artist opportunities calendar. Awards/Competitions
Deadline: June 6 ArtPrize 2013. $100,000 in prizes. www.artprize.org/ Deadline: June 7 International Sculpture Competition. www.dvoraksec.com/ art/project/press/section/23 Open Calls/Proposals
Deadline: June 2 Jackson Heights Art Festival. Proposals for artworks and art education activities. hibridos.co/ Deadline: June 12 Society of Wildlife Artists Exhibition. www.mallgalleries.org.uk Deadline: June 30 SVA Call for proposals and projects: critical information graduate student conference. www. artandeducation.net Residencies
Deadline: June 1 1646 (Visual arts). Netherlands. www.1646.nl Deadline: June 1 Academy of Art and Design (Applied Arts, Visual Arts). Netherlands. www.stjoost.nl Deadline: June 1 Darling Foundry (Dance, Drawing & Painting, Media Art, Multi Media, Music & Sound, Photography, Sculpture). Canada. www. fonderiedarling.org Deadline: June 1 Hotel Mariakapel (Drawing & Painting, Media Art, Sculpture). Netherlands. hotelmariakapel.nl Deadline: June 1 Marfa Contemporary (Drawing & Painting, Film, Media). U.S. www. marfacontemporary.org 2
Deadline: June 1 Transart Institute (Architecture, Graphic Design, Film, Media Art, Multi Media, Music & Sound, Performing Arts). Germany. www. transartinstitute.org
Deadline: June 12 The Watermill Center (Dance, Theatre, Drawing & Painting, Media Art, Music & Sound, Stone Carving, Woodcraft). U.S. www. watermillcenter.org
Deadline: June 1 Viadellafucina (Visual Arts). Italy. kaninchenhaus.org
Deadline: June 14 Eyebeam (Media Art). U.S. www. eyebeam.org
Deadline: June 3 Taipei Artist Village (Drawing & Painting, Media Art, Literature, Sculpture). Taiwan. www. artistvillage.org
Deadline: June 14 Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Center (Literature). Australia. kspf.iinet.net.au
Deadline: June 6 Transcultures (Media Art, Multi Media, Music & Sound). Belgium. transcultures.be Deadline: June 7 Headlands Center for the Arts (Architecture, Dance, Ceramics, Theatre, Drawing & Painting, Film, Media Art, Literature, Multi Media, Music & Sound, Photography, Sculpture, Textile, Woodcraft). U.S. www.headlands.org Deadline: June 7 Flaxart Studios (Drawing & Painting, Media Art, Multi Media, Photography, Sculpture, Textile, Woodcraft). U.K. www. flaxartstudios.com Deadline: June 10 La Paternal Espacio Proyecto (All). Argentina. lapaternalespacioproyecto. blogspot.com/ Deadline: June 10 Maison des Auteurs (Graphic Design, Film, Media Art, Literature, Multi Media). France. www.citebd. org
Deadline: June 15 ARTErra (Theatre, Drawing & Painting, Literature, Music & Sound, Photography, Sculpture). Portugal. arterra.weebly.com Deadline: June 15 Avaloch Farm Music Institute (Music & Sound, Performing Arts). U.S. www.avalochfarmmusic.org Deadline: June 15 Casa dellâ€™Arte (Ceramics, Drawing & Painting, Visual Arts, Woodcraft). Turkey. www.casadellartegallery. com Deadline: June 15 F_AIR (Ceramics, Drawing & Painting, Sculpture, Visual Arts). Italy. www.fua.it Deadline: June 15 MoKS Artist Residency (Dance, Theatre, Drawing & Painting, Film, Media Art, Literature, Multi Media, Music & Sound, Photography, Sculpture). Estonia. www.moks.ee Deadline: June 15 Nida Art Colony (Architecture, Visual Arts). Lithuania. nidacolony.lt Deadline: June 15 Ptarmigan (Media Art, Multi Media). Estonia. www.ptarmigan.ee
artist opportunities calendar. Deadline: June 15 SIM Residency (All). Iceland. www. sim.is/sim-res Deadline: June 15 Starry Night Retreat (Drawing & Painting, Film, Literature, Multi Media, Photography, Visual Arts). U.S. starrynightretreat.com Deadline: June 15 The Waaw Centre (All). Senegal. www.waawsenegal.org Deadline: June 15 Weir Farm Art Center (Ceramics, Drawing & Painting, Film, Media Art, Multi Media, Photography, Printmaking, Sculpture, Textile, Visual Arts). U.S. www. weirfarmartcenter.org Deadline: June 16 HomeBase LAB (All). Germany. homebaseproject.org Deadline: June 16 MACRO (Drawing & Painting, Visual Arts). Italy. www.museomacro.org Deadline: June 17 Art Initative id11 (Music & Sound, Performing Arts, Visual Arts). Netherlands. www.id11.nl Deadline: June 17 PACT Zollverein (Dance, Theatre, Media Art, Music & Sound, Performing Arts). Germany. www. pact-zollverein.de Deadline: June 17 Turps Art School (Drawing & Painting). U.K. turpsbanana.com Deadline: June 20 ZOR Foundation (All). Poland. www. zorfoundation.org Deadline: June 21 Artfunkl Artist Residency (All). U.K. www.artfunkl.com
Deadline: June 21 BreadBoard (Media Art, Multi Media). U.S. www.breadboardphilly. org
Deadline: June 6 Enhance Magazine. (Art, poetry). enhancemag.onimpression.com/ tosubmit
Deadline: June 24 33 Officina Creativa (Dance, Theatre, Drawing & Painting, Film, Media Art, Literature, Music & Sound, Photography, Sculpture, Visual Arts). Italy. www.33oc.org
Anytime 491 Magazine. (Art, poetry). www.491magazine.com/ submission-guidelines/
Deadline: June 25 Kinitiras Studio (Performing Arts). Greece. www.kinitiras.com Deadline: June 29 Kunstlerhaus Schloss Balmoral (Drawing & Painting, Media Art, Multi Media, Photography, Sculpture). Germany. www. balmoral.de Deadline: June 30 AreHolland (Film, Media Art, Multi Media, Music & Sound). Netherlands. www.areholland.com Deadline: June 30 CAMAC (Drawing & Painting, Film, Media Art, Literature, Multi Media, Music & Sound, Photography). France. www.camac.org Deadline: June 30 Tyrone Art Center (Applied Arts, Ceramics, Drawing & Painting, Literature, Photography, Sculpture). U.S. www.elizabethburger.com Deadline: June 30 Youkobo Art Space (Visual Arts). Japan. www.youkobo.co.jp Submissions
Deadline: June 1 Bayou. (Writing). www.uno.edu/ bayou/Submit.aspx Deadline: June 1 Seizure: Sport Issue. (Art, writing). seizureonline.com/about/
Anytime Anobium. (Writing). anobiumlit. com/submit/ Anytime The Bad Version. (Writing). thebadversion.com/submit-to-thebad-version Anytime Barrelhouse: The Comedy Issue. (Writing). www.barrelhousemag. com/submissions/the-comedyissue/ Anytime Diabolique Magazine. (Writing). diaboliquemagazine.com/contact/ submissions/ Anytime Ă‰lan Magazine. (Art, Writing). elanlitmag.com/?page_id=6 Anytime Filling Station. (Art, Writing). www. fillingstation.ca/submit Anytime Fjords Review. (Art, writing). www. fjordsreview.com/ Anytime FRiGG. (Writing). www. friggmagazine.com/editors/ editors39.htm Anytime Jiggered. (Art, writing). www. jiggered.co.za/submit
artist opportunities calendar, andrew peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE. Anytime litbomb. (Writing). www.litbomb. co.uk/#/submissions/4572988060
Anytime smoking glue gun. (Art, writing). smokinggluegun.com/contact/.
Anytime Literati Magazine. (Art, writing). literatimag.com/?page_id=11
Anytime The Speculative Edge (Sci fi, horror, fantasy). sites.google.com/site/ thespeculativeedge/submissions
Anytime Moonshot. (Art, writing). moonshotmagazine.org/ submissions/ Anytime Nostrovia! www.nostroviatowriting. com/publishing-opportunities.html Anytime OVS. (Art, writing). ovsmag.com Anytime Passages North. (Writing). passagesnorth.com/submissions/ Anytime Pithead Chapel. (Writing). pitheadchapel.com/submissionguidelines/
If you would like to see your opportunity in The Bitchinâ€™ Kitsch next month, please email the details to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Anytime Spilt Magazine. (Writing, video). email@example.com. Anytime Sword and Saga Press. (Writing). www.swordandsagapress.com/ Submissions.php Anytime The View From Here. (Fiction). www.viewfromheremagazinesubmissions.com/ Anytime Word Riot. (Writing). www.wordriot. org/submissions
Anytime Poydras Review. (Art, writing). poydrasreview.submittable.com/ submit Anytime Retort. (Art, music, writing, video). retortmagazine.com/live/ submission-guidelines/ Anytime Roadside Fiction. (Writing). roadsidefiction.com. Anytime Silent Things. (Art, Writing). silentthings.com/about/ Anytime Slings and Arrows. (Writing). firstname.lastname@example.org.
Medieval Wasteland Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Ink on paper
chris talbot-heindl. about b’k:
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. if you have something you want to share, please email it to email@example.com. are you a video or music artist? submit your youtube link or original file to firstname.lastname@example.org. all submissions are due on the 26th for the following month’s issue.
have a seriously bitchin’ idea that could make the bitchin’ kitsch that much better? we want to hear from you. email email@example.com with your ideas.
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the bitchin’ kitsch video and music issue: Check out this month’s “issue” link of video and music at www.talbot-heindl.com/bitchin_ kitsch.html
Lifedrawing 2, 4/1/13 Chris Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper www.talbot-heindl.com
the bitchin’ kitsch content june 2013 on the front cover: Owl Bubble Tree
Mike Godell Acrylic and ink on board
on the inside back cover: Palm Trees
kaleeM rajA Ink on paper douglas somers - pg. 15 Owl Bubble Tree - Mike Godell
Artist Opportunities Calendar
Medieval Wasteland - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Lifedrawing 2, 4/1/13 - Chris Talbot-Heindl Youthful Optimism (DIY Shows Are the Best Place to Get Laid) - Jeremiah Walton I will eradicate the future tense (nite owls) - Eddy Habib
4 5 7
Killing a Mirage I - Kyle Hemmings
Davie Dreams - Kate AlexanderKirk fire - robert pino
Vigilantism and Sexual Violence: Window Dressing Feminism in ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ - Tyler Furo
Coltrane Mowing the Grass Doug Draime
Sushi Goat’s Gruff - Peabody Winston
Sufficient Until They Encounter Consciousness - Shane Jezowski Compact - Sy Roth
A Bigger Bang -Max Pollifrone
how gracious you look down Christopher Mulrooney
kaleeM rajA - pg. 24
Insight out of sight - Teri Edlebeck
Rookie - Wayne Burke
He Writes Children’s Books Jenny Mudarri Trade in My Wings to Fly Danielle Dragona On Making it all Four Years Kelleigh Cram
Wolfie - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Fallen Angel - Josh Lisiuk
22 23 23 24
The Olf Fort Castle - kaleeM rajA
Tears of the Clown - Afzal Moolla
Attraction - Jnana Hodson
Icy Waves - Dawnell Harrison
shady blues - douglas somers
Progress? - Kenneth Abraham
hidden agenda - douglas somers
Man in Vain - Anthony Ward
AP English ‘85: Lover’s Tune - B R Stafford The Bicycle - Tanya Haller
The Last Poem - Lois Mintah
Lifedrawing 3, 4/1/13 - Chris Talbot-Heindl
Mummy - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE
Perched on the lid of a toilet Michael Ashley Zanzibar - kaleeM rajA This Life is Dangerous - Howie Good N49 - Mike Cluff Something Fishy - Gerald Bosacker Oil - Michael Siebert
10 10-11 11
Song of Insanity - Alon Calinao Dy
Headquarters Office of Director Dr. Wang - Louis Marvin and XY My Friend the President - Robert Allen Beckvall
What That Man Thinks - Mandal Bijoy Beg Spaced Out - Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Donors and Index
Palm Trees - kaleeM rajA
Life - Jan Haskell
And I thought we were just Multigenerational - Mike Godell
Licking Wounds - Tendai R. Mwanaka
jeremiah walton, eddy habib, christopher mulrooney. Youthful Optimism (DIY Shows Are The Best Place To Get Laid)
By: Jeremiah Walton w ww.nostroviatowriting.com
Fly corpses sharpie sidewalks accompanying too many McDouble wrappers & heavy cigarette butts Constellations of cancer illuminate apartment door #34, parents gone. Inside The Wall mewls on repeat as Animals wake to Human awareness Pigs ash thick cigars in troughs of children. Learning English ditching old fashioned hooves. Orwell’s children throw pitchforks \m/ God-fearing, pig-fearing Us. All punks dream to never grow old and neutral Sad bullets fire into Our vandalized Garden of Eden, cultural hub, East Village, bombs never detonate, eternal ticking, taste death, but live like Boston. Dig, your heels against warm streets. Tread veins of teen years twirled around pupils, dancer’s red ribbon Dancer stumbles, shitface drunk Horny, glazed pink, pimples leak Nose ring pus kisses her upper lip Low cut shirt, tight torn jeans She’s our Dante, but like God Will never rescue anybody
i will eradicate the future tense (nite owls) By: Eddy Habib
hoping to create something out of something. specifically a brand new hour between 3:49 and 4:00 a.m. we can hammer out the details later. i should ask the black cats i’m sure that they know. during this time I will simultaneously masturbate read and about alien abductions. my pillow will turn into a rock lobster. note that this is different from a regular lobster somehow. simon and garfunkel will play on the hip-hop station all goodbyes will be required by law to be followed by “shiver my timbers” complete with a curtsey. a new violet light will appear at every crossroads john belushi will rise from the dead (again) and your tv guide will vanish ihop will temporarily take refuge in the bermuda triangle download love via bittorent drag race down the bike lanes til the horizon leaks scarlet.
how gracious you look down By: Christopher Mulrooney
your idea of a kind of success lickspittle is to be drunk on the saliva of your masters spitting profusely pardon Flaubert this obtrusion of the ridiculous upon the sublime afflatus and effluvia
shane jezowski, sy roth, douglas somers. Sufficient Until They Encountered Consciousness By: Shane Jezowski
Until now they survived by just being, like strays wandering; assuming consciousness was just from parasites living through the hosts. Their world eventually broke down. However, they managed to manufacture life by replicating the remnants of their last numbers from the files of the unknown. Now strangers to the universe; empty of purpose. They acquired boredom; their thoughts limited to merely functions. On an endless, mindless quest for a benign concept; searching for the perfect lover. A symbiotic relationship that would nurture rigid terms to conceive. ...and then the world fell silent.
hidden agenda douglas somers Print 8
Compact By: Sy Roth
The spelunker digs deep into her pocketbook pick-axes until she finds the object of her quest. Crevasses on her translucent skin shine with the effort. Irish face bears a slight resemblance to her once self. Bleached-blonde hair hangs in wet-mop, stringy clumps, scalp visible, crenellated isles lumpishly on display, pouty lips unevenly painted, a portmanteau of red trapped in the philtrum like a pasted on beauty mark. She discovers the compact among the scattered cree, certain it will re-cover her secret pact with it. She wields it with churlish anticipation, a matador about to do battle with an aging toro. A painting ,The Mirror, adorns the top of the round case. She flips it indelicately open with her thumb, gazes at first from a distance, then draws her arm in for closer inspection the agreement seems to have been abrogated.
b r stafford, tanya haller. AP English ’85: Lover’s Tune
By: B R Stafford
There was a man on Presque Isle shore His lady gone away She liked to dive into the sea Into the death-grey bay. She dove into the death-grey bay Alas, she could not see A giant rock in front there stood Where water used to be. She ran into it all head-long Her melon there did crash The man did watch this all with awe Her head it there did smash.
Her lover went into a boat And to the rock did row “I’ll scrape her off that bloody rock,” He said his face aglow. When up there came a great big wave To smash his boat to bits His body flew into the rock Went “Spluck” when there it hit. And so the two joined once again Out on that rock do lay And now the seagulls come to feed Out in the death-grey bay.
The Bicycle Tanya Haller Film photography 9
michael ashley, kaleem raja. Perched on the lid of a toilet By: Michael Ashley
Maddie hums a blues ditty, fingers in ears the final gasps of her husband still audible above the tune, three minutes from ingestion (that’s what the Internet article said) silence falls across the house, the bathroom is cold, the door is locked from the inside, Maddie’s song is now a sob & her bruise peppered skin is fading, like moth wings at the bottom of an old & empty wardrobe
By: kaleeM rajA And as the alley cats curl through the cracks in the crumbling facades Of white plaster walls with pointed arches, The tropical aquarium heat Lies upon this island like a burning mattress. This incandescent fragment of land Lost in the vastness of the seas, Is one of endless muggy nights Which mollify the senses, cloy the appetite and exhaust it. This land dazzles you catatonic. Through the rambling alleys and streets Of Stone Town, The laughter of children runs bare feet. In Jaws Corner While domino slabs clack on boards, Cardamom and ginger tea Is sipped from thimble-like Arab cups. Wizened men old enough to remember the revolution of 64, Puff on cheroots and scramble fingers through hoary heads And speak with fervour and lament About the chess games and political ledegermane The mainland plays through its network of crooked pawns Which the Sultan of Oman In centuries past may have calmly slain. And this is an island of conquest and exploits, Hopes and fears, stoic acceptance and defiance, Arab pride, Muslim shame and shameless merchants from Europe and beyond. At the Anglican cathedral, a crucifix hewn Of the tree to which slaves were tied And whipped before the braying crowds. Crumbling stone stairs lead down Into other unholy of unholies – A chamber for slaves – 70 – 80 – 90 a piece Chained together in the dark under low-hung ceilings In the cardiac arrest heat for weeks upon end; Humanity’s gravest error of judgement And darkest chapter remains ghastly to this day. At the sea front, royal palaces Of long mystic yawns of time Sit silent and numb – crown removed but regal still. Through their once hallowed hallways Sporadic tourists from unlikely corners of the globe Roam like dazed cattle snapping everything senselessly through over-sized
kaleem raja (con’t), howie good, mike cluff, gerald bosacker. lenses. It is mere tourist tattle now, A faded footnote in the fusty leaves of history. A photograph of a renegade Zanzabari princess in full Oriental raiment Belies much intrigue of harems, eunuchs and dynasties, family politics, concubines and legacies. There in a glass case, is the dress she wore; Faded embroidery and spiky bangles, Beaded hair and amulets And an eerie muzzle-like Muslim veil. Through the palace veranda, There is further eeriness lurking on Prison Island Where giant tortoises roam, Alive from the time when slaves were caged and sold. The night of the locusts beckons After the down-pour days of bloated rain drops Have turned the alley ways Into grotty gushing water ways. Paje beach is many miles From the junkies and drunks of Stone Town And the hustling beach boys of Forohandi Garden. Zanzibar is bustling and bristling with trials and tales Through plumes of spice fumes and incense perfumes, Its all and everything sparkles and dazzles and fades Like the fulgent light upon its turquoise waves.
This Life is Dangerous By: Howie Good
There are only so many words we’re supposed to use in each sentence. You can’t remember the exact number either. Sometimes we’re forced to communicate with small, tenuous gestures. Other times I shut my eyes and try to calculate how far, given the wind currents, a scream will carry. A story often simply stops at some point rather than fully concludes. When that happens, the blue-black night starts churning and even old-fashioned baby carriages bob up to the surface.
By: Mike Cluff Expand the inner circle of the sentient soul the heart will follow then all on its own. A universe can enter when the blocks are down open thoughts can lead one to the celestial sound. Amass all experiences use each for its specific value and potential finally you will discover how much you have grown For RMB
Something Fishy By: Gerald Bosacker
Fresh brook trout is a pricy treat sauteed by Chefs before it’s dead then served, full dressed, for you to eat with baleful eyes still in its head. I may be crude, to not eat trout if it expires while being cooked with crusted sneer upon its snout, from tortured lip where it was hooked. Diners might laud this oppressed dish, but I believe it ranks obscene to pay surcharge for half dressed fish that no one cared to even clean.
michael siebert, kate alexander-kirk, kyle hemmings. Oil
In the slop and the dark I can feel my bones disintegrating in a pestle and mortar, that is my body. I am encased in a primordial goo, primarily made of you. You who spit acid in my face and burned out my eye sockets, flushed with panic and grease from the kitchen fryer. My principles have been compromised, leaked, bled dry. There is a hole in the floor, there is a trail of oil bubbling below the hole in the floor. The trail of oil ignites and burns up the whole damn town until everything is awash in a thick orange haze. Orange haze. All in my brain.
Ordinarily, Davie dreams in colour. If he concentrates until his brain cringes, he perceives that the dreams blend towards a theme. Many relate to his mood. His “norm” does not coincide with “The Norm.” Meaning that if he feels down, depressed, or pensive, rather than dream in demure shades of blue: Prussian, Ultramarine or Periwinkle, his mind fixates on vibrant shades of yellow: images of sunshine and egg yolks, New York taxicabs.
By: Michael Siebert
By: Kate Alexander-Kirk
The occasional dream is in sepia but never true black and white. There are always pale hues that seep warmth and haziness into their surroundings. They bring the occasional flutter of nostalgia, which momentarily melts his otherwise stony countenance. These episodes are always about the past – sometimes his own or one that is the product of his subconscious imagination. The sepia dreams never depict the future. His future is drawn out in shades of grey. He doesn’t question the meaning behind this distinctive lack of colour. Nor does he worry that this suggests a pessimistic outlook. When he wakens he opens his notebook, which is growing tattered with age. Davie removes the short, slim pencil from its spine and conveys his perception of the imaginings. The action is done out of habit rather than desire or even necessity. He has had this, now frayed, item since he was a child. It is unusual for him to visit the dreams of his past, as he has no wish to tarnish the ones of his future. After he has drawn or described his visions, he closes his log. He sharpens his pencil, if need be, blows the shavings clean off the nib and replaces it in the spine of the notebook, where it rests until it is needed once again.
By: robert pino
Killing a Mirage I Kyle Hemmings Photoshop illustration 12
you say I can carry an entire library in my pocket and I argue that it’s not quite pocket sized well you say that’s not the point and the entire distribution model has changed and I cough and the train is moving and I return to my hardcover bukowski library
tyler furo, doug draime. Vigilantism and Sexual Violence: Window Dressing Feminism in ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’
By: Tyler Furo
Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, originally published in Swedish as Män som hatar kvinnor (Men Who Hate Women), borrows the format, topoi and narrative energy of literary thrillers. Its insidious readability and worldwide popularity evince Larsson’s success in utilization of genre formula. Girl is popular as well due in large part to its character Lisbeth Salander. Salander, whose character facilitates themes of vigilantism and sexual violence, distills Larsson’s perceptible attempts to elevate his material and transcend its generic conventions and lay associations. Larsson’s book parallels those themes in varied context apart from Salander, including contexts of social hierarchy, journalism, corporate malfeasance, Nazism, and the conflict between Sweden’s old and new. But Salander’s character has, at least anecdotally, arisen as the novel’s breakout star, and furthermore represents the novel’s overarching preoccupation with sexual violence and its superficially feminist reading thereof. Why is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo feminist? One could cite Larsson’s blunt title and the four (or was it five?) statistics about abused women that mark each of the book’s parts. What else is there though? Lisbeth retaliates against the men who rape her, which ameliorates exactly one situation per retaliation. And then, nothing is really ameliorated, because Lisbeth experiences or fears retribution for her vigilante retaliation. For example, she is decided legally incompetent after torching her rapist father, and later, after the serial killer Martin Vanger is found out, she fears reporting his crimes. As for sexual violence, Larsson wants it both ways. He wants to exploit the entertainment value of sexual violence while ostensibly railing against it. Girl’s intention of sexual violence as entertainment is clear in its narrative permeation. After all, it is in the end a serial killer thriller; its detailed descriptions of brutal murder central to its appeal. But Girl’s sexual violence is so graphic, and its narrative dependence on that sexual violence so extreme, it ultimately parodies the reality of abuse rather than allegorizing it.
The vigilantism and sexual violence of Girl do offer social critique, but that critique is at best secondary to entertainment value, while Girl’s reliance on sexual violence hypocritically reinforces violence’s glamorization and subsequent normalization. To read Girl as a feminist text is mistaken. It is a work of mainstream entertainment, constructed around sexual violence, written by a man. Its message of vigilantism is misguided and contradictory, and its feminism is window dressing.
Coltrane Mowing The Grass By: Doug Draime
Working up to the edge of my backyard, southeast corner facing California. The mower spurting down the slope, weeping for oil, I catch sight of the chocolate brown short haired cat from down the street dancing along the fence. Coltrane is playing on the disc player from my open kitchen window. And I turn off the mower and sit down to watch the cat intently, my body full of its supple moving, and the rest of my senses consumed by that other cat, that dead cat, Coltrane. My wife is yelling something at me from the porch and our dog is barking at the cat, but the cat dances on, and that genius cat, John Coltrane, wails and wails on and on. I go up on my porch to take a break, my wife hands me an ice cold beer, and I seriously consider hiring the kid next door to finish mowing the grass, as I sit down, turn the music up, close my eyes and throw the world the finger.
peabody winston. Sushi Goat’s Gruff By: Peabody Winston
STARRING: THE ONI OGRE SPECIAL GUEST: A SUSHI GOAT (actually a lamb sushi) Origin of story: Peabody Winston, a teller of children’s tales on the front porch of the Peabody Winston and Sons’ Country Store and Bait Shop in Prescott, Arizona tried to mix a Chinese and Swedish folklore/fairy tale bit for the kids. He got close and landed on Japan and Norway. We have replaced the Billy goats with a sushi goat, and the original ogre is now an Oni (Japanese Ogre). Just grab a bag of chips and a juice, and watch your fingers as the rocking chair gets more excited as I get deeper into the tale. There is an Oni ogre that travels the lands of Japan looking for sushi goats. He has wasabi in one hand, and soy sauce in the other. He carries a pair of great wooden chopstick swords. His Oni mask never smiles, but it grows more and more wicked and mean the hungrier he gets. He came to a bridge where he heard the bleating of a sushi goat. He started his snake-like trance dance and began to wiggle like a great sea snake. He spoke these words: Sushi goat, sushi goat, come to the bluff! I am Oni Ogre Gruff. Sushi goat, sushi goat, come to the bluff! I am Oni Ogre Gruff. He wiggled and repeated these phrases until finally, the goat popped its’ head up from under the bridge and approached the bluff next to the bridge and water. The Oni ogre threw the wasabi with great force and accuracy, and it splatted in the goat’s face and eyes. He bleated in pain, and hopped and skipped in a circle. While he went around and around, the Oni ogre poured soy sauce on him. He then drew his chopstick swords, and took a great bite. His wool was made of rice, he had a seaweed strip to hold him together. Inside was the most delicious lamb you ever tasted. The Oni ogre downed him in two bites. The moral: Be careful of hungry looking ogres bearing wasabi and soy sauce if you are a sushi goat. 14
max pollifrone, jnana hodson, douglas somers. A Bigger Bang
By: Max Pollifrone
A cry for help from an over-privileged generation, A handful of quarters for a pack of smokes, There are a million ways to make it, To prove your length, But to deserve it, now that’s a different story This story is not about fucking, nor guts, nor glory, nor persuasion. But a vague description of the Dharma. My bullshit pilgrimage from the moist lips of the suburbs, to the mountain’s highest peak. Because, it speaks to me. And only me, A bleeding Shape, it will be, A rainfall that lasts for a couple of months, A couple of minutes on a train, And some fucks won’t stop talking, So I pull out my blade. That’s right.
Face down in my masochistic bliss, Bleeding out the white boy blues on the porcelain floor. Have no regrets, But goddamn, these regrets, They speak to me, And only me, In this glance at the illusion.
By: Jnana Hodson He confessed, “I’m a skin man,” attracted to a supple and smooth touch more than tits, ass, or legs. Sometimes, even the motion of a finger as I remember from a Manhattan café, our booths back to back after her concert.
Grace and beauty are past experiences. Who both sucked a specific cock, for a certain kind of life. Make no mistake, it’s all fake. From her breasts, down her legs, to her toes, and her sweet shadow. And her comfort, In Mirrors, Cruelty, deceiving us in the true world. Casting black lights of shame, That contribute to the darkness. All that and a boisterous proposal to go get drinks after the show was over. Under the city’s hollow ceiling, All you’ve ever imagined is her blood. Her blood, her shape, her form, Silhouetted, and bleeding, To see her, bleeding, One way or another... Rage knows, that peace will rise. But I will still lie,
shady blades douglas somers Screenprint 15
anthony ward, lois mintah, andrew peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE. Man in Vain By: Anthony Ward
He was so lackadaisical he could shit himself at a drop of a hat, Practically jealous of who he was, Introducing himself to his reflection. Taking the world in his strides, His neck bobbing about his taught shoulders, The secret of life on the tip of his tongue, Where he just couldnâ€™t get it, Perusing sleight of hand personalities That tricked him into thinking He was socially flagging While he was practically waving.
The Last Poem By: Lois Mintah
When all the poems have been written, and the saffron robes of the last king have swept a dusty palace floor, and a forlorn light on a metal dome is the only sign of human life, Someone hunched over a fire, deep under the frozen planet, will say I wrote something. His friend will reply it canâ€™t be a poem; all the poems have been written. well, says the first, for now, I will call it a poem.
Mummy Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Ink on paper
tendai r. mwanaka, louis marvin and xy. Licking Wounds
By: Tendai R. Mwanaka
like excess baggage to lands beyond vital young men shipped daily to worlds-wild, of which they knew not like wild beasts lived, like Lazarus, they worked all day long, eating out of view rich man’s little crumbs. lumps and left-over’s with contempt and aversion they were viewed troops on troops, cattle, horses, carriages across our vast abundant homelands scrambling started, so did demarcation bequeathing unto themselves rich lands stretching beyond the reach of eyes in bulk; gold, oil, silver, ivory, looted to enrich a people belonging, not to us leaving a honeycomb, nectar-less, depleted lowly tribal trust lands paired to dark ones in townships, farm compounds, in prisons in our own birth-right by a people foreign cool fertile highlands paired to light ones as oceans-apart, divided we stood like prisoners in chains, dark toiled for food light harvesting milk: dark- tears and sweat light took all of dark’s tears and sweat which they feasted on to enrich themselves dark in backward nameless enlightment light enjoying the best in enlightment dark to an enlightment to slave for light light to an enlightment to master dark in unlit, dirt, potholed streets, dark loitered, leisured, shopped, slaved in streets like paradise’s beautiful lands light worked, ate, shopped, leisured at war, dark against light, for freedom were sacrifices both sides of the divide cripples, orphans, casualties resulting in beautiful sweet freedom but in-came, another colour, light unlike yet dark it remained, lied to dark like a mosquito it cared little but sapped continuously scrambling on a scale so shameless taking all, eating all, sharing in nothing
in light the other people happily lives in darkness, not of our own doing we live and lick wounds still painful why we had to suffer from all these wrongs what wrong had we done, why us? to deserve this disgusting dehumanisation how are we ever going to heal these lames who should really take the blame?
Headquarters Office of Director Dr. Wang By: Louis Marvin and XY Memorandum: Our #1 priority is the new community. This has to have family first above all things. And with this ideal in mind I do not want families separated or left with no mothers and fathers for extended periods of time. Therefore it is imperative that two things take place at this time. First, we are to get the 4 books commissioned by a children’s author for parents to read to their kids concerning where the family will be working and what they are doing and importance of the work. Second, after safety issues are addressed in the ocean, the moon and Mars, we want temporary schools, daycare, libraries/tech centers, parks for families & pets all in place, along with places of leisure for singles. We will address our seniors at a later date. While the temporary living/education/leisure units are being prepped, I want these children’s books done immediately. Give me an update ASAP. Aloha, Dr. Wang
robert allen beckvall. My Friend the President
By: Robert Allen Beckvall
Before this whirlwind of excitement of work and publicity over the current project, Dr. Wang had enough of a life going on owning a company that did good things and did good in making money for her. She also had her clinic in Honolulu specializing in internal medicine. But, it was her doctorate in urban planning and this “utopian” dream she had that really pressed her buttons. They had announced a dinner that was being put on by Oprah Winfrey for women who are making a difference. Her sludge-bot had cleaned so many messes and had helped in so many disasters, she was rewarded not only with the good the company did, people also liked to give her honors and dinners. She wanted to meet Oprah and she heard that a special guest might be there. She was having some caviar, spilling it on the table and floor, and just being silly when she heard a familiar voice.
“Dr. Wang, I’m Patricia Williams.”
She swallowed the fish eggs and put down her cracker. She turned and was face to face with the President of the United States.
“President Williams. It is my honor mam.”
“I’m the special guest, but Oprah is more famous.”
They both smiled and then laughed.
“Listen, I have to get escorted around by these thugs and meet everyone and their brother. But, maybe later we can get some girl time and have some brandy or something and talk a little shop. Some of the team have read through your proposals on the viability of expanding the world’s horizons. I just finished reading your paper on the plane. I like it. Enjoy the evening.”
She walked off with her Secret Service “thugs”.
Dr. Wang stared after her and said “Thank you”, but the president was long gone. She finished off her champagne and found the cracker she had put down.
The thought of their first meeting made her smile. 18
Now she IM’s with the President like they were longtime girlfriends. Why not her? It was better than blow hard generals and CEOs. IM: How were those cupcakes and tell me about this Johnny Sweet. IM: Great cupcakes, he seems a nice enough guy. IM: You are a hit around the world. Loved the “Don’t fear the tears”. IM: You made it up, but I had to look serious instead of laugh. IM: I was telling the reporters how we are planning the world over tea, etc. IM: What kind of tea Mrs. President? IM: Do you prefer in a cup or saucer like the English? IM: I am heading to the factory to meet that professor from U. of AZ. IM: About the zoos? IM: Zoos, research, animal travel, etc. IM: I have a meeting. Bye. IM: Bye. She poured her gin and mixed it with 7-up. She had taken care of the cupcakes, now only 100 million more things to go. She went back to her E-R-* models and drank a little gin.
jan haskell, mike godell. Life
By: Jan Haskell It felt like early morning as he woke with shadows all around him. It took him a minute to orient himself. His disorientation was half from waking and half from the dream that woke him. It wasn’t the first time he had this dream, the feeling someone - well not just someone - was in his room. It was as if their energy was still there, but as he
focused and looked through the shadows, he was alone. Moving himself was going to be a chore today, at least getting started. He reached over to pull the curtain back and saw that the sun had chosen to stay asleep, a luxury not allowed to him. He checked his clock, 6:30. “Really?” he thought, two hours before he had to be out the door. He reached over, found his pack
of cigarettes in the stillness, but choking one down might take more effort then he wanted to use. Waking up was an option, as was turning over and closing his eyes till the alarm finally forced him to get up. That feeling stayed in his mind, as he fumbled a cig from the pack. “Na, that’s a bad idea,” he placed the smoke in the ashtray. Waking up was not the option he wanted to go for, but sleep, well that might happen. Rolling over, he tried not to think, just closed his eyes and breathed. “It is just going to be one of those days,” he thought as he opened the door. It was an overcast day with pissy rain on and off all day. It was now a question to take a coat (that with out the rain would be too hot to wear) or not to, and take a chance on getting wet. The coat seemed to be the better option, more pockets, and this brought a smile. On good days, he could make the walk to work in 10 or so minutes. On bad days, it could take sometimes 20 minutes to cover the same ground. In the winter, so many things made his feet move more cautious. Unplowed streets and sidewalks were the worst next to the wind. But with all things, you just have to point your head in the direction and make a move, a step, an action; that’s a start. With that, he closed the door and locked it, turned to the walkway, and took a step.
And I thought we were just Multigenerational Mike Godell Acrylic and ink on board 19
teri edlebeck, wayne burke, jenny mudarri. Insight out of sight
He Writes Children’s Books
Yesterday’s spark of insight, Lost its magic today. Then- it was a moment of clarity, Now it got lost in the fog.
“I’m a psychologist,” she says, avoiding eye contact, looking less critical. “What do you do for a living?” She finishes off a whiskey tonic.
By: Teri Edlebeck
The fog… Of inner thoughts, and outer thoughts. Of doubting thoughts. Of thoughts of other people’s thoughts, That they will only think for an instant. No longer than the instant that contained your initial honest, Original, Creative, Life altering thought. The great idea that brought your being into true reality, Only to sail away towards the land of irrelevance and overthinking. Another great idea Lost at sea.
By: Wayne Burke Clam diggers, Ring Dings, Good & Plenty, Tar Babies, Rob and Laura Petrie… I trained my arm to make the long throw from third to first. I was another Brooks Robinson or at least Frank Malzone, though I did not take many balls off my chest because I did not have much of a chest or much of anything… Had a glove handed down from my brother. Had a bed to sleep in. Had a name and so-called family. What else? Had a snowball’s chance in Hell but did not know that then. Did not know much. Knew I wanted to play. Knew I was better than most. Knew a few of the state capitals, and names of some dinosaurs. Knew I was alone: or at least suspected as much. 20
By: Jenny Mudarri
“Well, I write children’s books...mainly small, paperback, mass-produced reissues of the classics.” Small, paperback, mass-produced reissues. She’ll get lost in all the adjectives, he hopes. Small, paperback, mass-produced reissues. He stands nearly six feet tall, sans Italian loafers. His teeth are Stepford-straight, eery in their perfection. He calculates his next move. As a general rule, careercentric conversation can and should be avoided until at least date three, at which point such topics are acceptable. Date three. One through three; safe. “That’s an interesting field, how does one go about getting into children’s books?” An obsessive-compulsive, PhD-wielding sycophant; she acknowledges her own self-loathing and refines her question. An uncomfortable silence of no less than five full seconds passes – one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi. “I mean, it’s not every day you meet someone who writes children’s books. You must be great with kids,” she says. He notices her full hips and red lips; yes, of course, he’s great with children. She orders one ego boost on the rocks and tips the waiter with a wink. He picks up on the subtleties of her gesture and assumes it’s a pass at him.“Truth is, I could never really get into writing any other genre. It didn’t come to me as fast as this did, it just makes sense to write about what you know...there’s a beginning, middle, and end. Same pattern, every time.” “It’s the same basic storyline, just adapted for new characters, plots, etc. In the end, the kids end up entertained,” he throws back the rest of his gin, pointer finger extended. “Or,” he pauses, finger still erect. “Or, the dad leaves the kid’s bedside knowing that he’s fast asleep and that he won’t be climbing into bed with mommy and daddy anytime soon.” He snaps his fingers without looking, knowing confidently that the waiter is near.
jenny mudarri (con’t). “Yes sir, how can I help you?” Rewind. Repeat. Stingy or loose. “I’ll have another one of these,” he rattles the barely-there cubes. “And she’ll take another whiskey.” She nods in agreement as if she was planning on having another all along. She is now. The waiter brings back the drinks. He hopes they’re not stingy. She speaks up. “You know, they say of all writers, the writers of children’s books are by far the most depressed.” “Well, aren’t all writers depressed? If you want to be a writer you need to be depressed, or an alcoholic, or both,” he says while toasting to himself. He attempts to lighten the mood while fighting back urges to end it all at the same time. “They say romantic novelists, for example, write a storyline that ultimately leads towards some sort of acceptance, or happiness, or a resolution, of whatever sort. Even if the protagonist’s lover dies at the end – usually, not always, but usually – the protagonist ends up dying themselves. By natural causes, or sometimes they might even off-themselves, which some might argue is not only acceptance but also ultimately, a form of happiness.” She not only damns herself with each additional word uttered, but also fears for the future of her own career as a psychologist – a psychologist who, apparently and seemingly unbeknownst to herself, believes in suicide, at least in literature. She continues nonetheless. “Sci-fi writers are another example. Those guys are a safe bet! There’s something to be said for robots and aliens and personified inanimate objects; none of those writers are depressed because their characters simply can’t be.”
would relive their childhood willingly. You couldn’t find one. You couldn’t find one single person who would do it all over again.” She’s feeling the whiskey. “What kind of psychologist did you say you were again?” “I didn’t,” she says, looking at him like a mother at her guilty child. “I wasn’t saying you were depressed. I was simply mentioning that they often say the authors of children’s books–” “Who is this ‘they’ you speak of? Psychologist’s Anonymous? We can’t use their names to protect them from all the angry, drunken, depressed children’s authors of the world?” He motions for the waiter.
Rewind. Repeat. “Yes sir, how can I help–”
“Check – now.” He taps the table where the check should be and pulls out his wallet. “Listen lady, I don’t know where you get off...putting people into these little categories, like everyone’s some sort of lab rat.” He pulls out two twenties and puts them on the table. “I wasn’t trying to offend you.” Too late. Too much. Too soon. “It was just a conversation starter, really. That’s all.” “Sure put an end to that conversation,” he says while trying to find the arm of his coat. “When do we meet again?” “Same time next week,” she says, removing the glasses from the bridge of her nose. She rests her pen and paper down on the table. “At my office.” “Alright. Thanks, Doc.” He pushes in his chair and heads for the door. “I’ll see you then.”
He crosses one leg over the other, his black sock exposed. “There are a lot of holes in that argument if you ask me. I’m not depressed, I write children’s books. That’s all there is to it.” He loosens his tie and feels warmth in his throat. Acid reflux. “I mean what’s more depressing than being a kid? I can’t think of anything worse. Name one person who 21
danielle dragona. Trade In My Wings to Fly By: Danielle Dragona
I’m broken, tired, but I’m a phoenix and it’s my duty to rise from this heap of ashes before noon if I’m to make anything significant of myself today. That’s what’s expected from this Egyptian queen, the bird of splendor that glitters gold like the sun drenched Nile of the morning dawn, the jewel of immortality, the essence of rebirth. I’m a living myth, and I have a job to do. That’s what’s anticipated, for me to be reborn in the blazing fires of crimson creation. That’s how the myth has been voiced throughout the generations, told time and again to countless eager ears echoing the hopes of forgotten desires. But, today, I cannot rise, immobilized and motionless, burdened with a heaviness that isn’t rightly mine to bear. Upon waking, prepared to reconstruct my mythological being for all to see, I detected a shattered wing, fractured like a fragile bone, littered with the weighty words said to me, those lethal expectations. They’re crippling. Deadly. It’s impossible to budge under the magnitude of the pressure dumped on me by those who live vicariously, expecting me to die and resurrect myself at will. I’m not Jesus Christ. I’m a bird that doesn’t even exist. This bird is tired, and doesn’t intend to shoot up like a rocket today, doesn’t want to be reborn again to duplicate the cycle. That’s monotonous, and besides, that’s what I’m expected to do. I never wanted to be mythical, an idealized creature of creation. I never wanted to be a preposterous delusion.
I’m real. If you slash me I bleed ruby gems. I have eyes, ears, arms, legs and a heart that cracks like ruptured stone. If you listen you’ll hear me speak. Did you hear that? You have to be quicker than that. I give these encumbering masks that bind me back to you, the veils of shadowed sight. You need them more than I do. I don’t want this façade, this orchestrated masquerade disguised as life, conjured up by the warped brains of human parasites. I’m resilient, strong like the glittering rays of the sizzling sun that burn you like the fire of my reincarnation, creating and destroying simultaneously, in unison. You will not take me. I don’t want to rely on the legend of my own myth to attest to my existence. I want evidence. I want to feel. My whole persona has become so artificial, so surreal, like a mock reproduction of something that once possessed life. I want my tale to die, lay itself to sweet death in the obscure intestines of the earth. I want to fuse with the core of my being that was lost among my ashes a long time ago. Will you let me die in your eyes and recreate myself to my own specifications? I’m not what you want so desperately to believe I am. I was human all along, but no one appeared to notice. Even though I want you to look in my eyes and acknowledge what’s true, I don’t need it anymore. I don’t need you anymore. I don’t want to live forever, immortalized and encapsulated in the infinitesimal grains of time. I’m not a robot, and I’m not a bird either. Who ever saw a bird that can shed tears? I’m not a myth. I’m real.
kelleigh cram, andrew peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE. On Making it all Four Years
By: Kelleigh Cram
Congratulations! You have completed high school, now you are off to college, full of hope and promise, ready to face the world. Or are you? If I had just asked myself that simple question, am I ready for college?, I could have saved myself time, money, and hardship. Society forces the concept that students must go to college immediately after high school, while the knowledge obtained in the past four years is still fresh on their young minds. What society fails to realize is that many young people are not ready for the trials of higher education at eighteen.
You go through college with the expectancy of getting a job, but you must get a job to make it through college. Part time jobs may be hard to find, but most colleges offer on-campus positions to help students. These jobs are much better than off campus jobs, simply because the employers will be more understanding of your class and study needs when you need time off. The best way to make it is to get a job or paid internship in your field of study. For example, a Journalism major could apply for the college newspaper staff. The more experience in your line of work you gain through college, the easier it will be to get jobs in the real world. College is about more than just school. If you learn to master academics with other imperative life skills, you will master all four years of schooling and beyond.
High school prepares you to go to college, which is only half of the higher education experience. The other half, making it as an adult, involves life skills high school fails to cover. You may have the education and intellectual ability, but without the maturity, you will crumble in the first semester. The main components a young adult must master to make it on his own are financial responsibility, self motivation, and job skills. As a teenager, I was blissfully unaware of the ugly side of money: bills. I never paid a bill in my life until I moved out, and unfortunately, neither does the majority of todayâ€™s youth. Even if your tuition has been covered by scholarships, there is still the cost of books, living expenses, etc. Without the knowledge of budgeting, these bills can pile up and suffocate you. The best advice I can give is to make a small investment in getting a financial advisor to teach you how to handle money. It will pay off in the long run, and save you from a whirlwind of stress. High school teachers drill due dates, test dates, study guides, and homework into student brains, something the students often take for granted. They grow to expect it; they have no incentive to study on their own. This poses a problem for todayâ€™s college Freshman. Teachers will no longer baby the students, reminding them of every test, project and assignment. And, worse of all, no more study guides. You must study on your own will, sacrificing the free time we all crave.
Wolvie Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Ink on paper
josh lisiuk, kaleem raja, afzal moolla, dawnell harrison. Fallen Angel
Tears of the Clown.
Slumped and depressed within utopia, grief in the Garden of Eden Tortured by relentless doubt, plagued by a harrowing indecision? Is she really worth the highest treason? He cast his dice, the decisions made, heâ€™s leaving perfection.
A veil of smiles, worn effortlessly.
By: Josh Lisiuk
The verdict to desert heaven, just renounce nirvana and leave the excellence of above All for human woman, all for the influential pursuit of a mortal love, For the messenger imprison by her elegance and captured when she sings, He retires from his place within the cherub choir, Removes his halo and relinquish his golden wings.
By: Afzal Moolla
Tuning out the blurring din, alone in the cackling throng, never hoping to belong, though pining to fit-in. Peeling off the thin facade, feeling the pained charade, melting into the dim parade.
This morose monotony and belated boredom by the flawless infinity Slamming the pearly gates behind him and departing thought purgatory Stood upon the edge of endlessness, Michael and Gabriel chasing in distress Ignoring the virtuous angelic warning calls. He falls. Then plummet from the summit to answer her heart felt prayers Never again to see the golden gaits and the universal crystal stairs
Trickling effortlessly down, over the strained contours,
Falling, fallen, fell He knows he will suffer to the burning fires of hell But He longs to kiss her, Awaken dormant senses to experience the delicate touch of her skin Lost in his deadly desire, to disregard heaven is the ultimate sin To abandon heaven above, All for mortal love, And how do I know this fateful tale, this beautiful story? For I am still waiting for an angel to fall for me.
of a spurious laugh, the tears of the clown,
form an unending cold stream, dissolving the lingering traces, of this simple boyâ€™s dream.
By: Dawnell Harrison The cold moon filters A stark white light Icy wave after icy wave. The silent air thins And thins in this Anesthetized talcum night. Birds have no songs here. The ice on the lake freezes The center of my pain.
The Olf Fort Castle kaleeM rajA Ink on paper 24
kenneth abraham, chris talbot-heindl, alon calinao dy, mandal bijoy beg. Progress?
Song of Insanity
Winters used to bring an abundance of snow, Snowmen, snow forts, sledding and snowball fights……..where did it go? A shooting used to be an anomaly of daily life, Causing all to wonder, how did the situation reach such a level of strife? From November through mid March, frozen lakes were the norm, Joyous hockey games in crisp clean cold air, bundled up nice and warm, “Celebrities” were rare, usually renowned for a reason, Now we nave “Snookie” and other models of mediocrity on TV’s endless trash season, Profanity was taboo; civilized discourse and grammar were widely used correctly, Nowadays I often wish I had earmuffs to protect me! Maybe we’d be better off with less “progress”, and a population reduced by half, That’s fine, call me daft.
I write a song that makes the world crazy I sing a song of insanity People are asking me why I have this kind of melody.
By: Kenneth Abraham
By : Alon Calinao Dy
I sing a song of insanity For those who have lost their values Happiness is not all about money Or the latest technology of gadgets. I sing a song of insanity For the people to open their eyes I make the whole wide world As a beautiful place for God.
What That Man Thinks By: Mandal Bijoy Beg In love Eyes say: Wah, so beautiful ! Ears say: Wah, mellifluous ! Nose says: Wah, so fragrant! Lips say: Wah, flavorous ! And Skin says: Wah, so soft ! But soul ? Soul says: Fie, fie, fie, Mere foolishness ! Mere slavishness ! Obnoxious !
Lifedrawing 3, 4/1/13 Chris Talbot-Heindl Graphite on paper www.talbot-heindl.com 25
andrew peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE, donors, index. artists Abraham, Ken
Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE 4, 16, 23, 26
Spaced Out Andrew Peterson of OVER NIGHT EMPIRE Digital illustration
Beckvall, Robert Allen
Beg, Mandal Bijoy
Dy, Alon Calinao
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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 May 27, 2013
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...