Here are some chapbooks we like. Maybe this will make you read them.
The End of Waste and The Harrowing Halychyna by Curtis Jensen
Self-published. See curtisinterruptus.blogspot.com.
Poems: Welcome to the greatest “zine” moments of the year. The typos do not detract from the enjoyment of this chapbook. Obsessive editing can be really annoying anyway. Sandbox in Hell V1.2 is a great poem; coupled with the visuals of cow/boar/horse/deer skulls creates a "bad-ass" feeling.
Construction: Feels like a skate/punk/straight-edge/vegan recipe zine your little brother photocopied at Kinkos back in high school. Probably goes well with Black Flag or Gorilla Biscuits. Deer skulls a-plenty.
SANDBOX IN HELL VI.2
You are Sisyphus,
Not pushing the rock, but in the sandbox.
Really not many likenesses except that
Whatpowers may be have doomed you here,
From now until the rest of whatever.
The trick is that there’s nothing under
This sandbox, nothing but a way out
Six inches beneath your big dumb feet,
Nothing but a change of scenery.
You’ve geen given a flat-nosed shovel.
You’re on your hands, you’re on your knees.
You’ve choked way up the shovel-handle:
You could cut through the ceiling below.
Maintaining the level sand around you,
You are diligent in senseless effort;
You motor your perpetual doom;
You are in this eternity, youre in it
On your hands and on your knees;
You bring about your own impulsion,
You’re in the sandbox with yourself
Till all the lights at last go out,
Til maybe even after that.
Whether your sandbox surface lays plumb
Has no bearing on your place in torment.
You being you, you’re there with yourself.
Aquarius Rising by Ben Fama
Poems: If Baudelaire had been a new agey hipster he would have written some of these poems. One of the poems is titled "Glitter Pills." After a quick Google search we found out glitter pills are pills that you take if you want your stool to sparkle like a mirror ball at a discothèque. We imagine the affect to be similar to consuming Aquarius Rising.
Construction: It’s very beautiful; made by Ugly Duckling Presse. Hand-sewn binding.
To live a serious life
that’s a fucked up thing
I would have to rent out a cabin
beneath terrible angels
if I get old wipe the dust off my tits
I should have a serious log cabin
the cabin’s name is Ben Fama
find directions on the internet
when you want to leave you can
I’ll stay there just me and my heart
bigger than the sun
Construction: Dude, where’s the rest of my book?
<These are no longer available due to Wrath of Dynasty are extremely limited editions. No copies will exist in two weeks because they will disintegrate. Such is the passage of time. But here are youtube trailers of Hoy's and Wells' chapbooks. >
younger men, twinks
(active) analingus, ass play
cowboys, farmers, laborers
leather, chaps, boots, denim
Latin, Miditerranean boys
role-reversal, virgin bottos
backrooms, sex clubs
(active) body worship
heavy (active) b + d
straight men, bisexuals
cock rings, piercings, pumps
body fluids, watersports
(active) lite torture
waifs, wastrels, prostitutes
Maggie Wells, Pluto
This photo says everything I want to say about life. The entire
canvas is the sky. Everybody’s ass looks amazing. These bathing
suits are from all eras combined. How the four of them are facing
each other their hands on their hips. Except for the one touching
her thigh in defiance. This is a dramatic moment. Something
permanent is being decided here. The tiny airplane entering the
frame like an accident. This is where time is born.
Dan Hoy, Polaroid
Someone Else’s Wedding Vows by Bianca Stone
(Argos Books, 2010)
Poems: The Truth About Brains is they taste horrible. Have you ever tried brains? They taste horrible. Bianca Stone seems to approach poem writing one at a time and thoughtfully. We’re laughing at ourselves we as we write this but seriously.
Construction: This includes pleasing illustrations of wedding accoutrements. Hand-sewn binding.
The Truth About Brains
God formed man of the dust of the ground,
breathed in the breath of life—though
unto his brain he stretched a horn.
Good idea. I am a rhinoceros of thought.
But I want to be like the jellyfish,
or a sponge without any nervous system at all.
I am sad. In the pockets of Detroit,
GM has employees driving cars away.
And the lots are empty
except for those radiant puddles
of fluid, as if the cars wet themselves as they went—
afraid or nervous or perhaps hostile.
The sponge can grow back where it is broken.
I can, too. I eat cereal all day
and grow everywhere like a bush.
The stomach is the brain’s dumb buddy.
Tell me something useful right now.
I am a free-floating mammal
under the budding medusa of the frontal lobe.
I have a lot of good ideas.
I write them down. I should patent them.
I smell tangerine
on the tips of my fingers—
It is the brain’s good advice to smell this.
Eat of this, the stomach says.
And the brain is a naked old man
crouched in the skull, growling back:
I have meat that ye know not.
Bianca Stone, Someone Else's Wedding Vows
by Ben Mirov and Amy Lawless
Ben Mirov is the author of Ghost Machine, Caketrain, 2010 and I is to Vorticism, New Michigan Press, 2010. He is poetry editor of Lit Magazine.
Amy Lawless is author of Noctis Licentia, Black Maze Books, 2010.