Jamie Grefe

Grind, Dear Friend, Grind MONDO FATALES ACTION

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doom horizon

drops shots

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dusk lung

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feigned nights

feral doom

fire scars

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girl four

headcheese

horizon regained

interior sloth

jones's girl

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over thirteen

palm desert

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pigs gather

polluted interiors

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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

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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. THE MASK OF SATAN: A LIST TO REMEMBER YOU BY

    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

  4. 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)

  5. THE END OF THE BODY: A DISPOSABLE MICRO-ESSAY

    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.  

  6. 
Isabelle Adjani during the filming of Andrzej Zulawski’s Possession in West Germany. By Dominique Issermann, 1981.

we meet octopi
horrordreams
or the sacrifice
beds made of stains
flesh-tentacles and tears

    Isabelle Adjani during the filming of Andrzej Zulawski’s Possession in West Germany. By Dominique Issermann, 1981.

    we meet octopi

    horrordreams

    or the sacrifice

    beds made of stains

    flesh-tentacles and tears

    (Source: mabellonghetti, via ex-defamiliar)

  7. 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)."

  8. Three Poems (via Brown God)

    Three poems up at Brown God. Luke has done a great job crafting issue one with quality poems, fiction, and visual art. Read the other contributors. You won’t be left stranded. My three poems seem to work together: beasts, claws, bones, tubs, and fingers. Something for everyone. Thank you for reading.

  9. The Horizon Regained

    i have a short piece in issue #20 of Mud Luscious Online Quarterly. I am happy to be a part of such an influential publishing house and recommend you spend time with their publications. This particular issue also features work by Zack Wentz, Russ Woods, Eric Millar, David Greenspan, Travis Brown, Danilo Thomas, Jack Martin, and Ben Spivey. I hope you enjoy “The Horizon Regained.”

  10. From a Palm Desert Motel (AKA Merl Jaeger)

    I wrote this short poem under the pseudonym “Merl Jaeger” for the very interesting, but not safe for work cult mag, Horror Sleaze Trash. 

  11. Cutlery. Ecstasy. Vinegar. Broken China

    I have a lyric essay in the new issue of Rufous City Review (Issue Seven). This essay is about the Vienna “aktionist” Rudolf Eb.er and the short time I spent with him in Osaka, Japan and the collaborative project that ensued. 

  12. Threaten Me, Gash///A Simmering///Paw

    Three poems for your hot summer nights courtesy of DEAD SNAKES. My process was as follows: the poems started off in different forms than the published form that you will read. They were longer. I worked to trim away unnecessary words while still retaining the core of what I wanted to express with each piece.Thank you again to Stephen at Dead Snakes. This is my third time to be up there. 

  13. Gone, Risen, Stay Gone

    My second poem for the poetry journal, Dead Snakes. There is a hint of joyousness in this piece and yet, a hopeful longing. The images and flow of the poem are personal, based on happenings in my own life, the ebb and flow of circumstance and Fortune, family and choices. That said, this one is from the heart. As always, thank you for reading my work. 

  14. Yearly Gifts of Early Death

    Thank you, Dead Snakes. A poem for you, for the Chinese New Year with all of its incessant firecrackers, the sky like waves of pink, a fog of noise. We eat dumplings and wait for the spring to wash these welts from our skin. 

  15. Untitled (fire scars from mucus haze...)

    A post-apocalyptic piece about a city in flames, a city of scars. It is difficult to sustain a relationship in a city of wrecked dreams and burnt fantasies. Thanks to Kendley at DM for his continued support.