Month: September 2014

Song Texts by Cécile Félix

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Song Texts

by

Cécile Félix

Numb

dive into my iris
arises the numb disease
let it fall in space
on time
words
shewed swords
only what she learned and not what she feels-
let her fall- let her fall-
in
love
in
what
where
when we came for/from
and now it arises

Eva

it is right it is wrong
it is black it is white
it is here, now it’s gone
it is right, it is right

it’s ugly and it shows
is it bad?
now it moves me!
it is all so close
it is melancholy for joy

and it’s fast
slow
down
to earth
up to the skies to the skies
Oh!Oh OhOh…

pinguin people

I wish I was pure
So I’m spoiled
I wish I was queen
wish I was, wish I was
I
am
co
rrupted
I am?

I wish I was lovely
and I only pretend
I wish I was lovely Oh Oh!
Here I am
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only in my dreams, If only in my dreams
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only, if only, Oh my! if only I!
Wish I was a child I could cry I could cry
I Wish I was a child

 

Bio: Name is Cécile Félix- I play and write my own songs under the Name BoB.
Was born in Bordeaux, France in 66.
Live in Hamburg, Germany since 1995.

I’ve been playing in a few bands before I started my solo project, with names like Spunge Paper, kill the Body and the head will die, les idiots.
I wrote my first poem at 11, my first song at 20.
I’ve always been drawing and started to paint a few years ago.

Poetic Statement: The point is to create,to find a way out of the blue and sometimes into the black..
I like to use accidents in creation, see myself as a tool versus a master.
I practice the same in my life if I can. Not trying to change the world, but my vision of it, when it hurts…because: 7milliards people = 7milliards different views about what peace should look like.

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‘a’ after Hexagram 29; The Abysmal Water by Gray Tolhurst

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‘a’
after Hexagram 29; The Abysmal Water
by
Gray Tolhurst
you confronted goodness
(the ‘a’ carries)
between doubled bodies.

that name, water,
is locked, enclosed, repeated.

carrying through
the not-world.

the danger of that.

II.

doubling the repeated
(the line and inner rise carrying)
means nothing.

problem:
in only fills meaning.

streams protect against the forward.

III.

the protecting world, which makes ‘without’ what remains,
depends on within.

water develops,
it flows in sun.

properly the means make it the danger.
the measure.

likewise, occurrence,
the image occurs in that.

IV.

really,
you foal.

the repeated. the image.

inner mountains form.
merely grow within the body.

material occurs, has natural light.

if flowing can be like it
with it, one and all.

IV.

ravine of light fills through/within “A”
this son.

water,

brought and enclosed with the material
of mountains.

Bio: Gray Tolhurst is a writer/artist currently based in San Francisco,CA. He holds a B.A. in Anthropology from UCLA and is currently pursuing his M.A. in creative writing from San Francisco State University. His poems have appeared in Transfer Magazine and online at The Writing Disorder and his first chapbook, the mountain, the desert, and the sea was released in November 2013 by Young Cloud Press.
Poetic Statement: His works utilize a synthesis of outmoded and modern technology in order to bridge the past and the future through the medium of the present. In this way, the works are both memories and premonitions.

Three Poems by Jessica Chickering

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Three Poems

by

Jessica Chickering

Again & Again

I know your body like I my own, every muscle, tendon, freckle, atom, and before you are near
me I feel you everywhere like the wind, all encompassing.
I knew the sound of your voice before you spoke,
and in the moment our eyes met I knew that I loved you
and could not stop myself from being with you,
and could not stop my hand from reaching for yours,
and could not stop lips from finding yours,
and could not stop myself from knowing you,
as I have always and will always know you, because we are one in this moment.

The moonlight streams though exposing every ounce of your flesh like a gift.
You have been waiting and I have been waiting to find ourselves here, intertwined by a lust old
as time, animalistic and humble.
There are no words, only the beauty of the feeling of my tongue on your tongue as I explore
you again and again, (ever undiscovered and discovered and longing).
You are tuned to me, your hands make music on my body and every note that we discover
makes the birds cry out in jealousy,
And until the earth ceases to spin, and the tide ceases to rise, and the birds cease their cries, until that day we will not be apart.
For as long as I breathe, you must breathe, and as long as your heart beats, my heart must beat.

Blue Raincoat Roadside

Lighthouse limelight shines,
Cedar chest lunchbox
and weathervane wine.

Knife chopping onions,
pink watermelon
shudders in the know.

The porch boards bend and
creak under the weight
of her unleaving.

My face is her face.

Hush – when I am old,
sideways and troubled
I will absorb home,

searching my memories
for a glimpse of that light.

Tasty

Cheiloproclitic at your feet
brush, touch, taste
Cheiloprocilitic at your feet
resuscitate, breath, heat
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
pucker, suck, bite
Cheiloproclitic at your feet
lick, swoon, punch
Cheiloproclitic at your feet

Brief bio: My name is Jessica Chickering. I live in Denver, Colorado. I am 34 years. Getting old is both awesome and terrible. I hate people who say cliché things about aging. I write, (say something self-effacing about my writing followed by something redeeming). I graduated from the University of Colorado – Denver with a BA in writing and an emphasis in poetry – I pay the bills doing something that utilizes little of the talents I crafted. I have cat named Girl Kitty, I call her GK for short. I am happy to be alive.

Poetic Statement: Poetry is amazing and undervalued. This is true for so many things I find important and worthy in the world as it stands at this moment. I long for a place where I feel more at home. I feel at home in poetry.

 

Three Poems by Frankie Metro

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Three Poems

by

Frankie Metro

 

-Real Pagans Drink Blood-

Pianos made for dragons are pushed
into the crevices of their hearts,
in places where music doesn’t exist,
bare, prone and pungent
like a piss-stained mattress on
the best friend’s floor.

They dream of a pianist career
w/o fingers,
impossible and daring
a 3rd (& fervently dissociative) party
rattled by the bleak standards of a 2 party system
often find themselves in the company of
those willing to question which endeavor
is higher and best suited,

chase down the avenging spirit?

or

wrestle the diluted dream into submission?

werewolves on the prowl
in darkstar nebulae,
violinists w/ bionic attachments,
eventually a pattern erupts
& it all leads to jungles
in full moon pitch & high strung
engagements w/ Morse enemies
wearing bridal gowns & a ring
of upheaval that holds their full
attention/dedication.

 -Polyester Grift-

 The midnight stumbler

is grifted by locusts in

detective coats/monocles cuz they’re

winged scrutinizers who

can really stomach all the clues.

 

But he’s not too naïve

that he misinterprets their deliberations

for the sound of palmetto bugs

flying in the dark

and even though he can’t really

call this night a win per se

it’s a hard one to chock up to a total loss.

 

The pair of knuckles in

his polyester pants are made

from brass and dragon teeth.

Everything feels justifiable/within bounds

Ideas of self defense leading to Homicide aren’t necessarily unappealing.

A rat lives another quarter of a decade

inside the walls of an AIDS house w/ green energy

powered utilities.

 

The broken glass in the parking lot doesn’t make it

into the heel of his polyester Vans.

It’s not a TOTALOSS.

 

& when the sun comes up,

all the dismay bleeds off like a cherry popsicle

on a hot sidewalk. Everything’s got possibilities to

turnitallaround.

 

He keeps stumbling,

carrying an empty Mason jar of something dark & rich

like virgin punk blood.

A real pagan on holiday, the reaper

Ignoring locust theories &

palmetto songs heard exclusively in notes of pianissimo.

  Basquiat Wannabes w/ I.E.D

winning staredowns w/ Cooper’s Hawks perched on chain-link fences in need of repair just as bad as the park itself,

ripped apart by monsoon storms that soak to bone like baptismal water or motherblood,

running away from unfit challenges & lightning bolts in the eyes of predator,

hand mirror stand offs made square on the

edge of a hairpin inevitably play out between men of similar/unequal understanding.

Stringing all those crypto-maxims together w/ a chip on your shoulder that feels like a bulbous clot and having tunnel vision ahead of mowed grass is convincing enough.

It’s a prominent argument to be self-reliant when you can only see what’s in front of you, that moments where vigilance falters, someone’s ready to cut down your neat,

 

unilateral visions of what is achievable in a codependent world where nothing out-rightly expressed or offered is genuine and w/o consequences.

What a fuct way of coming to some grandiose & ill-formed conclusions about the people around you, the people ‘willing to lend a hand’.

You build mantras and weigh daily affirmations around your exposure to stressful situations, against the fact that Cooper’s hawks aren’t passive aggressive, the monsoon season isn’t passive aggressive,

predators, hand mirrors & hairpins are not passive aggressive. But you’re not an elemental reaction to hot air or a hunter with the nerve.

You’re used to avoiding direct confrontation,

so you relate more with the broken fences, you’re ripped apart on a regular basis, you’re very used to running away from perceptibly insurmountable challenges, shying away from standoffs w/ crypto-delusions in the mirror.

 

Do. Not. Fall victim. To self righteousness, to fear, to apathy as a result of bearing down/trudging through. Slink back into the earth like something coiled w/ venomous teeth when the blood is cold. Be brazen and unassuming in matters of wisdom, stretch yourself against Cooper’s neck and stop fucking running.

 

Let yourself fall prey to being

carried off by a purpose bigger than yourself.

 

Bio: Frankie Metro is 1 slice of the pie and co-founder of Kleft Jaw Press, which celebrates transcendental realism (a fancy way of saying we like to put stuffed baby bears in t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and read poems in front of it.)

Poetic Statement: Transcendental realism is the equivalent of butchering your grandfather’s WW2 notebooks, but throwing a party for him afterwards, which includes every Decepticon you could possibly conceive, wearing baker hats and grilling your sensibilities/conventions with a fire that is only stoked by your capacity to see past moral ambiguity.