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issue # 1

SPUDgUN Published by the Clueless Collective’s Collected Press

Edited by Cath Attar Design by Cath Attar

Copyright © 2012 SPUDgUN. All Rights Reserved. Contributors retain all copyrights to their work. No work to be reproduced without the artist’s consent.

RUNNING ORDER Front cover - June collage 2011 - Featured Artist – Ira Joel Haber Amy Watkins -

Drunk with My Brother, I Begin to Understand My Childhood

April – Ira Joel Haber Valentina Cano Larry O Dean Aditya Shankar –     William J. Fedigan  -­‐     Cherry Scott Kyle Hemmings – Kyle Hemmings James D Quinton James D Quinton -

Fish–Heads Two Poems Wired Feet Bloody Mrs Lilac’s Phone Call Lips Paper Boys purrs have replaced applause formula for a hit poem

Late Summer collage 2010 – Ira Joel Haber Featured Poet – Victor Enns February – Ira Joel Haber Howie Good The Garments of the Hanged Howie Good – Birthstone David Spicer – Red Sanchari Sur – Snow White’s Stepmother Ray Succre The Brunt of Verse Frank C. Praeger - My Doppelganger Michael Ashley – Misconceptions Craig Scott Poem For Someone Craig Scott – Genius matthew savoca little poem matthew savocapoem in april Amy Watkins What I think About God David W. Landrum -­‐        My Burlesque Girls David S. Pointer  -­‐        Business Slice on a Slab, 1994 End of July 2010 – Ira Joel Haber David S. Pointer  –     AirborneAntihero Ben Nardolilli  -­‐     Noted Adhesive R C Miller  -­‐       Counting People William S. Tribell  -­‐     Scrambled Eggs Henry R. Williams  -­‐     Shadow Boxing in the Ocean Henry R. Williams - Archeology After Soup Subhankar Das A Body Lying Within A Body Hal O’Leary – Teknolagee Gary Beck Aesthetics Late May collage – Ira Joel Haber Bios

Drunk with My Brother, I Begin to Understand My Childhood. by Amy Watkins

You cupped your hands around my ears and held my forehead against yours. Too close to see, I heard the ocean in the shell of your hands.

FISH -HEADS by Valentina Cano

With a tail whip the fire created a trench between us a quickening thread of angry particles. I bent as the heat brushed my face with its fins, and you paced in front of me as if the air was clawing inside you. This is bad, I know. Your ruffled hair, shadowed by smoke, is no longer a wonder for me. I cannot find myself shining under your cellophane skin. We have spread apart, gaunt as fish hooks, dripping blood from a toothed fight, eyes like creatures from the deep.

TWO POEMS by Larry O Dean.

A Romance Novelist Falls In Love With A Jewel Thief

A romance novelist falls in love with a jewel thief and fears that he will reject her if he discovers that her left leg is paralyzed from a case of childhood polio.

She then unknowingly gives birth to Satan's child and tries to understand her son's bizarre behavior.

Ingrid Can't Stand It

Ingrid can't stand it when people discount her because she's in a wheelchair.

This fish-out-of-water will flounder even more when she falls for her American cousin's wife.

WIRED by Aditya Shankar

The soldier of fortune who I see in my office washroom mirror is an absolute whole like the first white cloud I ever saw that just vanished into another like many clouds that I have never seen near perfect acts of sex like edible travelogues unfurled through exclusive secret roads for ignored hairdos and eye liners behind solitary cubicles No one waits to complete a story between themselves creating an era of sentence fragments where words are given away with little success The best lines in a poem remain unread: They drown in ecstatic moans

FEET BLOODY by William J. Fedigan

-Jimmy’s naked! It’s Jimmy’s old lady. I don’t like Jimmy’s old lady. -Naked. Jimmy’s running around neighborhood naked. -What? -He’s using again. Jimmy’s using again. I called police, I called you. I don’t like Jimmy’s old lady, but she knows what I know. Jimmy’s going to rehab in morning. Jimmy’s speedballing before he goes in. -What the fuck. Go to Jimmy’s. Police are gone. Jimmy’s old lady is gone. Jimmy’s not running anywhere. He’s dying. Sweating rivers, shaking, puking. Feet are bleeding from running around neighborhood, on sidewalks, on street, in gutter. Wrap feet in towels, wrap body in blankets. I hold Jimmy. Jimmy looks at his hands. Shaking. Jimmy looks at me. I know the look. I know Jimmy. Shit no, Jimmy. Jimmy knows I’ll do it. Jimmy knows me. -Where, Jimmy? -In the garbage. -Fuck, Jimmy. Find six, seven bags in garbage. Scrape out powder, mostly brown, some white. Jimmy uses more white. Jimmy likes white powder. -Hate fucking needles, Jimmy. Jimmy smiles. Jimmy knows I hate needles. Jimmy knows me. Old story. Water, spoon, cigarette lighter, mix the shit, boil the shit, don’t burn the shit. Pull shit into syringe. Belt tight around arm. Find vein, can’t find vein, all collapsed, find good vein. Needle in, push shit out. Old story. In morning take Jimmy to rehab, county hospital, charity hospital, shit-hole hospital. Jimmy can’t walk. Feet bloody. Carry him in. Lost weight, thin as water. Back at Jimmy’s. Find shoes. Insides bloody. Clean blood out, clean blood out. Jimmy doesn’t like blood. I know Jimmy.


Mrs Lilac  stacked  the  dishes /ded  the  room fed  the  fishes. made  the  beds swept  the  floor cleaned  the  loo wiped  the  door folded  up  the  ironed  load Kicked  the  washing  machine  to  make  it  go Mrs  Lilac  a  busy  lady  every  day  the  same.

Mrs Lilac  made  her  tea Chops  and  chips  and  mushy  peas. Eaten  that  out  come  the  chocs Then  she  seBles  down  to  watch  the  box Mrs  Lilac  a  busy  lady  every  day  the  same.


Mrs Lilac  picked  it  up With  s/cky  choccy  fingers What  she  heard  she’ll  not  forget For  the  memory  s/ll  lingers










stanza break



“Mrs Lilac  do  you  give  head?  And  will  you  suck  for  me  my  cock?” “I  beg  your  pardon!”  Lilac  said  “Will  I  wash  for  you  your  sock?” “Mrs  Lilac  do  you  feel  wet?  And  can  I  lick  your  fanny?” “No!  my  laundries  dry  I  hung  it  out  and  I  did  not  kick  your  nanny!” “Mrs  Lilac  I’ll  shaS  your  arse  and  pump  you  /ll  you  scream!” “Oh  really!  I  like  Arsenal  as  well  you  know  my  favourite  football  team!” “Mrs  Lilac  I’ll  squeeze  your  /ts  and  then  I’ll  shoot  my  load!” “Your  right  the  weathers  changing,  it  really  is  quite  cold…”  

Well the  dirty  caller  he  gave  up He  could  not  get  his  way. So  he  shouted  for  a  minute  more  and  then  called  it  a  day! Mrs  Lilac? She  got  up Turned  the  TV  off Rinsed  out  her  cup Put  her  dressing  gown  on Her  old  hair  net And  went  to  bed SOAKING  WET! Mrs  Lilac  a  busy  lady NOT! Every  day  the  same.

Lips by Kyle Hemmings

She loved the way Roger could make her body vibrate with his lips, moving, sucking, pouting after a ruined climax. Sometimes, Gilda would say You have the best lips, lips that remind me of a forest floor that swallows everything. Imagine, she thought, if one day, she found out that his lips were fake, made of plastic or bubblegum. She would cry for awhile, inspect in the mirror the possibilities of her own lips. She would maneuver them into all kinds of shapes. She would twist, pull, spread, push those lips outward. With each new shape, she wondered which bad girl she could become and what kind of lover would be her next victim. How would she tell him that she was only using him for oral sex? Forget the symbolism, she would say. Forget whatever taboos Freud wrote about lips. Bullshit libidinal stages. Then, she would think of all her lovers' lips arranged as in a Dali Painting, one set over the other, all melting, thick or thin, cherry red, or even, blue. It would be a sculpture. It would be a sculpture in some impossible junkyard of flesh. She would name that junkyard--My Life and Its Discontents. She would name that sculpture--My Lips.

Paper Boys by Kyle Hemmings

The boy she wants is made of paper. After five false starts, lines too thin around the edges, she cuts along the outline. His eyes are too big for her to contain herself. She names him Mamoru and her head is daffodil-May-Pull. Outside the long summer streets, she imagines children with runny noses and explanations meant to elude adults made of starch and dime-store talcum powder. She opens the window, pitches Mamoru to the silent applause of air, just so she can run down five flights of stairs to catch him. This paper boy, she thinks, has got a soul. It's the only reason why he can float. But she's jealous of other girls, girls not like her, girls made of paper but with no souls. They will tear up Mamaru, shred him, and toss him to the garbage where he will die under pretentious love letters, never sent. She holds Mamaru by the light and pokes a hole through him. It's the only way she can conquer her fear of darkness, of losing him, of forever being a light sleeper.

purrs have replaced applause James D Quinton

alone at home three cats all trying to sit on me at once some days they succeed and to think I wanted to be famous onstage in front of a delirious audience but purrs have replaced applause and there is no way out

formula for a hit poem James D Quinton

there are so many things I could write about but sometimes it’s difficult to collate thoughts into a short sharp style and finish with a witty clever ending.


I began   writing   Involuntary   Tongue   in   1985   after   the   publication   of   Correct   in   this  Culture.   This  is  =ictional   narrative  poetry,   presented  in   a   series   of   linked,   often   lyric,   sometimes   sound,   poems.   Though   this   section  is  complete,   I   continue  to  work   on  the  manuscript.   Involuntary   Tongue   explores   the   repression   of  sex  and   violence   and  its   impact   on   the  development  and  usage  of  language  passed  through  generations  of  a   Mennonite  family  from  the  Reformation  to  the  present  day,  represented   in  the  voice  of  the  performance  artist  you  will  read  here. While   the   popularization   of   Tourette’s   Syndrome   started   my   investigations   into   involuntary   expression   of   sexual   and   scatological   language,     this   work   is   as   rooted  in   the  development   of  psychological   theories   since   Tourette   was   shot   by   one   of   his   patients   in   the   19th   century,   including   Freud   (Taboo),   Marcuse   (Eros  and   Civilization),   and   Kristeva   (Revolution   in   Poetic   Language)   with   a   dash   of   Baitaille.   Readers   are   encouraged   to   happily   disregard   any   of   the   theoretical   trappings  and  enjoy  the  ride.   Another   UK  online  journal   sein   und   werden   has   published  a  =ilm  script   sequence   from   this   manuscript.   Lucky  Man   ,   more   traditional   work   of   mine   was  published  in   Canada   in  2005   by   Hagios  Press,   also  publishing   the  prequel,  boy  to  be  released  in  May  2012.      


A Little Shout o yeeeaaaahh o yeaaaaaaaahh h u mmmm a little shout one time two times < SHOUT! > in the middle of the exposition brain makes one slight transposition one time two time three times four three times four times five times < FUCK! > o yeeaaaahhh o yeeaaahhhh h ummmmmmm (a little work) (a little fuck) (a little shout)

One hundred and twenty other four letter words four word line blue love eros gold leaf shoe boot help holy drum horn tuba wood work word book oath toil brew haha pill leak live more less even wise good over play free myth take

list left rite last same time foot rule fate face real need type wife stop beat your life hang copy jump bump data undo wash nose blow snow snap poet ogle home cast iron salt fire open sore pain ache head foot tail hurt muse sell coat ovum zone zero pace sage lace game jeer year hear seer saga sage sail self toad tomb womb boom ride side puny wave wawa coma born poor bill alms note bird cull echo edit feud jade exit

Visiting Gramma (r) Grammawe Grammher the difference between a curse + a prayer

SPEECH the speech we own1 THE SPEECH WE DISOWN fucking ridiculous this talk about fucking ridiculous aint it? we can't just do it & that's all. sure we do it then we

she wrote pal I

make up invent signs & speech not to go with it but to disown desecrate the fucking ridiculous ain't it. Shit.


Barthes, Roland, The Empire of Signs, page 7

piss on (own) you

The interloper Fuck image

Poses a question You know Freud is said to have said â&#x20AC;&#x153;when humans began using abusive language instead of fists, it was the beginning of civilization.2â&#x20AC;? TABOO (OR NOT TABOO) That is the Question.


More fully explored by Herbert Marcuse in Eros and Civilization

Adaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tender embrace with an obscenity the word, fuck I say, fuck mama, fuck she pushes me (of)

off the ark her lap empty of me, again

I say

fuck, the word fuck


fuck you,

gently, excommunicated to the bathroom where I can say fuck, and shit, on the American Standard.




Attributed to Billie Holiday





~1~ I leaned out the window. The clouds were very close. One had the long face of a struggling farmer, another of his farmhand, Willie. The corn they had scattered for the chickens had been eaten by crows.

~2~ The street churned with night and urban decay. Only empty trains had permission to leave. A drunk was pissing off the dock. He hated to think about what might happen to his six cats when he died.

~3~ We held hands. Planes had been falling from the sky all day. She said she would love me less if it helped her see more. Something cried that had no name.

BIRTHSTONE by Howie Good

So many people, everywhere, and more coming, sticky-wet all over. Because the road climbs, innocent or not, toward the commotion.

RED by David Spicer

  When the sky belches acid rain over Bismarck the Corvette teenagers chain smoke, play broken guitar, and rebuke each other with flippant jokes. Smock, a chip off the old slob block, and Joey, nicknamed Lent because he doesn’t drink coffee, take a toke from a corkscrew joint and want to poach dog tonight. Their leather jackets escape the white law of the high school honchos, tongues tasting the night’s fluent poison like elegant sole soup. Rain descends, flakes of porcelain paint escape the car, dropping onto the pavement like history’s empty truths. Affronted, Lent throws a tantrum and his helmet from the car and misses a bohemian ingénue. They pick her up, rent her overnight, a ménage a trois of cluster fucks and couch graphs at Smock’s fifty-acre ranch, a pantheon of dead warriors, a fortress of pregnant squaws. Ingénue wears a batik wig and a diary of sickness on her thin face before bulbous Lent strikes her dead with ten pound fists. They bury her, form a pact of worry and conduct thumb wrestling contests, both prevailing and perishing many times, the morning clear, its pallor the color of their happy hearts.




A wild  huntress  with  such  a  blood  lust  that even  the  Disney  version  could  not  keep   her  desires  diffused through  animated  incarnations. As  a  child  she  gave  me  nightmares.

She only  wanted  some  love,  probably re-­‐virginized from  the  lack  of  lovemaking,  watching her  youth  walk  out  on  her, as  her  ef=lorescent  stepdaughter      

breastless and  hairless   (down  there),   shamelessly  stole  the  attention  of   any  potential  lovers.

What could  she  do?  Poor  thing. Not  even  the  mirror  found  her  attractive anymore.    

stanza break

A woman’s  heart  is  made  of  =lesh   and  blood,  cerise in  its  viscosity,  dripping  steadily with  unful=illed  needs.

So a  maiden’s  heart,  throbbing with  crimson  inexperience,  pure in  its  state  of  girlhood would  infuse  her,  she  hoped,  with  the  elixir   of  verve, rejuvenate  her  waning  splendour,  and  ful=ill her  reckless  longing that  only  an  unloved  queen  is  capable  of.


The teacher bludgeoned the pubis into learning erection. Famulus learning, Cowley, Plath, vivisect-The branch of engineering admired her tits, guttural, in the thing named or in question, an atheism; they had sex in the backseat, encyclopedist heads and feed in disgusting gut sidings. Shakespearean from his pants open, palled with her wet text, "Am I anti-arrhythmic yet? Overbold bright?" He released color when rubbed, badly dyed. "Nyet, little wiener, we're to study Pound. Then Donne." The car on the ambo shook its seats in close, and the virile wheel was locked to the lectern. There were many others waiting.

MISCONCEPTIONS by Michael Ashley

we were never serious at least not in my mind the sex was casual like the drawn out yawn of cats I may have held your eyes but with a vacancy usually reserved for ceilings or that knot in the wood of my bathroom door which when I squint looks a little like Jesus today you called again and after the usual three glasses of wine and those silences filled with mild innuendo just before I could suggest we go to bed to do what we do best you hit me square in the face with those words in my mind I try to laugh putting it down to the Merlot but the look on your face tells me you're serious






I could  be  a  political  cliche, a  presumptive  right  or  obligatory  privilege, a  shadow  hiding  entitlements  for  the  rich, and,  yes,  the  dogs  are  out,  oh,  yeah,  the  dogs  are  out, out  of  years,  excuses,  dreams, squat  now  among  tree  stumps, overturned  =lower  pots,  discarded  tampons,  Band-­‐Aids, vitreous  fragments,  impending  intimate  decay. My  doppelganger,  also,  squats,  refuses  solace,   he  says  everything  seems, then,  he  starts  to  bark  at  a  tree. Discombobulated,  I  ignore  him,   then,                          deny  acquaintanceship,   then,                          kick  a  tin  can, then,                          another,  

then,                        walk  away.




I haven't stopped jerking off to the picture of your ass you sent me & every time I come I consider it an apology but I know it's too little too late & apologies don't mean shit unless I'm balls deep

GENIUS by Craig Scott

You self-administer orgasms with cookie dough confectionery. Vampires live in your dreams. Sometimes you walk naked to work because life is dull & is taking forever. Geniuses are so rarely recognized in their own time.

little poem by matthew savoca

this is the hard part to keep track of and you're sitting in your room and you're wearing a red blanket and it's getting darker outside and you want it to be fully dark so you can lean out the window at the night and shake your fist because it feels good to do so and pretend that the neighbors are turning to their spouses and saying â&#x20AC;&#x153;hey, look at that guy he's mad at somethingâ&#x20AC;?

poem in april by matthew savoca

i want to live alone so i can live my secret life but then i won't go out! because no one invites me out! i smoke cigarettes, watch tv and play with myself in front of my email which is pathetic and green like cartoon puke

exhale screams

WHAT I THINK ABOUT GOD by Amy Watkins Some days I think that God is Gomer Pyle, a harmless idiot trying his best and failing. Sometimes I think of Cannery Row, of Mack and the boys and think, “That’s God, planning a party he can’t control or pay for.” Sometimes God still scares me, though I’ve stopped believing. He still scares me— one-eyed Odin, Moloch with his pile of bones, bloody-browed Jesus with thorns for his crown—each god a tyrant or failure. I give up on understanding what God’s planning. I begin to think he has no plan; God makes it up as he goes along (he, herr, Mack, mister), yet God, like my father, still scares me: strong and volatile, a builder with a sharp plane in one hand, a hammer in the other, piles of long pine boards at his feet. It never fails him: one stroke to drive the three-inch nail. For power, I need no other image, only his efficient form. I can see God’s hammer swing—the Maker— hear the wood splinter where it falls, unfailing, over and over the Father saying, Fear Me. “Love and respect,” my mother explained, a pill I couldn’t swallow; love and fear seemed plain enough and made terrible sense, like all his plans: Build an ark. Build a temple. Count to forty. Send my son, and if that doesn’t work, pile the kindling and watch the fucker burn. Hey, Mack? Hey, God? Whoever you are, you’re starting to scare me. I know you’ve tried your best and can’t help failing. Sometimes God is a little boy on the beach, failing to save the sea stars he throws back, planning a sand castle that will never withstand the waves. And me, I’m the one he’s building the castle for, or so he says, bewildered when it crumbles. You make the world to knock it down; I see that now. Pile the sand and pile the shells and plan on failing. Make those sad eyes at someone else, and quit complaining. Whatever your reason for doing this, it isn’t me.

MY BURLESQUE GIRLS by David W. Landrum

One by one they drifted to burlesque exchanging spandex shorts and yoga mats for g-strings and striped tights, the downward dog and tree pose for the shimmy-shimmy shake, and pranayama for a kama sutra of titillations up on stage. They wear black thongs that leave the white mounds of their butts uncovered and pasties— those pom-pom things—to hide their nipples but still show broad swaths of their estimable tits (one, though, always glues a beard and mustache on her face). On stage, hot white light warming their nakedness, they sing and dance and gyrate—remote hopes of lust served with sexy accouterments. Their thigh-high tights, garters and sexy gear bring on epiphanies—men realize what they have longed for. In theaters, bars, in straight and lesbian clubs, they turn and sway like glittering planets. Yet their boulder hats, tights, bodices are like absorbing holes, in outer space that draw all objects in, denude and strip and pull but never once give back the energy they have absorbed. They never blossom with fecundity, but only shine to slurp and falsify.

BUSINESS SLICE ON A SLAB, 1994 by David S. Pointer

Music and poetry had long since signed a nondisclosure agreement, and Kurt Cobain was singing hard under a ritzy high-rise rain cloud in Seattle, when I scored a rash and thirty-eight bucks washing dishes as a rusty white water heater spewed arrowhead-shaped fire shards onto hot soapy water while another serial killer who deep-sixed impoverished sex workers got a big book deal


dieselpunk fantasy rider over retrofuturistic trails, and fable cable connectorsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; juicing palaces for the rich, jumping with air propelled prophecy tanks taking in oxygen for the long kiss ahead

NOTED ADHESIVE by Ben Nardolilli

I insisted because no one else Was willing to lay claim To me and I wanted someone To snatch me as a victory, A prize find, an occurrence For future bragging to occur. So I pressed forward through The marketplaces and shuffled Loudly through lobbies, Raising hell and turning static Moments into shocking Electricity for anyone I met.


I'd like to stalk something less depressing now. I use your tangy piece of ass To be either really bland or accepting. So I grab the bus from JFK and all the people were saying They've been on the bus for over a half an hour. And then I say, “Two months have gone by since I directly understood What day is.” Sometimes I think that the more aware of current events I am The better my poems will present themselves as protest Or rebuttal. I could use a piece of ass. I should fight in the war. I would kill the man next to me. I could then dig up this dead man's mother's corpse and strip Her of her wedding dress and rip off the dead man's cock, probably Still erect due to the ecstasy of death, and shove it up his Dead mothers' corpses' cunt, probably only burlesque but lubed Enough by maggots and swatted antennas to make insertion easy, and twist It around like a twinkle until my hand goes jingo. As a result, I bet I'd become friends with government agents. They'd have no other choice since I'm now in Old Navy. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy what they’re doing with retail And stuff. Take the ads from the '80's. Yo it do sound so crazy! A slit of my wrists is regulated By the rat's ass squirming underneath my writing desk. The rat's ass provides an insomniac routine. The rat's ass is ectoplasm standing in for my mother. I believe its mother died from a bout of political change. The more aware of current events I am, the easier It is to slit my wrists. The ectoplasm says I should slit my wrists again. It says in my words its limitation. My mother agrees as she ass sucks the rat's ass. The man next to me would hold my cock if No war erases The time it takes me to decide what may be The man saying, “Before you knock it at least try to give my corpse a blowjob.” People bore me to fucking death as they embark upon their protests or rebuttals. Two months of accepted ass depress like a dream.



come of nothing’ ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

King Lear


! ! ! ! ! ! !

King of Leer

SCRAMBLED EGGS by William S. Tribell

Paris  in  the  night,   And  someone  died  at  a  Funeral,   Split  and  gored  his  barnet  fair   Or  a  load  of  old  pony Walrus  smile  sleeping Rain-­‐  wash Aston  Martin  bang  bang   Martini  mud  red  rough  gravel   Airplane  love  song,  gravestones   Green  grass  hill  and  =ield     Three  steps  down  from  plaster She  was  all  at  sixes  and  sevens Tuned  in  and  turned  on Real  cool  faded Far  out  gone   Indian  shoeless  and  smoking In  the  second  act   Dewsbury  road  running King  Lear The  mother The  music Cranberry  sauce All  together  now All  together   Counting  counting  counting   In  a  family  way Oh  boy


Memories buttered minefields clog Elias’s neural pathways, undone shutdowns he had bargained gods for, passing scent cleared as if lightly perfumed air were as striking as brush by of Salome’s arm hair, as if relocated dreams really were the conditions of desire met by a silly boy chained to inhale what pumpt thru vent or window. I see him now with heel stumble at rotating door, one crowded recollection from obscurity presumed like potential of a cat’s eye marble shooter balanced on a pin tip. I have tried to write a pair of dice, but they would not move, nor tumble, nor shake, not for wind and waves and tremors which linger in the legs after the earth’s quake.


How lifts now the vagabond sky, meteoric wisps and white jet trails on cobalt blue with squashed sun, compressed expunges. Apricot & rose-hued horizon, likeness of rain anticipated leaves the woven concentration of her brow and a few too many clouds are ants all over the honeyed sky once dawn has drained its colors. Worms licking the soil knew how clean the earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s decay but as Elias thought of his eventual dirt mates, he could not help but squirm & consider the disintegrating fires preferable. Incomplete his crumble worked upon his smile like extracting a lost city with teaspoon while the jungle continues to grab.


There is  always  a  city  inside  a  city a  reality  inside  a  reality and  it  loves  to  elude  the  tourists who  have  come  to  capture  the  snaps. She  was  a  tourist  there  in  Saraybumu trying  to  see  all  the  one  million  objects   housed  in  three  museums surrounded  by  guardian  soldiers. After  some  time  she  needed  a  leak and  asked  a  soldier  where  the  woman’s  toilet  was, he  led  her  through  a  big  door  and  pointed.   She  entered,  all  alone,  into  an  enormous  empty   chamber with  no  toilet  to  be  found. Once  again  she  asked  the  soldier  for the  woman’s  toilet, and  again  he  guided  her  back  to  the  same  door. The  same  emptiness. When  she  complained  he  crossed   the  chamber  and  pointed  to  a  small  hole   in  the  stone  =loor,  over  which  he  parted his  legs    and  enacted  a  squat,  then pulled  her  by  the  sleeve  and  ordered  her  to  pee. Sometimes  you  need  to  pee  in  the  sink  -­‐ And  that  is  what  I  am  doing  right  now.

Teknolagee by Hal Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Leary

Teknolagee, a blessin' er a curse? Hit's devil's work that I cain't undustand, An dam it, if hit haint a gettin' worse. I tell ya things has jes got outa hand.

Hit's devils work that I cain't undustand. I growed up long afore the inernet. I tell ya things has jes got outa hand. You youngsters tell me, "oh, ya shudn't fret".

I growed up long afore the inernet. Don't laf my friend, fer one day you'll be old. You youngsters tell me, "oh ya shudn't fret." Jes shet yer mouth and go do what yer told".

Don't laf my friend, fer one day you'll be old. I tell ya God'll take ya down a peg. Jes shet yer mouth and go do what yer told. Afore hits done yer gonna hafta beg.

I tell ya God'll take ya down a peg, An dam it, if hit ain't a gitin' worse. Afore hits done yer gonna hafta beg. Teknolagee, a blessin' er a curse.


Young women in tight, white shorts and tops if they are real blonde and tan make me look up from my poems.

Ira Joel Haber was born and lives in Brooklyn New York. He is a sculptor, painter, book dealer, photographer and teacher. His work has been seen in numerous group shows both in USA and Europe and he has had 9 one man shows including several retrospectives of his sculpture. His work is in the collections of The Whitney Museum Of American Art, New York University, The Guggenheim Museum, The Hirshhorn Museum & The Albright-Knox Art Gallery. His paintings, drawings and collages have been published in many on line and print magazines. Over the years he has received three National Endowments For The Arts Fellowship, two Pollock-Krasner grants. In 2004 he received The Adolph Gottlieb Foundation grant and in 2010 he received a grant from Artists' Fellowship Inc. Currently he teaches art at the United Federation of Teachers Retiree Program in Brooklyn. http://s110.photobucket.com/albums/n94/irajoel/artwork/Photographs/ http://s110.photobucket.com/albums/n94/irajoel/artwork/ http://s110.photobucket.com/albums/n94/irajoel/artwork/collages/

Amy Watkins lives in Orlando, Florida, with her husband and daughter and a big,shaggy dog. She co-edits and hosts the podcast poetry magazine at RedLionSq.com. You can read more of her poems and essays in: Barely South Review (http://barelysouthreview.digitalodu.com/all-issues/september-2011/), Offbeat Mama (http://offbeatmama.com/2011/05/atheist-talking-about-jesus-with-kids), Bigger Than They Appear: An Anthology of Very Short Poems (http://www.accents-publishing.com/biggerthantheyappear.html).

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either writing or reading. She also takes care of a veritable army of pets, including her six, very spoiled, snakes. She lives in Miami, Florida. You can find her here: http://carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com

Larry O. Dean was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. His numerous chapbooks include I Am Spam (2004), a series of poems â&#x20AC;&#x153;inspiredâ&#x20AC;? by junk email, abbrev (2011), and About the Author( 2011). A full-length collection, Brief Nudity is forthcoming in 2013. He is also an acclaimed songwriter whose most recent CD release is Fun with a Purpose (2009) with The Injured Parties. http://larryodean.com/ http://larryodean.blogspot.com/

Aditya Shankar writes in English and Malayalam, and has published in Message in a bottle, Aireings, Hudson View, Snakeskin, The Legendary, Literary Bohemian, Meadowland Review, CHEST, Earthborne, Muse India, Asiawrites, Terracotta Typewriter among others. His fiction has been published in The Other Herald and The Caledonia Review. His First Book 'After Seeing', a series of poems based on cinema was published in 2006. His short films have participated at International Film Festivals. Currently, he lives and works in Bangalore.

William J Fedigan writes about who he is, what he knows, where he’s been. His style is mean, lean and can be seen in Swill Magazine, Yellow Mama, Metal Scratches, Muscle & Blood, HorrorSleaze-Trash, Kerouac’s Dog, Bastards & Whores, Short, Fast and Deadly, Blackheart Magazine. Contact: wfedigan@aol.com

Cherry Scott is a performance poet based in the seaside town of Southend on Sea, Essex. This lively and observational poet has been writing verse for a million years and continues to produce some of the best poetry events Essex has to offer. She has supported John Cooper-Clarke twice in 2010/11 where she debuted her first album 'Room to Grow'. Check out all her internet portals for further dates and information www.facebook.com/starburnt.from.moonbathing http;//soundcloud.com/thecherryscottproject/sets/roomtogrow/ www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Nxx-icPUCI

Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. His latest ebooks are Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction from NAP, and Down Moon Girl, from Trestel Press, a collection of short prose inspired by manga art. He is also the author of the poetry collection, Hojo Boy, from TenPagePress.

James D Quinton is a British fiction and poetry writer. Recent accepted work has appeared in Burner Magazine, Red Fez, Zygote in My Coffee, Blacklisted Magazine, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and Her Favourite Vice. www.jamesdquinton.co.uk

Victor Enns Find out more on our FEATURED POET PAGE

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the new poetry collection, Dreaming in Red, from Right Hand Pointing. All proceeds from the sale of the book go to a crisis center, which you can read about here: https://sites.google.com/site/rhplanding/howie-good-dreaming-in-red. His chapbook, The Devil’s Fuzzy Slippers, has just been published by Flutter Press.

David Spicer is the author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press), and four chapbooks, plus five unpublished poetry manuscripts. His poems have appeared or will appear in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Alcatraz, Nitty Gritty, Thunder Sandwich, Mad Rush, Hinchas de Poesia, Crack the Spine, and elsewhere. He is also the former editor and publisher of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books.

Sanchari Sur is a Bengali Canadian who was born in Calcutta, India. Her poetry and short fiction have been published or are forthcoming in “Asia “Corvus Magazine”, “Red River Review”, “Red Poppy Review”, “Urban Shots - Crossroads” (India: Grey Oak/Westland) and elsewhere. Her short story, "Those Sri Lankan Boys," was selected to be a part of Diaspora Dialogues Youth Mentoring Program in Toronto this year. You can find her at: http://sursanchari.wordpress.com.

Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print, and Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia http://www.differentiapress.com/

Frank C Praegera is retired biologist who lives in the Keeweaw peninsula which juts out ofthe northwest corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan into Lake Superior. He has had poetry published in the UK and the USAthough in recent years primarily in the UK.

Michael Ashley is a 30 year old man who resides in the County of West Yorkshire, he works like a dog 9-5, but in between this & dodging the turds that life tosses his way, he writes a little poetry. You can read more of his work at www.michaelashleypoetry.wordpress.com

Craig Scott's poetry collections are Tales From a French Envelope (http://bit.ly/njtAwb) & Garage on the Edge of Town (http://bit.ly/yPA0N1). He edits Ten Pages Press (http://bit.ly/wyy8Kk) & Mad Rush (http://bit.ly/zYnHBU).

Matthew Savoca was born in 1982 in Pennsylvania. He wrote “long love poem with descriptive title” (2010, Scrambler Books) and “Morocco” with Kendra Grant Malone (Dark Sky Books, 2011). He lives in New York and Philadelphia, where he builds and fixes things for money. http://www.matthewsavoca.com/ long love poem with descriptive title to here: http://thescrambler.com/eng/books/kgm-ms/, Morocco http://darkskymagazine.com/books/morocco/

David W. Landrum teaches Literature at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. His poetry has appeared widely in journals in the US, UK, Australia, Europe, and Israel. He edits the online poetry journal, Lucid Rhythms, www.lucidrhythms.com

David S. Pointer currently lives in Murfreesboro, TN. He has recent acceptances at "The Portland Occupier," "Popshot," and "The Spirit of Poet Anthology." His chapbook "Warhammer Piano Bar," is available at www.lulu.com. A new chapbook "MPs, Snipers and Crime" is forthcoming at "Writing Knights press."

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, Super Arrow, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

RC Miller lives in Metuchen, New Jersey. He is author of the chapbooks “Windex We Can” “Wheelchair Party”), “A Large Retailer” (“Ronin Press”), “GORE” (“Calliope Nerve Media”), and blogs at http://visionblues.blogspot.com/

Henry R. Williams was born and raised in the piedmont of North Carolina, being always ever after between the mountains and the sea. His poems have appeared in The Emergency Almanac, Southern Humanities Review, random, Fire, The Brooklyn Review, Offerta Speciale, among others, and his first poetry collection, Season Smooth & Unperplext was published in 2010 by BlazeVox Books. He also serves as executive editor at www.greenspotblue.com

William S. Tribell is an American poet, who lives in Budapest where he doesn't sleep much and eats bad Hungarian pizza with black market Dr. Pepper and local liquor. His favorite color is green. Subhankar Das is a writer and publisher living in Kolkata, India. He has translated Allen Ginsberg’s Howl into Bangla and is the editor of the stark electric space..., an anthology of international experimental writing. He has a new e-book Another Ordinary Day published by Ten Pages Press, USA and also a poetry chap book from Virgogray Press, USA. Hal O’Leary is an eighty-six-year-old Secular Humanist who believes that it is only through the arts, poetry in particular, that one is afforded an occasional glimpse into the otherwise incomprehensible. Hal was recently inducted into the Wheeling,(WV) Hall of Fame for his contributions to the arts and is a recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from West Liberty University.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City, where he's busy writing fiction and poetry, which have appeared in numerous literary magazines. http://www.amazon.com/dp/0984098208

then the stars fell and slept

Profile for Paul Levy

Spudgun #1  

Magazine of poetry and art

Spudgun #1  

Magazine of poetry and art

Profile for cccpress