Thursday, November 11, 2021

Glorious Abandon! By Randall Rogers

 

Mystify your world

look for souls you’d

want to go to heaven with

and drink with them

love them

toast them

share truths

and insanity with them

boast

as brothers

fight

spend time

in sweet inebriation

drunk


with their wives

in carnal knowledge

with them

hold dear to


mystery to

define them

in alcoholic shining armor!


enhance amber clarity to

obtain

position in their

thought where they

rest assured

come fortune or naught

failure or success

grounding of a middling

stifling drudgery life


or cognitive tempest

sex with you

is the answer

too all will be well….

With another round.








He is Randall Rogers, visionary poet of the prairie.  A cowboy, yea, a beatnik; a Beatnik Cowboy.  He is an old young, sorry.  Here he exhibits new work.  More flashes in the pan.  I hope the world, nay, you editor, approveth of seeth/something here. (Currently reading "Pilgrim's Progress")  Adios!  I kind of reworked these to work in booze but they are total virgins (never put out).

Sunday, October 31, 2021

Tell Me Everything by Susan Isla Tepper

Sundays, liquor is scarce in these parts.  Inside a dusty cabinet in his kitchen, one sticky bottle of Kahlua leftover from the year of the flood.  I come down the porch steps with the bottle.  “Who drinks this stuff?” I say.

    “People do, people do.”  On the lawn chair in burnt grass he’s baking himself.

    “If you weren’t so mean to people, you could’ve gotten Jerry to bring a bottle of gin over, Sunday or no Sunday.”

    “He can go to hell.”

    “See.  That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

    He pulls the straw hat over his face to blot me out.

    That big row with Jerry over anti-semitism, neo-Nazis, and guys with bald heads and no facial hair.  They almost came to blows.

    Jerry is bald with no facial hair.  He doesn’t shave it, he has a medical condition called alopecia.  When everything erupted, I tried explaining that but it fell on dead ears.

    “You could stop by the liquor store, the back door is open for inventory.  Explain to Jerry that you’re sorry, you meant nothing personal.  Just that you’re uptight all the time with so much violence.  You don’t know which end is up.”

    My desire for a gin and tonic has reached that level of desperation, that I’m feeding him lines.

    “Is that so?” is all he says.

    Sitting up he flings the straw hat.  Ranger, his dog takes off after it.  “Tell me everything,” he says. “All your new men.  I want to know names, dates, places.”

    “Are you with the FBI?” I say, trying to make a joke.  Except it isn’t a joke and will never be. Even a heartless tough guy like him feels pain, I suppose. 

    “Another iced tea?” I say.

    His lemon slice looking dismal in the glass empty of liquid. 

    “Tell me everything,” he says again.  “Or I’ll kill you.”

    Where shall I begin? Which country?

    



Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.


Sunday, September 5, 2021

Two Different Females Dressed in Red, 1992, 1973 by John Doyle

Purity - 1992

Crowds scraped our streets in hassled feet,
the master-race looming;
one was a strawberry blooming in Hell's garden -
one is all we need, the Rabbi told me, 
look at Heaven glowing through this soot -
shining, everlasting.
Then came the piled-up meat, the red within - 
no more than a stagnant river. 
All these dreams fell like waterfalls from our heads,
trampled on by sanguine streets. 
But look at the beauty, Mrs. Horowitz said, 
all light is everlasting

Evil - 1973

Italia, roasting into the night, 
black like the coal-crisp inferno;
water was his enemy back home, his baby girl
limp like a towel across a door; now she's running
from the screams, from his dreams, 
a halo round his senses; behind the firm logic of steel
there's no getting through,
they tell us don’t look now, not ever;
and so it's the ugliness that prevails - ugly, grotesque -
sin in its favoured colours, sin coloured like his throat




 John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.



Wednesday, September 1, 2021

SPLEEN by Susan Isla Tepper

In a plain white number 10
I mailed you my spleen
shrunk to the size of a penny
after all this death
and inescapable
inexplicable misery.
Spleen is spleen
and some people carry it
proudly and righteously
favored possession
ripe and bulging
bursting with puss
straight to their raging end.


Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.

Wednesday, August 11, 2021

Born a rocker die a rocker by Nick Gerrard


Lee was a rock and roller even at 12 years old. Our school played his school at footy and there was this guy; lanky body and flowing locks, socks rolled down and he was doing flicks and step overs and nutmegs long before Ronaldo was born. We were plodders and hoofers and were told by our coach to nobble the flashy little fucker on the wing. We tried but couldn’t get near him and he took the flying tackles and punches in his stride. We lost 3 nil he scored all three goals. 

Later we went to the same high school and played on the same team and we became friends. 

A lot of people didn’t like him cus he was flash, except the girls of course, but I like his panache, I was a bit that way myself so we hit it off. I remember going on bike trips a lot and playing football of course and scrumping apples from farmers or a little stealing from the paper shop where we worked delivering newspapers in the mornings before school. 

One summer we were allowed to go camping alone for the first time, we were about 13. Me and Lee and the Roberts brothers went to a campsite near Evesham; a riverside holiday town not far from Brum. The Roberts’ were expert thieves and we hit the small town for knives, and a record shop that sold some punk singles and on our best day Nigel Roberts walked out of store with a whole fucking bike! Like I said…top thieves.

Punk had arrived and me and Lee grabbed it with relish. Here was something new, something different. We had both never quite fitted in with the soul crowd, the pub and factory brigade…we wanted out! So it came at just the right time for us. We had our own little punk club, the Irish club and lee was the singer of course in one of the first bands we all formed at 14. And up there on that stage he took all the flash from the footy and posed around; for me a perfect front man. 

Punk was all about doing things different, we were offered no chances to be someone or something from school or parents. There was no University waiting for us, just a factory, a wife and kids and beer and footy. We wanted more and punk gave us the chance to aim higher; to look for other things to become. Looking back at that little den of thieves and strays and outsiders, you can see what came out of the punk DIY ethos. Some became politicians, some fashion designers some professors of sociology, some writers and it was all thanks to punk. And Lee became a rocker, for life!

His story is a mixed one, one of failures, downs and almost there’s.  But it is a story of a kid from the streets of Kiddy who sang his way around the world and had a lot of success. But it is one also littered with almost made it big moments. And he is quite famous, a well known rock and roller in the niche circles of rock, and he touched the stars but never quite managed to hang on. But the question is was he a success? Depends on how you measure success really. Let us look back and try and piece this thing together.

The stories are many so I’ll summarise for you. 

His second band were more post-punk and did well headlining with Pop Will Eat Itself and the Wonderstuff who later signed for Chapter 22 records…Lee told Chapter to fuck off! At the time his sister had died in an accident on a horse and he sat at her gravestone drinking ‘OI! God! Why did you kill my sister you cunt!’ The band could have been big; they got more support slots with The Alarm and Spear of Destiny but Lee just told A and R men to fuck off. Why? That’s another good question. His state of mind, his punk ethics or something else?

The band got another chance. After a gig in Brum a big record company guy offered to sign them. This was it! But the guy drank Lee’s beer and he said ‘Listen cunt nobody drinks my beer.’ The guy left; they signed the Cult instead. The band signed for a minor label and got some cash, but it went the usual rock and roll route. After getting a thousand pound payment after two days in London and breaking his cock (Did you know you can break your cock?) He arrived back in Kiddy with a mike stand and some great stories although fairly blurred. 

The band fell apart; two of its members, brothers, later committed suicide. Was the cost of failure to become famous the cause? 

I had been in a few bands myself but got sidetracked by politics and travel and adventure. But, Lee’s dream was to make it, so he trudged on!

He formed the Ice babies and became part of the Soho Rock, Glam sleaze scene. And this band went more commercial, Lee really went for it, to finally make that breakthrough. And that scene was a wild scene of late night clubs and early morning bars and coke and groupies and orgies. And that band split and White trash was formed again a record deal was got and support to Lords of the New Church and Hanoi Rocks followed as did even more debauchery on the road and around Soho.

And the women came; Angie Bowie and then Jane Dickenson ex-wife of Iron Maiden’s singer. She took Lee to LA where they indulged in drug and drink fuelled nights with car crashes and head bashes and waking up with cowboy boots and hat in a bath after a threesome. 

The LA scene was toxic, guns and toots and boozing and loots. 

The band broke up and a broken Lee left to save himself and went with a penniless Spanish girl and moved the Zaragoza. He drifted into the Gypsy Barrios and mixed it with flamenco guitarists and gangsters and formed a new band; The Last gang. Tours followed supporting the Ramones and Motorhead. They got thrown off the Ramones tour for doing pistols covers after being asked not to. 

And coke and speed filled nights with Lemmy and his Jack, until he got pissed and told him to ‘get rid of that fucking wart you cunt!’

So, back to the UK and White trash UK was formed and Lee got the closet yet to signing a major deal. One hour before the guy who was about to sign them, he lost control of the company. More tours followed with big bands and fights with Slash and more drugs and groupies. Living the rock and roll lifestyle mannnn! They had a minor record deal and radio play and MTV appearances but again didn’t quite make the top.

The music business is a rigged game. And Lee for some reason tried to play the game but something always bugged him enough to fuck it up just at the wrong moment. His punk ideals? His just fucking stupidity or again was there something else underneath the surface going on?

Then in 2003 the last roll of the dice! The Gypsy Pistoleros- they got an instant tribal, loyal following.

The sound was flamenco in a head on collision with punk/rock riffs, pounding bass and thrashing drums. The songs span madly in the best rock 'n' roll tradition! With big hooks, attitude, and sleaze. Yet those flamenco breaks got into your head and refused to leave.

This mongrel offspring of fiery flamenco passion and gritty gutter glam, the Gypsy Pistoleros were born roamin' somewhere between Barcelona and Birmingham, brought into the world to a soundtrack stack-heeled anthems of sleazy '70s America. Standing alone in musical ancestry and slum sound, they were one one of those most rare acts who honestly could claim the tag 'unique'.

They headlined at festivals in the US and made a few albums. Again never really making it mega big but big enough I think. Then there were splits and conflicts and Lee took up acting appearing in a few minor B movies and some great theatre productions. This culminated in his 30-day one man show at the Edinburgh festival. A rock and roll suicide. A big hit. 

In the meantime he was diagnosed with ADHD and a borderline personality disorder.

The questions arise; are these things that made him fuck things up or the things that enabled him to do so much? I believe they are just a part of his personality, maybe they made him be a rock and roller for forty odd years; made him able to get up on that stage whether singing or acting. Did he fuck things up? Yeah of course but that was part of the punk spirit that lived in him. Did he make it? Yeah, of course he did…he performed for years, doing something he loved and believed in. But he never made it famous? What is fame? And who gives a fuck anyway…he did what all we wee punks did...he got himself out of the shithole direction that our lives were destined to follow. Did his disorders fuck him up or his chances of fame? Maybe, but then again so what? The Pistaleros have reformed have a new album out and are gigging again, not a final throw of the dice but a continuation of a spirit living life his way and to the full and living the punk dream. Born a rocker die and rocker. 






Nick writes Gritty realism or social realism or as he likes to say 'Working-class kitchen sink drama! ‘ His short stories, flash, poetry and essays have appeared in various magazines and books in print and online. Nick has five books published available on Amazon and elsewhere. His short novel out last year, Punk Novelette is all about a group of friends growing up with punk in the 70s in the UK and the effect the movement had on their lives. His latest short story collection is Called Struggle and Strife; fifteen short stories covering the political and personal struggles of today, yesterday, and the future. Stories of casual workers, holocaust survivors, refugees, slum dwellers, and trade unionists. Tales of protests and fight-backs against oppression, and the daily battles of ordinary people. https://nickgerrardauthor.wixsite.com/books

Wednesday, August 4, 2021

My Mug By Stephen Jarrell Williams


I like my mug with plenty of pollutants

A squirt of lava from Mount St. Helens

A tablespoon from Peter's morning after



Because coffee and Coke are now illegal

The one world government's latest decree

Led by someone called the Anti-Bottle



Shorelines of sea and rivers burning

From all the dumping of alcoholic beverages

Lit by the pyromaniacs with firecracker fingers



No steaks or burgers allowed worldwide

All cattle exterminated

For we the common people are now the cattle



And even if you like milk you can't drink it

All cow utters have been amputated

And corks have been crammed up their rears



Yes I like my mug with plenty of pollutants

The way this world is going

We're all heading for a mouth full of gargling.









Stephen Jarrell Williams was the founder and editor of Dead Snakes. He loves to write late into the night, looking forward to The Coming Good Dawn. He has published over a thousand poems in back rooms and castle peaks.

Thursday, July 22, 2021

Proposed Monologue for Philip Seymour Hoffman - Should He Arise From the Dead by John Doyle

Everyone knew who Venus was,
a telegraph pole gliding on a lake
in Oriental sheets of fragrance and Apache sundown morse code,
hey tic tac toe.
Everyone knew her
save for the kids playing pool on Chooseday,
who stood in between the wires
looking for fish, firing alibis at the moon.
This is Saturday. Saturday the Nineteenth day of when. 
I look at the unfinished world, the half-built planet
and God's plans for a lazy Sunday, lawnmowers, orange juice,
a postcard Venus sent from Eurasia. The stamp we soaked in water, 
removed like a true-blue surgeon - it may be valuable.
Hanging up my coat, I ask my wife where Venus might be right now,
she gave me a phone number I recognised, 
and the buildings across the sky
shook like little boys grabbing fish in their bare hands;
but it stung so much, all that petrol in the lake,
the words of failure wedged in a telegraph pole above,
with Venus filling her cheeks like a hamster
chewing words that by-passed the moon.
The moon had a postage stamp on it,
passing from galaxy to galaxy like a cotton-suited whore



John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.

He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.