotel where we strip rooms, luggage-stuffed organs, gutted screeches and a wave. This is not a lunar mission. These are not notes about shapeshifting. This is about wolves, eagles, and the subtext of a frozen frame.
We are a hedge maze: a duck is Jack, a boy’s sweater, beastman, finality, cacophonic pastness, gold rushes like “all the best people.” I’ve left you a key.
Unmask me in blood, mother-brain. Flood the shaft with royalty. Men in robes clink glasses when music blues the light. Unravel. This carpet is a diamond pattern of brothers, a family escaping these “pictures in a book.” All is not yet.
Not real. I’ll bring that ball and gown to the hospital as an alternate ending. It’s fit to shine. Show me the prince who looks like a Minotaur for this tale, our lost soundtrack of revelation, is the final interpretation on how to maunder.
Keep to a whisper. The dead do not whisper, they sing master
I am at the house—again—to ignore a bag of bread, shell casings; guests stare, gnaw the perimeter like trees that get tangled in your hair when I bring you cake. You are hungry, tossing potato sacks down stairs. Let us sit at the table and wonder, we can conjure how to stop time. Rum raisin is not my prayer. You would know this if you didn’t fall asleep on street corners or use your belt and stave hunger, stay the father. I once saw my grandfather come out of the mirror. We built molotov cocktails in the bedroom and set priests on fire—the driveway is where goblins burn. Humans burn. Priests burn. We know how young men run through forests and drink milk, become branches or paste for maidens to eat. We hobble around the camper. I’ve brought popcorn and corn cobs for us to suck until we explode in gorilla suits with pink star-trails and organ flare. It’s not enough—melt. It’s not enough—save my mother from eating an apple. I’ve taken showers in green, hid under covers and shoo away teen boys who feign love for girls who take trips in vans to Nilbog. My grandfather is an angel. Goblins don’t exist. Repeat. This is not your kingdom of shadows. This is Provost in hell. We are a modern family: the van, sunlight, clover leaves and pianos lure mouths open—this is about not eating food. And if we speak, we shut our eyes to hear. And if we scream hard enough, our family just might sprout magic windows and stones of love. Press your hand against the stone. Press your hand against my heart of ham. Feel blood run. I’m made of sap, leaking son.
“A dead man’s face can tell us better than anything else in this world how far removed we are from the true existence of physical substance, how impossible it is for us to lay hands on the way in which this substance exists.”—Yukio Mishima (via quotecatalog)
It wasn’t that I was a writer and you a wife or a good place for our son to play. It was none of this. I don’t speak of dark kitchens at night when you are asleep and I am at the edge of the window looking at windows upon windows—how hot night becomes when soaked in drinks from a locked cupboard or freezer. I should have spoken of axes and typewriters. Typing is not just the clack of the keys or the insertion of paper into the machine, it is a ghost of hate that I will turn novel. I will complete this ghost even if it means I should reach a baseball bat or you walking up the stairs backwards, you dragging me to the freezer, but I’ve slashed all engines, dismantled the transmission and stolen the family key. I have the key. Here is where love lives unchangeable in the glow of soft light. It’s 1920 and I’m wearing a tux. You will notice my tux, because there was a photograph taken of so many people and you were not among them. We were not yet married. You have never stood in the kitchen at night or used an ax to chop down a door. There is more light where you are. The chef comes. I am redder after dark. But I’ve learned. I’ve learned how to follow your little steps around corners. You move quicker than the father. It’s my burden to be a father. I will make things right. Fathers make things right. It snowed on my birthday. My fingers can no longer type like the way snow falls on a maze at night. And it is night when we step into the maze. It is all I can do to give you something to remember me by—in the kitchen, the bright kitchen where you eat ice cream and drive trucks into hotel rooms. There is a room in the maze and I have the key. I’ve seen they way the other women smile. I have seen the father of the girls and I have to keep walking this maze so someday you’ll know what it means to be a father. I won’t carry you far. I won’t carry you at all.
We enter the cabin—it’s often a cabin, a house of wood: lights dim, click off. This is how it begins. Girls play guns in the woods, stack stick-piles by the creek and summon fire in Shinto dirt. They stick fingers in the dirt—never like this, not a blood soaked ritual by the grave. It ends up like this. Shane is the first to go: lopped off legs, eyes gouged, hair torn, mouth zeroed. There are no football players in our house on this night of red—not anymore. First names are not written, they are jack ‘o lanterned and lit. Do not use a hacksaw or a meat grinder or an ax. We know this. We know how to throw rocks in empty windows as if hitting a ghost-girl or a rivered spirit will release the darkness of being a teen. Shane is a teen, so is Eva, Linda, John, and Bill—dead, dead, dead. They are not fashion models. This is not Milano. Cut. Arms pile in the fireplace of the cabin: a fisherman’s net, a brick, a saw blade, rope. This drip is the sound of teen snapshots on Tumblr. Leave. Suck drugs from the soaking lungs of bones in the closet. Burn the oven. Torch the cabin. A step does not make a sound. The rocks we throw in the windows of the cabin in the woods, when we hold them in our teen hands, they are soundless oracles. They never make a sound and I would like to think of that ghost-girl in the dark by the window. She is still there and knows this night is a teen slasher, a way to ruin parties: the sex, the drugs, the blood, the dirt. Turn off the lights.
1. loop the sound of spiking the coffin lid 2. your black dress and european strings 3. an old tavern where you secrete time 4. priests pursue you under soft light 5. a doorway to the cavern of hate 6. sink asa in milan and i opened to: 7. godflesh stills of you at the stake 8. selfless eyes, barbara in black gown 9. run barefoot to the chamber, boil it 10. you’ll nail faces with mallet and hood 11. i hide your shell in the basement, but 12. red marks on your breasts are not stains 13. you don’t stain, it’s a smear of light 14. here is how i immortalize your visage 15. they’ve come here to burn you alive 16. like night of satan, or how the dead stalk 17. these caverns are not made of wood 18. heart caverns are made of skin—of you 19. like telepathy as transmission 20. you will reach the end and live on, dead 21. this is how i view lack of love, pretty star
the body or the tree around which it wraps or is enraptured as the way the body is entangled to the world. sink. or the pull. how your face as a point of non-entry, the point where i stop believing you could ever help me up out of the muck. i have fallen asleep in the yard again. i have had to breathe autumn in the yard again. and to think of the object of the body as a disappearance, something melded to earth like smoke, to dirt, to space and to notice the lack of you not being here, but a frozen you will never melt. you are all face, the only white in the overgrowth. here is the way to die. there are thorns, branches in the decay of the agony you express. keep it hidden. only in the backyard is there peace for this silence to bloom. is it sunday? is it not thursday, for in japanese, thursday is day of the tree, but you are not a tree, you are a human turned plant or vine or growth, something puzzling in the way eyes shut, but there are no eyes here to stare into, only black rims, blackened lips, the dark beyond and this is not shinto, this is not buddha, this is a movement. to ever grasp space in the light of the void is the perpetual downward thrust of the legs kicking. be object in the void like being born to a weed or a trap. not to be trapped is to become space or water and in this black frame, your body is only a shell, not a vine to be cut or a tree to grow over the house. there are no houses inside your body, only shells of who you thought you were, but slip wrong and get caught in the dirt: walk slow, step small, step invisible. space dirt is white, flecks of white float you down in a loop and it is the pattern of how you refuse to turn and face the light while ohno is the world itself, a way for the cosmos to enter from a straight position via the body. there are two bodies, but each body is a looping body until yes, yes, we fall cold in the heap of these frozen solitudes perceptive enough to understand the magnitude of what it means to bask in the oddity of the body-form. keep twisting you wandering shell, but you have given ears to the grass, have decided to wait for the worms to bring message of your monochromatic twirl. it is all ice here in the black and white void where there is only hair and caked-on make-up gazes for men who are women and women who are women. the void manifests in ways of which we have no way to combat, except to enter the gaze, enter the heart of the gaze as gaze eternal and cast this body up and out of itself to the trees, to the deep, to the black or the sunken loop that will spin forever. forever.
COLONY COLLAPSE: J.A. TYLER (LAZY FASCIST, 2013): IN THESE WOODS ...
J.A. Tyler writes rivers of word-circles to wrap his woods around us, cloak words of life to keep us from leaving, to keep remembrance of how brotherly love felt before it left and how it feels to be alone. COLONY COLLAPSE is a love story: you are dying, your brother has suddenly left, you are forced to make sense of life, to find your brother in the woods.
[the beginning: reimagined]
I am a deer who is dying. I am dying and it has been written on a note I was handed from my deer-brother: a white sheet of paper, a black dot to mark a wordless message of death. I am searching for my deer-brother in these woods and these woods are endless woods, houses that I build, burn, rebuild. These woods are alive with foxes and bears, magic, dreams, honey, and rivers. I will sleep in these woods, be here in these woods in a house for my brother who left.
[the second beginning]
J.A. Tyler writes magic words, linguistic spirals like melting nodes or water. He writes dreams of daughters and death-dreams of love. Tyler writes and the deer says, “I am in search of my deer-brother because I want to tell him what it means to be like this. I want him to see beneath my deer-skin, down to the brother-core, where there are love-words and moments of sky unencumbered by clouds.” These loops of rebuilt houses, of daughters and foxes, are ways to the heart, ways to read the message of the black dot written on the piece of white paper given by the deer-brother before the deer-brother left. Tyler speaks in the voice of one who knows love and one who knows loss.
[the second beginning: a reimagined end]
I make each choice to move closer to my brother, to hope for my brother’s return, that when my brother returns he may know me as the deer-brother I want to be known as. May there be love when he returns to this place in the woods where I dream of my deer-brother and daughters, ten daughters that could have been daughters or brothers sitting at tables on feast-days and the distance of a family, how far apart we are. I speak of love. I speak of life. I am a dying deer full of life.
Bud is in black suit, helmeted along the track. Engine jazz. A tank top and a towel. Load the van.
Profile closer than passenger, it’s grain. No matter the gas station girl, we are the focal point.
Gleam splattered bugs on windshield. A mailbox. Wood panels. I’ll kiss you with both hands in five minutes. Hurry to leave. I am a tail light like an empty mailbox or a highway.
The blurred profile is a sky made of houses and cars. A stop sign and too much green to behold. The green is how I blend into a picket. I have a brown sweater. I’ll wait at the door of a house where I don’t know how long it has been since you’ve been home.
Red hair turns orange and bored. Birds chirp. Nothing but a bunny rabbit. I live in LA where it’s small. There are no children there. Everything is brown. I’ve grown, too. The pool has been drained. There are no pools here anymore, no tablecloths where food should be.
The road melts black hair in Ohio. Roadside in leather. It’s a tired song, but rain is a car.
A pet store holds birds and fish and puppies and kitties and bunnies. Bunny life is five years, six until death. I want to forgive you.
Fried rice and chicken. Wash hands over white tiles. It is summer.
At the rest stop. White shirt. Your halter top landscape. I’ll walk past you. But when I turn, sit close, your face is a Lilly. Lips stare. The comfort of ghosts. Wait for the sun to turn blonde grass into hair. Frame it by an unending slope to silver.
I want to be tender. Fields are tender. Write the horizon stretched forever. She’s there in white kisses alone on a motel bed. The sheet is a skin. Be a comb or a gaze driving mountain to salt. I’ve held the edge of a door. I’ll block wind-sun from your watered squallor. Drive it to the edge and slip, curve the night-trucks due west.
Gasoline. A strip of fuel for the flat.
Be a speck once more. An angle to hover. Pure light. Glass spectacle turns grey concrete to the air of this love.
Nevada in the perpetual spring glitz. These are the ghosts of who you could be the future I dream. Rose is a flower that reminds me of you. Beauty is how we drive, circle, drive. And Rose is a necklace. She is pierced, but you and her are planets apart and I am terrified of being with you.
Seventy-seven. I’ve grown tired in the way. Your street is a sunset silhouette framed empty. This is where a family used to live. This is where Daisy used to live, lives here no more, not now. I’ll pin hair in a bun, watch sun drip, leave a note for you on the door.
Here is a room of white. Sleep is a way to cry. The way grey smokes crack. Sit on the bed. Daisy is made of light. Sit on my lap for a hug. Nothing is spoken from a pipe. This is not Bay Street. There were other boys there. Kiss me and throw up. Nothing you say is true.
We lock lips to be still. Ours is a shattered lust. I am sick in love. Out of love. The fragment of my face, your face. Tighten hand, the hip, the bare back. A strap. Feet smear to fingers. And a lost child. Yes, there was once a child. On a bed, your blue heels. Death is a choke, Daisy.
Leave Los Angeles. Leave earth-desert lost. A face made of light.
1. I am in the shed singing, “Eternal Weekend.” It is nineteen ninety six or thereabouts. I have a jacket that reads, “Steve,” in cursive across the left breast, but that is not my true name. I am creek walking, staring white water and hot pink. I hear: sing of spring. Sounds wrap rust-wire around knuckles. Spread fingers. Let the blood streak dry on your leg. We are not finished. Friends come by and smear their names on the shed door. This is harmony forever.
2. We are on spring break. There are no bikinis here, no alcohol, no motels or gold teeth. There is water. We bike down to the mill and crash against the “Stop” sign to see how far our bodies can fly before they are stopped by water. I touch the water’s edge in a canoe made of bottoms. The Real blinds me.
3. Saint Maximos the Confessor writes, “In the beginning, passion and pain were not created together with the body; nor forgetfulness and ignorance together with the soul; nor the ever-changing impressions in the shape of events with the mind. All these things were brought about in man by his disobedience.” And we, in the shed, are disobedient. Our “Eternal Weekend” is a fleeing. It is the joy of the Now stretched to the horizon of “fun.” It was a girl-less summer, those days of stopping water.
4. [Girls], Nick Cave sings, “who dance at the water’s edge shaking their asses” like #springbreakforever or Spring Breakers who grind religion on a beach in Florida. Some are not clothed. This is not Disney. She wears a pink ski mask. I wonder if Cave’s girls wear bikinis, rob fast food joints and stitch unicorns to their brows. “All of you young girls where do you hide?” Shut the door. I’m in the shed being electrocuted by an Ampeg. Passion and pain course through my body like waves of heat.
5. “White strings flowing from their ears (Cave)” is the electric delirium of how the eternal manifests in the manipulation of sound. Too much dust in the air. I am thinking “breaker” in the electrical sense and pounding the joy of spring with the mantra, “I am no more workhorse.” It becomes the anthem of this blossoming. And can there be harmony in noise? Eric Hoffer promises that, “Modern man is weighed down more by the burden of responsibility than by the burden of sin.” Could Maximos have anticipated “modern man?”
6. Rubbing the dark undertones of spring. For those who don masks to create or be redeemed. Kenneth Burke said something along the lines of, “no construction without destruction.” How would Hoffer suggest us in the direction of a responsible destruction via Maximos’ orthodoxy? There is a scene in Gummo where friends wrestle furniture to the ground in the kitchen. We build a bike ramp to jump. Trash Humpers affix themselves to Nashville as if the world were a gigantic toy. Cave sings, “It’s the thrill of love.” Spring break.
7. Perhaps it is the thrill of love that resonates in the shed on the day of our rehearsal. We play teen noise not to break eardrums, but to grow new strings from dead ears. I think the eternal is a tone, unchanging and ever present. I think the harmony of the present is a break from the doldrums of habit, a cleansing of the world-temple. Our water is hot pink and a fever of bodies rubbing is not a burden, it’s a joy to behold for the girls and boys of spring break. If the language of water is a cleansing, then I will wait there by the edge forever in the light of revelation until it comes to me like a face or a tremor in the dark, dark, dark wound of spring.
Somewhere I speak Chloe Sevigny and Isabella Adjani to Arcturus. But in order to tear us apart, Gallo and Neill would have to project themselves like holographic vapors of transcendence. Here is the Traumathurge where we meet and become dirt.
A short piece composed in summer 2012 probably inspired by the works of David Ohle whose influence continues to bubble below the surface. I’m just hoping to capture one of those bubbles, maybe even let it shine for a bit off my teeth, cleanse this rot. Here is an excerpt:
“I’ve split buzzards to sing: bloated tissue, psychic cells quiver neon. Nothing solid to botch the epidemic. The current is blubbery. In the end, Feng doesn’t realize the pain or what electric wires do. They power the city, cake membrane repellent, a haze of clamorous buzz. A buzzard’s brain, frozen open, land-locked and ready to pummel, is the world’s tramp. They shot me. Ode to my struck neck: a beak squawks, volts and rubber splotches. I need a new hitch to sink this crumb: the android, the microbe, the pentagram halo. Feng’s pocket glows when I stroke mashed tongue, lick air. Weathervanes go funny. Not much to tell. I’ll give it a whirl.”
If you are looking for a collection that is gorgeous, haunting, disturbing, and provocative, then Berg’s DARK MATTER should fit nicely up your sleeve. I had a beautiful time writing this review and hope you will appreciate it.
This short magazine showcases six previously unpublished pieces and features original photographs from Michigan, Tokyo, and Hainan. The following pieces appear in this issue: “Sitting Fire,” “Fifth Folio: Production Notes,” “Knuckling Water,” “Apple Tongue,” “Battle Lion,” and “For Nick Cave.” I hope to make more of these Glossi’s in the future. Thank you for reading.