Volume 6, Issue 8 August 2015
The Bitchin’ Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open creativity. All submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue. Please review the submission guidelines on our Submissions page (www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_kitsch/submissions) before submitting your work.
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table of contents.
10-11 – Down the hill to the water, Robin Wyatt Dunn 12 – Mademoiselle, Rose Kinney 13 – Fox, Brooke Newman 14-15 – the end of the fork, Katie Jeddeloh 16 – Prisoner, Cell Block Infinity, John Grey
26 – Adaptation of a Really Dumb Show that Takes the Future by Storm, Will Gillette 27 – Smoking Gun, Adam Andreasen 28-30 – Signs of the Apocalypse, Dr. Mel Waldman
18 – The Moth, Riley Vuyovich
31 – Sometimes It Gets So Cold The River Freezes, Mandee Driggers
19 – Coots, Doug Hawley
32 – Knighthood, JD DeHart
Adam Andreasen - pg. 5
33 – Eyes on the Prize, Stephanie Jones
On the Cover
35 – Bachelor, Carl Boon
34 – J++k Off, Marc Carver
It’s Real if It Dances Jacob Zurawski Ink and marker on paper
36 - Donors and Index 38-39 - June Calendar Shot
On the Back Cover Eckhart Saw Hell Too Jihane Mossalim Acrylic on canvas
In This Issue 4 – Add to Basket, Neil Fulwood
Brooke Newman - pg. 13
5 – Viper, Adam Andreasen 6 – The Kitten Room, Lucy Louise Dunphy Barsness
20-21 – Screens, BZ Niditch
7 – Programme for liars, Annabel Banks
23 – II., Bekah Steimel
8 – Showerjob, Mike Andrelczyk 9 – Meat Monster, Stephanie Jones
22 – Bang, bang, Matt Gillick 24 – Foetus for Sylvia Plath, Timothy Parkin
Stephanie Jones - pg. 33
neil fulwood. Add to Basket By: Neil Fulwood
Flying in the face of the monthly budget sheet, the intention to asceticism and the landlord-enforced reality of not fuckin’ spending, there comes the knock at the door and the well-meaning neighbour handing over a squat box branded with that single word: AMAZON. A dead giveaway on the level of lipstick on the collar or a blonde hair on the passenger seat headrest when your partner’s a brunette, the gavel-on-hardwood retort of a guilty verdict: drunk in charge of a laptop. Because that’s where you’re at, dude: you can’t remember what it is or what it cost, only that your viewing history has you marked as a subversive or a pervert. There’s a chance someone with money who likes you a lot did the “wish list” thing but it’s months till your birthday and a quick review of friends and family comes up blank on “someone with money” and not much better on “likes you a lot.” Be realistic: it’s the Christina Lindberg Swedish Erotica box set or a collection of verse by someone hooked on laudanum who died of syphilis. One of these purchases is slightly more acceptable.
Viper Adam Andreasen Ink and colored pencil on paper
lucy louise dunphy barsness The Kitten Room
By: Lucy Louise Dunphy Barsness We reach a room paneled in dark eggplant, palm wood. “This is where you’ll be staying,” my aunt says. The room, maintained at 60 degrees, is crammed with kittens: behemoth oil paintings of kittens with titanic baleful eyes and bows, bows abounding like a pernicious infestation, kittens bristling with bows like children who are engulfed by their enormous baptismal gowns, diminutive porcelain statues of kittens, kittens in bows batting yarn balls kitten salt and pepper shakers, kitten umbrella stands, kitten tea kettles, kittens on gingham hosting a picnic, kittens lollygagging, kittens swatting at nacreous strung-up dragonflies, kittens with massive, cartoon cheeks, faces of peaches and cream mounted on Brobdingnagian heads, kittens in green and yellow baskets, kissing kittens, kittens tangled in Christmas lights, kittens licking each other in kitten orgies, kittens with wide bellies stuck in flower pots, kittens in beds with plump bellies skyward. My sleep is patchy and anxiety-dappled. Several of the kittens leap on the bed to jig in their ill-fitting dresses and tie a piece of yarn around my finger One whispers, “La liberté” and I cannot tell if this is what it achieves when the lights go off or if this some sort of entreaty. Another whispers, “la nuit est calme, mon petit chou,” bathing me with a scratchy tongue. At 5:30am, I ascend the stairs. She’s waiting fully-dressed, with two bowls of saccharine strawberries, having risen early to walk her dog through the opaque, slate fog of San Francisco beaches.
annabel banks. Programme for liars By: Annabel Banks
Step one: Preparation Lie every day. This is vital in the development of a practice. You cannot be a liar if you don’t lie: the clue is in the name! Look into the mirror and say My name is Ken (unless your name is Ken, in which case look in the mirror and say My name is not Ken). Step 2: Escalation Take your lies outside. Tell your neighbour you heard a baby crying like a fox howling like a wolf and it woke you at three in the morning. Tell him a US drone came down your chimney and you spent all night chasing it out, and did he hear anything? (Don’t act surprised when he claims he did: he is also on the programme. His name is not Ken.) Step 3: Application Get industry experience. Write a CV of all the things you’ve never done. Suggest a secret fashion-blogger background. Apply for work in dockyards and kennels. Cite experience in puff pastry and drug laboratories. Use the forum to arrange references for each other—these count towards your final mark, so take your time. Professions of gratitude for saved lives and spiritual leadership are welcome, as are the more creative uses of kitchen implements. *No academics. Step 4: Graduation Congratulations! Come to the campus and drink warm wine. Your hand would have been shaken by our illustrious alumni, if they could get the time from their schedules and if we knew who they were. Your robes, therefore, will be trimmed with the colours from other institutions. Someone in the queue will ask about them. Have fun. Step 5: Destination I don’t know what you mean. Never seen him before in my life.
mike andrelczyk. Showerjob
By: Mike Andrelczyk I drained my tequila and followed her out into the soft San Juan dusk and I whispered into her ear: Lavar a maquina en agua fria ciclo sauve con colores similares centrifugar a nivel bajo plancha tibia si se necesita and for a moment I thought she might slap me but she let me lead her back to my apartment and into my bathroom where she undid my shower curtain and translated the washing instructions for me and held my hand gently and showed me the way to wash the shower curtain and she stared deeply into my cold blue eyes with her warm brown eyes as she poured in The Tide.
Meat Monster Stephanie Jones Mixed media
robin wyatt dunn. Down the hill to the water by Robin Wyatt Dunn
The consonants I use on her are the simplest hypnosis ― simple sounds, repeated, massaging her brain.Tied to the esses and the ens is the logic of the tale I tell her:down. Going down, the descent, inside, into the deeper logic that language embraces and avoids, the logic of bodies and gravity, down down inside my tongue inside her mind. Each step cuts and eases pain, each step breaks down the awareness of the past for the immediacy of the present, which is all hypnosis is, forget the past, this is the present, this is my voice, this is the sound of my voice, its sound more important than the words, the sounds the gods themselves. How many godlets weave their fabric for her cloak into this night?A thousand thousand thousand thousand, each one terrifying absolute and gone, a word a death a thought and still they rush her face with their holy wings, sadness, heartache, memory, absolution dissolution and the red river, the red river of Texas, or was it Amsterdam ― All my love under a willed rope of words, under words the logic of my feeling and my hate, a halting presence of a hope and fear that all I am is coming close to her through words, and she dives into the water and I do. Riverrun, baby, under this cloak unnameable disaster, give me my name ― -I remember now, sounds, deaf to words, we lie on the bank and the sounds are words, the water and the air, the sky and the sea, the touch of her lips, and the coldness of my hands, my wet skin and the seagull ― And under her throat is anger, and under my skin is loss, and under the sky is the word stream, and the word etch, cut into her skin. --
robin wyatt dunn (con’t). I cut a priest a stele a phantom in her cunt the mainframe life a love a world underneath this passionless crèche the vampire mind a hive of adjectives, the prescient voice a failed symphony burnt by stars, because the composer knew that he was damned, he knew that his work was the logic of ungoverned war, a whole burning holocaust, a river of freedom in the sound of the word ― down ― go down, into the syllable and sound, under the bleeding covers down, await between her thighs adrift enticing wide the shy aside the gods decided it was ours, the tragedy of words, forever speaking till we’re done ― -I want to print a word onto the door but I forget.The easel of the pen is dumb and I have waited for the cab for hours, it seems. It was Amsterdam.It was Amsterdam and I am Ing.I am Ing, I am Ing, I am Ing, I am the Ing, I am the Ing I am the fucking euhemeristic gerund woken in your empiric tongue for your thousand Pyrrhic victories, the majesty of your sad rule by epic and for epic, in the sound of the cabbie’s voice ―
― ing (down)
rose kinney. Mademoiselle
By: Rose Kinney
Whether the sounds are dragged from your strings by a length of horsehair or from my throat by wiggling vocal chords their origin rests between my ears. Whether our sounds are aided by the choking dust of amber rosin or the humid drafts from my lungs they tell stories of the same realm. Whether our songs are bent by your black pegs wrenched back or blacker darts pierced through my resolve their pitch falters in identical waves. Decades behind my voice, Mademoiselle, and a century behind yours. What have they got us? Mademoiselle, they have got us a bitter synthesis. Why should our voices present such hideous mimicry of each other? Why should my own body force us into this waltz with no leader? My voice and yours. They creak, halt, gasp, squeak, and pop as if one could usurp the other without a hitch. And it is my fingers pressing to your strings and it is my lips tripping over my words that tease out our synchronization. Why is it that we must rasp and hesitate? After we have known the power of slicing through a human heart and shrouding it in loving heat, why is it that we must rasp and hesitate? We have known our voices to weave rare wonders, Mademoiselle. Why is it that I must rasp and hesitate and wait for more?
Fox Brooke Newman Oil on canvas
katie jeddeloh. the end of the fork By: Katie Jeddeloh
slick back hair and waddle down the street granite smoothed over grease drips and squelches 11:34 northbound h-line from nine mile don’t talk none suck down additives stimulation in all its black finery concrete jungle ain’t a tiger though ivy of glass climbs the departments see office see outlet hear nothing don’t talk none violet arteries kiss the cotton seat rip the fabric kite in the wind snaking these acrylics hit the curb like the beat of drum beat of heart beat of era ergo all are equivalent skirting leftways and turning upwards veins screaming distinct pounding
katie jeddeloh (con’t). dirtied polyester and formaldehyde the vapids who know nothing don’t talk none simply fade and blur shadows in the spark of morning unaware of the pulsing abandoned tables constellations argue still the oil of the evening plunge into the raunch depths of it plead to be enveloped beg yearn whimper don’t talk none leather jacket thrill-seeker is this what you wanted don’t talk none descend sulfuric and singe shopkeep needler don’t talk none aj’s old parties don’t talk none don’t talk none
john grey. Prisoner, Cell Block Infinity
By: John Grey
chilly and dark dungeons rob the inmates of their morning eyes — and underground rivers, roiling, move toxic waters to the open sea — gradually a sore discharges its throbbing pus, a drone, a trough, the sun’s red absences and the flesh’s cold gray rocks — dreams intertwining. gentle harbor of the whore’s breast, eyes press black against cement and steel — dissipated blinded fool —. forty years, shut up, who am I, no answer none of this is mine — just a mind more savage than the death of millions — such a fractured crown for a prophet.
riley vuyovich. The Moth
By: Riley Vuyovich Moth on the wall four inches tall three wings destroyed in the foulest play think its here to protect us think we are all insects just softer What sort of dramas delight the bugs? minus money and smokes our phantasmal globes are quite the same I put my toast in the toaster for an extra round Simon Cowell is the only truth we have left in this sorry world Black nurse with a slashed face from a serial killer wobbles into the 21st century Serial killers nowadays get caught by Dorito fingerprints coordinates detected by the iPhone fingerprints I hope no one says good luck to me ever again How quickly my ambitions turn to their opposite and turn back again I dove to the bottom for the black pearl and I didnâ€™t reach enlightenment and I still have to eat dead plants for energy and the moth didnâ€™t stay on the wall to protect us, like i formerly said the moth stayed because the moth is dead
doug hawley. Coots
By: Doug Hawley I don’t know how widespread coots are. They are very mysterious birds in that they all look alike, and show up and disappear without showing much ability to fly - I’ve never seen one fly more than about 10 feet. They look like balls of suet with black head, white beak and with plastic yellow feet stuck on. Sometimes they are called mud hens and despite their life in the water they are closer to chickens than ducks. We’ve never seen baby coots. Much like humans, male and female coots speak different languages. They eat algae and insects, which may explain why most people don’t want to eat coots. From this mystery, I have formed a theory. I derived this theory in much the same way that Aristotle concluded that the brain is used to cool the blood. Thank you Will Cuppy and the “Rise And Fall Of Practically Everybody.” Read any Willy Cuppy that you can find. Said theory follows: I think that coot larvae are formed by asexual budding. That would explain the absence of baby coots. These are called cooties and are spread to unseemly teenagers that walk along the marsh. The presence of cooties causes the scorn of one’s peers. On subsequent lonely forays along said marshes, the pupal stage of coots drop back into the marsh. As they become coot adolescents, they form squawk groups which have cootenannies. When they become old coots, they tell really pointless, boring stories (such as this one) to young birds who couldn’t care less. Or you could check Wikipedia if you don’t want to trust me about coots.
bz niditch. Screens
By: BZ Niditch Man methodically in this twentieth century on this planet earth began his day with screens swallowed his coffee by a screen turned on the news by a screen worked in his office nine to five on a live screen survived a horror flick of a thousand gory scenes by screams on a screen kicking wild sex over riding to cover all orifices once hiding on screens, or takes a language course of French poetry trying to write an ode on the park bench, goes to his wave radio
bz niditch (conâ€™t).
yet mistakes Morse code by discovering the force behind money on the bourse at ninety has an operation on his turkey neck, with one click of a wide screen even though he tried every healthy diet solely of green beans now we have even picked up his obituary cast on screens with his last will and envious testimony about his dreams of divorce in a society of jealousy of course, past his alimony history behind the screens now others watch religiously catching his life of re runs where the wind now blows over his T.V. reality show.
matt gillick. Bang, bang By: Matt Gillick
Reliable for a solitary goal, serving less purpose than dreams. Bang, bang. My joy heard in the echoes of blast, it fills a silence. Mirth of mine blanketed by residual smoke of sooty fields. Bang, bang. All in the guise of protecting mom and pop back home like empty dust jackets. Roam, rage and I am always there, in different hands. Bang, bang.
bekah steimel. II.
By: Bekah Steimel My emotions are never implied so keep your tremors and just give me the earthquake I will not be rattled by your shift in sentiment however subtle or violent the years that proved the magnitude of my love have clearly lessened yours and itâ€™s what I deserve for trying to build a fairy tale on a fault line.
timothy parkin. Foetus for Sylvia Plath By: Timothy Parkin
There’s a foetus crawling up my leg It has no pupils and eyes as white as an aspirin, Vestigial limbs, no finger or toes There’s a foetus crawling up my leg Translucent skin — I see every purple vein in an infinite intricate network It’s covered in mean-green festering slug-slime There’s a fucked-up foetus crawling up my leg I think it’s hungry I thought I heard it whisper my name There’s a fucked-up foetus with fangs crawling up my leg Perhaps it’s a vampire But not one of those wussy twinkly ones from Twilight Perhaps it’s a badass like the ones from Buffy There’s a fierce fucked-up foetus with fangs crawling up my leg If I’m lucky, it will drink my blood If I’m not it will also eat my brain There’s a fierce fucked up fungal foetus with fangs crawling up my inner thigh I hope it’s just a dream Or an acid flash-back Maybe it’s a ghost Maybe it’s a ghoul Maybe it’s a succubus Maybe it’s an incubus Sylvia, Sylvia — is it one of your demon children? Sylvia, Sylvia — did you see it too in 1963? Sylvia, Sylvia — did it leave scars on your succulent body? Sylvia, Sylvia — did you see it when you stuck your head in the oven? Sylvia, Sylvia — does it still haunt you now? Sylvia, Sylvia — Have you met your Nazi Daddy? Because ‘Every woman adores a fascist’ Sylvia, Sylvia — I hope you’ve mellowed out in fifty years — you suffered so much But you made sadness and death so darkly, obscurely beautiful Sylvia, Sylvia — I think I love you
r.t ve se um lb
ta es at re
www.ta lb o t - h ei n d l . c o m r.c bl um om “Dancing Girls in Colourful Rays” Ernst Ludwig Kirchner
will gillette. Adaptation of a Really Dumb Show that Takes the Future by Storm
By: Will Gillette
Throw it! Throw it! Throw it! Chants the studio audience, bibs white like loose teeth. Monkey stares. My heart beats in his good hand. Throw it! He is famous. His aim is true. Truer than life itself. I donored my organs for this very moment. Millions of others have done the same. But today is my day. Throw it! I watch from beyond the grave. I canâ€™t watch! If I could guide his armâ€” Best not interfere. He winds up. The audience freezes. Oh my God. He was only stretching. Throw it! Throw it! I do my best to pulse. To prod the backs of his eyeballs like a dolphin snout urging trout to fly. Nothing. He yawns. Boo! Throw it! Boo! What is going on? Alternate Ending
Throw it! No! He can speak? Best day ever! What else can he do? He can squeeze a heart like a peach in the hand of an unlucky farmer.
Smoking Gun Adam Andreasen Ink on paper
dr. mel waldman. Signs of the Apocalypse By: Dr. Mel Waldman Signs of something appear everywhere & nowhere in the earth & air in fire & water signs of the ineffable & the unfathomable signs of the unspeakable prophetic signs of the Apocalypse or something else & soon, the famulus floats by on the way to the Magus, the fantastic Dr. F, caressing a shattered painting of Ouroboros, the snake that swallows its tail, & suddenly, this symbol of infinity thrusts its wicked tongue at me, thrusts & hisses until it vanishes with the famulus & now,
dr. mel waldman (conâ€™t). on this eerie day, the day of the syzygy, I see ostentiferous creatures here & there & nowhere coming & going the mythical phoenix-fabulous bird vanishes in the black sky vultures circle the city & Argos, the 100-eyed giant & guardian, is asleep on the side of the road & around the bend, I discover a broken omphalos, the mammoth religious stone, a shattered red phallus at the center of the earth, & nearby a colporteur sells rare bibles, the 14 books of the Apocrypha, while the catoptromancer shrieks prophecies after lowering a mirror into the lake & my body, a wounded soul case, sits near the omphalos & rests until lost in reverie, I dream of Fibonacci numbers & patterns,
continues on next page... 29
dr. mel waldman (conâ€™t). beautiful creations emerging from natureâ€™s design & beyond, in plants & animals & all that isFibonacci or Golden Spirals in the unfurling Fibonacci universe & spiral galaxies spreading out & in my visions-the birth & rebirth of life until I return to here & now & nowhere & signs appear prophetic signs of the Apocalypse or something else-unknowable & waiting for us
mandee driggers. Sometimes It Gets So Cold The River Freezes
By: Mandee Driggers
A land of 10,000 vacancies with two seasons and I hear construction work necromancy up pock-marked streets. There are not enough sun dresses, enough sweat enough bendy-straw beverages to prepare for how not hot negative negative feels. Snow so thick I can’t see our flour mill from its overpass. John Berryman’s bridge is invisible. Eyes on stoplights focus only from a block away disguising landmarks and humbling members of my neighborhood with cataract progression. Something in Spring’s pollen forces a certain kind of forgetting. We birth frigid snow angels and oxytocin replaces mercury in our thermostats.
jd dehart. Knighthood By: JD DeHart
It was not what he expected, from the touch of the sword tip on his shoulder, to the kiss of the fair maiden who, it turns out, never tended to her breath To the far-fetched journeys, combined with the knowledge that you can’t just say, “Are you kidding me, I just got here?” Finally to the dragon, who smells like the unfresh part of the sea and, it turns out, has a side gambling business against you with the other knights.
Eyes on the Prize Stephanie Jones Mixed media
marc carver. J++k Off
By: Marc Carver I got stuck behind a young woman who had a green P on the back of her car which I guess meant she had just passed her test so be cautious. I started to shout at her. ‘Get a move on I want to get home and J++k off.’ She started to look at me as I continued to shout. but I am fairly sure she didn’t work out what I was saying.
carl boon. Bachelor
By: Carl Boon
I was hungry. With a fork I plucked filets of Atlantic mackerel packed in tin. Its olive oil dripped the counter, stained the note she’d left to say Goodbye, for you’ve never given me the emotional currency I need. I raised the boys. I did their homework while you were out with the guys drinking beer and watching Monday Tuesday Thursday Night Football. I cooked 40,000 meals [that’s a lie] and ironed your pants and played the fool Wednesday “Bowl-a-Rama” nights when it was that whore Melissa [Alexandra] all along. Eat this garbage and vomit, I hope you vomit [I did] and the force of it brings you down and makes you remember the man you never were. The next morning, a Tuesday, the poorly opened tin of Atlantic mackerel filets looked almost obscene in the fridge while I searched for the milk.
donors, index. artists Andreasen, Adam
Dunphy Barsness, Lucy Louise
Jeddeloh, Katie Jones, Stephanie
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Wyatt Dunn, Robin
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Eckhart Saw Hell Too Jihane Mossalim Acrylic on canvas
The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...
Published on Jul 31, 2015
The Bitchin' Kitsch is a zine for artists, poets, prose writers, or anyone else who has something to say. It exists for the purpose of open...