Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Angelus ~ Howie Good


I began this fall by watching a thin red squirrel it would be worth it to go ninety miles out of your way to see. So what shall we do about this angel, broken wing on the left? The smell of piss is what. When I woke up this morning I knew there was horror. It will always be invisible, it will. My friends, still of this world, follow me to the bottom of the river. Suddenly there are hundreds of fishermen on the road.

Every Everything ~ Howie Good


The needle goes in / never pausing to narrate / just like the 9-year-old at Joy Farm firing an Uzi / the pretty young maidens / eat a pear in the French manner / jamming a fork in the top / & cutting chunks from the sides / the ghostly traces of a past life / every day for three years / drawing new maps of hell / in the French manner  / intimately / with a scalpel / & he who says doesn’t know  / & she who knows doesn’t say / that once it goes in / the wolf in the heart never comes out

Bergasse 19 ~ Howie Good


The sexperts are bewildered as to what’s causing the rattle in the production line of happiness. Others say it’s Freud who established a great emporium, a sort of museum of human misery, with parents and broken dolls and old crumbling shadows arranged according to the laws of chance. By coincidence, you’re visiting a city that claims to be Kafka’s birthplace, his name, or something that at least looks like it, carved on the trees. As you act the tourist throughout the afternoon, De Kooning’s women, all pink flesh and piranha teeth, rear up around you, and ash borrowed from crematoria shapes itself into extravagant justifications of future suffering.

Bureaucratic Pathologies ~ Howie Good


Admittance requires your supervisor’s signature, the dust from another planet, dolphins that spout music, obscure, anxious errands (sticking stamps on letters you’ll never mail or spending the end of August at the Hotel Ozone), photos of naked women in strange positions, half your autobiography, a belief that the day is longer than the night, and that night is the machine that makes everything disappear – the Paris of Toulouse-Lautrec, manifestos, conceptions of space, regrets, the punk era, hat check girls, you.

La Petite Mort ~ Howie Good


There was a crimson hearse / ask anyone / & before we could cover our eyes / rubble had appeared everywhere / it isn’t just a theory / common household vapors / can actually get you high / what WebMD knows / how to heal a cut tongue / the toxicity of speech / can’t be taught / swish your mouth / with something intangible / we have liftoff /  our flesh inside & out / zebra-striped at so many feet per second

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Footnotes ~ Sue Birchenough


1.  this pure Labour lineage  But far more influential was the power of commerce to deliver the free-market
gothic was architecture convinced it could influence.       It was infused      It became untethered        later it was adopted, for romantic reasons
when Victoria was on the throne, movements often arose
 

2.  there's a lot of it
I know more of some of it than you
you know more of some of it than me
 

3.                          paint brown trickling steam
                             runs into mosaic breaks ov
                             er time drops off in little pla
                             stic curls gunge compresse
                             d death from the softening
                             rigid silent long  ing to melt
                             on deep searching tongues
 

black gunge compressed death(sheet) mimics deathrings millimetres thin
      

(i) too numerous to mention bloody nuisance also
           useful
      

(ii) sloshing ecstacy of easy greed
 

4.   I can see you, DOOR !

Left Luggage ~ Sue Birchenough


future is
          over
  there
in my gut
     within
            fingertips
                        stretch out
                                        out beyond
                                            I know
                                            an other
                                            some days
                                            far corner                                                 corner    right moment
                                                                   before
                                                                 tongue’s tip on
                                                                        step by..........
                                                                      infront of
                                                                      shoulder
                                                                 broad shoulder





Sue Birchenough lives in Buxton, Derbyshire, and regularly attends workshops and readings in Manchester. She has poems in English PEN anthology 'Catechism', the Peter Barlow press anthology 'No Spy Zone', and the forthcoming Like This press anthology 'Austen, Bronte, Shakespeare'. She has a poem/object accepted for zimZalla. She was Highly Commended in 2014 Erbacce poetry competition. She has a sound poem accepted by Alan Halsey and Martin Archer for their antichoir Juxtavoices.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

submissions

SUBMISSIONS

We are glad to be able to accept new submissions from September 2014.
 

Thank you for your patience.

theredceilings@gmail.com


BADLANDS OF THE REAL, PETER DENT
Available soon...

http://www.theredceilingspress.co.uk/

Tim Allen's Default Soul reviewed

Default Soul by Tim Allen

Steve Spence ponders Default Soul over at Rupert Loydell's wonderful Stride Magazine

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Gleams & Fractions ~ Colin Winborn

Excellent new limited edition chapbook now available on the Red Ceilings Press

Gleams & Fractions by Colin WinbornCan seeing be seen? Can the unseen? Colin Winborn’s poems and sequences tussle with these possibilities, these paradoxes until they appear to turn themselves inside out in front of us. This is a vantage-point: the resulting affective echo-chambers seem to see from - and to speak out of - writing itself. The very first line of this new chapbook asks ‘If you can find a language for this’. He does.” –
Rob Stanton

chapbook [rcp cb30], A6 60pp 30 copies
£8.00 inc. p&p (UK)
http://www.theredceilingspress.co.uk/