Jamie Grefe

Grind, Dear Friend, Grind MONDO FATALES ACTION

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corridor three

deerhead puppets

doom horizon

drops shots

drowned girl

dusk lung

early death

electric delirium

evil woman

feigned nights

feral doom

fire scars

flamboozled beak

flower stitches

future wounds

giraffe party

girl four

headcheese

horizon regained

interior sloth

jones's girl

livid men

love clutch

lovecraftian krall

lucy lip

map routes

michigone

muck child

mondo ben

nip down

orange shinjuku

over thirteen

palm desert

pierce's doughnut

pigs gather

polluted interiors

possession notes

rain blood

raw gums

risen stay

scanlon's border

slumped

sour pinch

spring breakers

tanzer's mouth

the end

traumathurge

threaten me

touchability

ugly mouth

unfisting

venom mouth

vinegar cutlery

wet spot

wilson's diegeses

worm holes

your hand

plugplug

peckinpah

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  1. Night Comedy of Lunatics + After Charity

    Mad Hit Lit presents Night Comedy of Lunatics + After Charity

    image

    J. Grefe - Writer: Facebook

  2. LIVID MEN, VIOLENT MEN: To a Broken Link


    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 menlivid 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.

  3. LIES/ISLE: Winter Holes + For a Worm's Night

    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. 

  4. Contradiction and Community: A Talk with Dan Magers

  5. Goblins: an Essay

    image

    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. 

     

  6. Meat Screams: An Attempt at Johannes Gorannson's Haute Surveillance

    My thoughts on Johannes Gorannson’s HAUTE SURVEILLANCE: live at Eyeslit-Crypt.

    Reblogged at Montevidayo

  7. TROPE MOUTH TWEET

  8. eveofwitches:

The Strange Vice of Mrs Wardh

enter the factory duct. here time constricts andyou shudder, cut rungs to nail shut the dome, drain the swimming pool: limbs, glass hearts, cement, bits of silk for the sequel. tip toe the corridor for black gloves or a vapor that (always)follows your sweat steps. quiet. finger a drain pipe, trace oil smears to paint holes. walls sing blood,hollow the valves: strips of lard, crust, honey piles.but how can you turn when the door is a figure, mask of blank eyes, void king of the ocean, your anti-muse slasher in this night-tremble: bone soundslike the fizz pop of a record. you’ll be the needle click.he has words, too. they’re spilled maps, each oneis a continent where you’ll feed trash, spread on the tiles, spread wide for the strobe lights of a new birth.

    eveofwitches:

    The Strange Vice of Mrs Wardh

    enter the factory duct. here time constricts and
    you shudder, cut rungs to nail shut the dome,
    drain the swimming pool: limbs, glass hearts,
    cement, bits of silk for the sequel. tip toe the
    corridor for black gloves or a vapor that (always)
    follows your sweat steps. quiet. finger a drain
    pipe, trace oil smears to paint holes. walls sing blood,
    hollow the valves: strips of lard, crust, honey piles.
    but how can you turn when the door is a figure,
    mask of blank eyes, void king of the ocean, your
    anti-muse slasher in this night-tremble: bone sounds
    like the fizz pop of a record. you’ll be the needle click.
    he has words, too. they’re spilled maps, each one
    is a continent where you’ll feed trash, spread on the
    tiles, spread wide for the strobe lights of a new birth.

    (via eveofwitches-deactivated2014022)

  9. Traumathurge

    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. 

  10. Flamboozled in the Beak

    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.” 

  11. DARK MATTER by AASE BERG /// A REVIEW + THE "OVERJOY" OF BERG AT MONTEVIDAYO

    In trying to “review” DARK MATTER by Aase Berg, I fell into a zone described by Johannes Gorannson as “Overjoy.” Of the review itself, he says:

    This review is a very intense, affected reading of the text, describing the “stuff”, the “sheerstuff”, the overjoy stuff, the poetry that affects us intensively.”

    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.

    UPDATE: This piece is mentioned in the HTMLgiant post, "How to be a Critic (pt.5)."

  12. Battle Lion

    Glossi.com - Battle Lion: Jamie Grefe

    Click to view Battle Lion: Jamie Grefe on GLOSSI.COM

    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. 

  13. ELECTRIC DELIRIUM: A Collection of Lyric Essays

    This collection began in a classroom where I was teaching Lee Thayer’s communication theory to high school students in Beijing. At the same time, I was steeping myself in fiction, eating up Robert Coover, Shakespeare, Eugene Marten, P.G. Wodehouse and more. And then the Players arrived, all of them, and you will meet them all. We spoke. They were rehearsing for a live show and I was privy to join them. I studied their ways and became one of them, was shown grand things that blended with my memory of this life and this world. Everything converged and these essays were born.

    Or, perhaps I saw a call for a chapbook competition from an esteemed publishing house, but too shy for lack of talent, too word-beaten by failure, I kept these pieced hidden, never submitted them. Unwanted. Weary. Or, did I submit them to a world-class publishing house only to be rejected after an eight month period of waiting and wondering? Yes, I did. The Players forgive me, though, and they needed a home. The Web is their new home. Please enjoy their home. 

    If you are interested in the idea of performing a life, please sample a few of these pieces. They do not have to be read in any kind of order. Make them meaningful to you. 

    Writers/Mixers/Artists: If you wish to “remix” an ELECTRIC DELIRIUM essay, please get in touch with me to discuss possibilities or simply do so and send back to me. I’ll be in the vault with the tapes. 

    ELECTRIC DELIRIUM

    1.1 The Devil Line is a Violin

    1.2 Sowers of Nothing

    1.3 Lick the Empire

    1.4 She’s Butoh

    1.5 Electric Delirium

    1.6 Circus-thrust the Night Copier

    1.7 Blank Light, Wooded Light

    1.8 Abject Horror of Objects

    1.9 To the Bonfire Rhumba

    10 Ruptured, Weeps the Hole (The End)

  14. Deerhead Puppets in the Forest

    What began as a lyric essay on purpose, lifemaking, communication, mindfulness and more, headed south, came unhinged and ended up in a moat with a damp man in the rubble. I consider this one of best, most personal, things I have written. Thank you for reading. 

  15. Corridor Three: the Loon Calls at Dusk

    This last summer, I worked on a short series of “Corridor” pieces and am happy to announce this new addition to the series in the latest issue of The Fiddleback. It is a piece at once inspired by Brian Evenson and Steve Erickson, but that might not come through. It’s David Lynch and video games and as romantic as a Harlequin masterpiece. Without further ado, please enjoy this short, but potent piece, “Corridor Three: the Loon Calls at Dusk.”