Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
There are copies of the book at Amazon now here.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Here's the full list, prose by John Oliver Hodges, Gillian Taber, Christopher Nosnibor, Michael Ray Laemmle, Pablo Vision, Christian Roberts, Adrian Ludens, Kevin P. Keating.
And so called poems, which is a sort of writing very like prose with enthusiastic line breaks, by Gary Beck, Darryl Salach, Joseph Reich, Patience Wieland, Geoff Stevens, Jack Henry, James S. Wilk, David McLean, Rob Plath, Felino Soriano, Ernest Williamson III, Robert S. King.
Also an interview with Gregory L. Hall
Friday, September 12, 2008
The Kitchen is Closed
chapbook review by David McLean
published by and available from http://deadbeatpress.com/Store.html
This is one of many books and chapbooks available from the almost irritatingly prolific Misti Rainwater-Lites, and IMHO it is one of the best, by her or anyone. This because she is in the process of perfecting her use of language so that her drunken boasts about being better than Anne Sexton are starting to come true. The control of words is quite astonishing in this collection. And the subject matter is the exigencies of day to day living in a crack whore shack in the face of a hurricane, but it could be heaven and hell and the apocalypse.
“Death is my newest distant lover.
I crook my finger. i bite my bottom lip. I wink.
He's leaving me to my bony thorny burn writhe fume
He knows I suck at blowjobs”
The whole voice and persona Misti has developed is very courageous, she takes the small tribulations she experienced, then, in her upbringing in the name of that cannibal suicide visionary Jesus the jerk-off God who defiles so many kids' tiny lives, and, now, in a country where they obviously believe that Jesus is basically OK but abortion and Arabs aren't. In the poem quoted above Misti discusses problems with food account balances and selling baby clothes on southeasttexas.com. Like she says, these poems are about being mad as Howard Hughes without his billions of exculpating pence, about trudging through the sludge of self-loathing.
You need to buy this book if you are, like me, happy to be a-normal, or if you are some normal bastard who wants to congratulate herself on her boring normalcy, or even if you just like poetry. Because Misti is obviously one of the best. Because we are all spiritually bereft; there is no spirit, and Misti's poetry teaches us how to live without it.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
By the way, you can now download and save a copy of the excellent Macaber Cadaver here as pdf.
I just received the chapbooks by Rob Plath and Misti Rainwater-Lites from deadbeatpress. Great books and I shall post a review of Rob today, Misti tomorrow. Good luck with the hurricane by the way, Misti.
edit: Now I'm really pissed off, putting it on the shelf in the Plath section (male), I noticed I already bought that fucker from Rob but obviously forgot to read the fucker, let alone review. Never mind. Now I can read it twice.
there's a little hobo in my heart who forever gives the finger to humanity
RS Plath/ black book madness www.deadbeatpress.com/Śtore.html
chapbook review by David McLean
This new product on the consumer market is one of many by Mr Plath, and it's one of his best. I love the thought of the demons in his head scrawling their anti-life slogans on his skull and making him write poems. And though Rob presents a world view that is pretty negative there is positivity here, he dreams in his nasty apartment, he sees more beauty in his world than other “aesthetes” see in their fucking sunsets and mother-loving glimpses into dead granny's eye.
Awareness of death and the feel of the weight of the sweaty balled feet pressing down on the stolid concrete, knowledge of how unspeakable our insides are, the stupid bones and the flesh around them just waiting to decay, that's what gives Plath the power to write words that are not a complacent mantra that basically reinforces the capitalist heterosexist status quo. And there is a certain moral superiority in this way of looking at things, no illusions, “my brain is an uncleaned latrine.” His poetry “knots nooses out of rainbows and hangs unicorns.”
Ultimately, the impetus behind the verse is existential. I mean, life is shit, the human condition sucks, we die and that's forever, everybody wants to survive death and nobody will. Rob is smart enough to see that one can take a certain satisfaction in phlegmatically coughing up a nice lump of phlegm. It's better than nothing. Not a lot, but it is.
There should be more corpses in poems, or at least nasty little hobos who know that their future is as a corpse. And nothing more. Angels are just there for the raping, for the devils' entertainment. Nice one Rob. It's on sale at www.deadbeatpress.com. Do buy it.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Whistling Shade is free around the Twin cities, and if you want a copy you can order four copies for only eight dollars if you live elsewhere in Ye Olde Great Satan. Details here. I would do so since they have good work in there, plus very entertaining columns by Dylan Garcia-Wahl, Joel van Valin, and others.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Here's a review
The most striking thing about Humphrey Astley's new collection of poems is that the young whippersnapper is evidently writing just poems. Identifiably so, where words are treated like a rare and antique coinage, working out the histrionic mysteries of naming, where they denote poetically, detonate semantically, and alert the reader to beauty, whatever that is. The verbal content is phenomenally well-handled, people say that they hone poems a long time. Generally speaking one wonders why, Humphrey however does the same thing and does it to good purpose. His works do what other poems purport to do. I quote briefly a brief one about Trakl
He bore witness to the accident,
and at stretchers, breathing gunpowder,
soiled his artist’s hands
tending wounds delivered by no god.
Saint Georg of the Hoary Ordure!
Born with glass eyes, glass eyelids, too;
poet-apothecary, dead at twenty-seven,
the age of man.
And that's it. In its entirety. The man who didn't dare cash the huge Wittgensteinian check perfectly captured.
The title is a reference, I suppose, to the place of pussy as a token of exchange in a poetic economy that is marked male, remarquably so. The inappropriately propriative Leonardo eye that functions, however, properly in arrogating to itself its poetic property. The psyche, Psyche, (a young lady) its self. Other meanings of tender are objectionable. “I want warmth and tenderness” she said, in a Swedish joke. “Ok,” he replied, vigorously driving her face into a radiator.
Who are the happy, and what the fuck is
This is how we assemble: shared aversions
stirred together. But this is no life,
on a punctuation mark
Briefly, Humphrey's poems are metaphysical in the old literary sense, the best sense. They are also exquisitely worked through, often very beautiful. I am probably wholly wrong in assessing their intent, but what the fuck, you pays your money and you takes your choice. In fact, at Lulu you takes your choice whether or not to pay, it's a free download or a real book, for legal tender, here. Maybe you could get a few copies for a good woman.
Some people are afraid to use PayPal. There is no reason for this. But people in Sweden can pay directly to my stupid bank. If they know me and can ask for it that is. The chances are 90 million against that anyone here who doesn't know me wants to buy it. Anyway, here's the link.
Now, I'm off to offer my services to woodland critters in the forest here. I could swear that the frogs here croak "Hail satan!"
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
I've started to really appreciate living in our cottage here, it's cool. Though cold in the mornings when I wake up. It means that I have a harder time writing mails though until we get internet fixed properly in a while. Just now I am using wireless, which really gets on my nerves.
I just put up a postbox anyway so when I get them I shall be posting reviews of Misti Rainwater-Lites' and Rob Plath's new collections from deadbeat press. Soon I shall be fetchign copies of my pushing lemmings and sending to anyone who wants to order, these can be ordered either by mailing me if you know the address, from erbacce at the link on the right, where you can also order the chapbook a hunger for mourning, or at PayPal below in this blog. Cadaver's dance is also on sale at Alibris at the link on the right or at Amazon, where it is often out of stock.