Jamie Grefe

Grind, Dear Friend, Grind MONDO FATALES ACTION


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reading log


abattoir incident

junk art

angelo pulp

berg's matter

birds rest

bitter fake

brain room

brown poems

caldwell's enemy


cannibal priestess

corridor one

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


horizon regained

interior sloth

jones's girl

livid men

love clutch

lovecraftian krall

lucy lip

map routes


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


sour pinch

spring breakers

tanzer's mouth

the end


threaten me


ugly mouth


venom mouth

vinegar cutlery

wet spot

wilson's diegeses

worm holes

your hand








  1. Here is a promotional video I cut and scored for THE MONDO VIXEN MASSACRE. Please consider sharing the video and/or picking up a copy of the book if this looks like something you’d be interested in. Thank you!

  2. Noise ///

    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.

    Thank you.

    Camp Grefe



    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.


  4. 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.” 

  5. Interior Sloth

    I have to dedicate this one to Rudolph of Runzelstirn and Gurgelstock, whose inspiration has been with me since day one—walking around the house and dropping things at just the right height, shoving the recorder in mouth and so on. Years later, sitting with Rudolph at his home listening to some Live “Aktion” in Taiwan. Priceless, that memory. I hope you like this story. Long live The Carnage Conservatory.