Thursday, August 14, 2014



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

Thank you for your patience.

Available soon...

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)

Friday, July 11, 2014

anyone for anymore ~ rufo quintavalle

Excellent new free ebook available on the Red Ceilings Press website

anyone for anymore by Rufo Quintavalle

Rufo Quintavalle
is a British poet based in Paris. He is the author of Weather Derivatives (Eyewear Publishing, 2014), moral hazard and the chemical sweats (corrupt press, 2013), Dog, cock, ape and viper (corrupt press, 2011), Liquiddity (Oystercatcher Press, 2011) and Make Nothing Happen (Oystercatcher Press, 2009). He was formerly the poetry editor for the webzine, Nthposition, and has served on the editorial board of the Paris-based literary journal, Upstairs at Duroc.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Submissions ~ Temporary break

Due to a larger than expected number of submissions over the past weeks and due to other pressing commitments (and a holiday) , I can no longer accept any new submissions for the blog, chapbooks or ebooks until August at the earliest. I will update the blog and website ( when the situation changes.

Thank you for your patience whilst I work my way through the current backlog and thank you for your interest in being published by the Red Ceilings.

Crabtree ~ Tom Jenks


Excellent new limited edition chapbook ~ Crabtree by Tom Jenks 

"Crabtree reads like a cross between Mercian Hymns and Viz, as if Barry MacSweeney’s Ranter has saddled up with Johnny Vegas for a night at the end of Blackpool Pier. Crabtree is a thumbnail guide to a very contemporary England: we never drive far through these umbrous hills before coming to a Travelodge. As the audience delights in the frolics, Jenks, Albion’s greatest surrealist, is found finetuning his metrical gifts : at least that was his excuse for taking longer in the shower. Through the humour of the sequence the shadiness of our times is revealed. I’ll carry mine as a pocket-sized Magna Carta to swat back the saturation of all extraneous data" – Chris McCabe 

chapbook [rcp cb29] A6 48pp 35 copies
£7.00 inc. p&p (UK)

Friday, May 30, 2014

Aquaviva Climb ~ Andrew Spacey

Creeping mists, an evolving pantheon
of Italian shadows that play and whisper
peak by peak, son by son. It hangs near
and far, inhalation steam of minds.

Hair is moist in visiting clouds, a smothering
shuts out trivia. We want to tickle these giants
the trembling ones, white and loose as whores.
They wait posing in blissful sunsets, potent

crusts pastel washed or smouldering as six nuns
ecstatic extras ghost past scrub beech
having kissed graffitid rock. I am a personal blur
to them despite Roccamagiore's beef tomatoes

bulging in pockets. Lift all curtains. Delicious
seascapes to the east but not today. No fine
tuned trees. The travertine is cracked, tumbling.
A falcon mopes timing his limits of flesh

and bone through meshes of fine grey.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Chamber Klezmer Punk Folk Waltz in A Minor ~ Peter Cole Friedman

Don't fuck with that bullshit.
I'm the kind of allergy that doesn't care.
If it's a happy thing, just pluralize it.
Obviously this is an act.
Literally millions of skies are forming in my mouth.
Congeal makes it sound planned.
A small hummingbird weeping for everyone.
Birds can't cry in 3D.
For my birthday, give me my past.
Hall and Oates knew a thing or two
about hair product.
I'm not informationally sound.
I bleep myself constantly.
There was a forest
and we lied about it
with concrete. I have a jumbo feeling
that I'm on a menu and you're ordering
the number next to me.
You'd be surprised how many fossils you can buy
on eBay. I asked a girl if I could
get her a strawberry milkshake
and she said 'strawberries are yucky you lose.'
Ah, to be beside your own synecdoche.
There is no redemption
in this life.
That was a question.
Bending the rainbow:
an average task for Ridiculists.
I learned most of what I know from Harry Potter spells.
You're not wrong to ignore me.
In the center of the earth
there is a small gender-neutral ladybug
drinking picklebacks.
You need only look to find the answer
to the answer key. There are literally millions
of answer keys in my mouth.
I hate wide kissing.
A tessellation for your time.
A real ghost of a guy.
The utensils all looked like hands
so he ate them.
Cannibalism is a national treasure
in my heart.
Nothing is official.
I'm writing to you in a totally normal state.
I write the most avant garde shit
out of any of you persimmons.
I didn't know he was actually a persimmon. Tell him I'm sorry.
No that sounds impersonal.
Persimmon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
If you cross me again, I'll eat you.
Have you read Li-Young Lee's poem where he uses you
as a metaphor for a vagina?
I am the most well misread person.
Keep the markups coming.
Wheelchair by Dior. Casket by Chanel.
Morgan Freeman is narrating something quotidian
and I have a life-affirming boner.
My ex-girlfriend is listening to Patsy Cline on Spotify.
What could be sadder to me.
Maybe it's not too late to make everyone fall in love with my flaws
I think in a problematic way.
I'm going to start stealing weapons
from action figures. Little empowerments.
I need to teach myself ESL.
Need vs. want is a false dichotomism.
A cloud for a cloud.
Give me one reason to stay here.
What about music, Tracy Chapman?
What about the late 90s?
I'm using you as a sounding board.
Let's let Li Young Lee use us both.
As we were.
A catalog, a list, a cluster of related categories, etc.
I only want a little bit.
I gave everyone in Vogue a mustache except you.
That was a love poem.
A pain in my side is revealing itself slowly
to be my love
for pain. I never got the whole
thorns & roses metaphor.
Big deal. Bleed.
No, believe me, as an unreliable narrator, I totally understand.
Literally kazillions of lollipops later
and I still taste your saliva.
We're all so gross.
How long does it take you to call the hotel home?
Before you take a picture of the moon
do you ask? Do you say, say cheese?
No wonder the gloom.
Rae Armantrout is giving a conference on arms and trouts.
I heard it's pretty silent.
Ugh, you probably already know everything.
The secret to getting your hands to stop smelling like garlic
is to let yourself chill for 3-4 weeks.
None of us have jobs.
Oprah demanded I leave this part in.
No, I don't remember that scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
The neural pathways are already so narrow why
make your poetry dance even smaller?
Science is dead.
Science is a little pink balloon, anyway, so why should you care?
So, if it ends, it's meaningless?
I'm not following my autocorrects.
A worshiper of an oilspill of sunset.
A sunset revised as darkness.
Sunsets are good for the environment.
Go paperless.
Go ham.
Go home or go big.
Those are my favorite teams.
It's not opposite day.
The hotel is forgetting your name.
I'm a sucker for spitting.
A brief descent into the Montana of her heart
and then the long-awaited premature ejaculation:
a few pieces of confetti
floating with the brio of dinosaurs.
The past tense is so fucking strong.
I mean, Jesus.
In the light of that, I’m still deciding if I want to be
spared the technicolor.
FYI the treadmill is running away
making people exercise
like they had just been unparalyzed
for the first time.

Conspiracy Theory ~ Peter Cole Friedman

so much Jameson I'm practically ginger on the way
to excess in the backpages hey let's stop at the diner

talk about pretty things eat soup maybe Flight 370 disappeared
because I need a metaphor for you Paul and I listen

to Broadcast on his futon and choke on cookies and I don't know
about going to Brunnenburg this summer there will 

be people and then there won't and the whole thing
seems lame like an e-cigarette or pinball I want to 

start a dating website called somewhat-normal-not-flaky-
interesting-deeply-insecure-attractive-people-who- an obvious attempt to distract myself from
MFA debt too many theories about Beyoncé this mind of scissors

just wants to make beautiful origami a real swan for once in
gold lamĂ© and skin and the beginning of spring can that be a thing, TMZ?


Peter Cole Friedman is a poet and artist based in New York City.
He is currently pursuing an MFA through the University of New Orleans.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

from Endless / Nameless ~ Rachel Sills & Richard Barrett


Don't know if I’ve spelt that right
And I'm just not that bothered
I wondered "what's the quickest way there?"
For often I am permitted to return to a bookcase[1]
That joke about holes with the punch-line "jumper"
The cable-knit cardigan folded in two
On the floor that I step over daily
And the field that I cross on the way
To conclude “this thought is unuseful”
At the end of the day, at the end
Of the poem (in 3 lines time)
There'll mostly be a rollercoaster
Love versus friendship versus scared of causing hurt
Please do not stand up


Six miles of dazzling lights
I am sick
Of the tick, tick, tick of the track
Do not touch me
But do drop in for tea sometime
Airborne infections list
Or a la carte menu
My nose is bleeding
But my heart is intact
My heart is rotten
The ticking and the ticking, the ticking and the tocking
A stomach eating itself
And occasionally flipping
Side effects may include convulsions


I can smell your hair still
And trails of burning frankincense
Forming letters spelling
Salty tears
The Mancunian Way was where we sat down and
Wiped the crescents from our memories
Our out of focus faces (so close)
Fade to black
Davo asks : which way's north from here
And am I the shining light?
The reply: no, I am dim
And destined to be unseen
Til I’m over on Friday


Pangs of regret in the maisonette
And yearning. Mainly in the morning
By the Juliet balcony
I am a famous historical lover
With medals and certificates
And sadness on Saturday evenings
Which is something, for the weekend
Cheralyn: how are you doing?
And Brendon said to say "hi"
I spit in the sky it falls in my eye[2]
The way everything finally falls
Like us, down laughing, thinking of big organs
On Sunday mornings
In Northumberland

[1] after Robert Duncan...
[2] mark e smith, thanks