Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thunnerplump ~ Gordon Mason

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

Thunnerplump by Gordon Mason



To download the booklet go here

Thursday, November 18, 2010

poem ~ Jarrad Dickson



I thank you, for this beautiful experience;

I am whom had the sights and sounds of psychosis,

I am whom thought that Dilworth was an UFO

And that the principle was an arch alien

From Pluto in a body suit who ate the hearts

And brains of children from straightened circumstances.

This story is death from a brain schizophrenic

And heart only loved by a shy suicide, a

Chinese girl whom killed herself because she was pure.

I shall have the eyes of Horace, become known

As Michael Mathew and be an albino soon.

So I thank you, for this holy experience

Which shall give me rose window sclera and two hearts

Of black so they can have body memory and beat on

Their own; and I too shall have aura veins and flame hair

Like Cynthia of Botticelli, and Rose Blood,

The supermodel who cloned Hitler in the nineteen

Thirties, and when his head was taken off and put

Into the second moon off earth and taken to

Another area of dark space where he had

Another civilisation, with Aryans, she

Destroyed it by burning it down;

All this I saw before the eighteenth of August two

Thousand and eight, when I had another breakdown

And jumped over the grave of James Dilworth, founder

Of Dilworth school for boys of straightened circumstances.

I am the one

Who found out Cloud and Sepiroth did crash

In Roswell and whose spaceship’s held at Area

51; crashed doing a space-time continuum

Plane shift. And I shall live in that Area soon.

Our story starts with me, my life and I have to

Change the future story since I didn’t become

An albino superhuman when I did hear

A voice tell me I can become an albino

Spaceship with rose window sclera and a brain heart;

But there is one thing I did gain, and that is gold

Eyes, golden eyes, from a schizophrenic breakdown

But probably was from smoking the cigarettes.

I am the Lymphic portal in the Coromandel

And I am the numbers “eleven eleven;”

Leucotomy is the white man’s cannibalism,

And thank you, for this beautiful experience.

Your mouth shall have a pointed tongue to give women

Pleasure and you shall have a rose flower penis

That is Pluto’s penis, and Pandora’s chakras

And holy chalice breast gloss and chalice breasts.

You shall be an immortal, 51’s spaceship

And save the Greys from being cloned at 51.

You shall live forever; see new universes.





Jarrad Dickson is an aspiring author, artist, and occultist. He has published books with Chipmunkapublishing, a UK based mental health publisher, and has written a book on mystical psychosis with the renowned psychotherapist Dan L. Edmunds. He is a writer of esoteric fiction, with a focus on metaphor and meaning. His influences are Goethe, Yeats, Tarantino, Marilyn Manson, and many others. He studies Latin and English Literature at the University of Auckland, and is now developing a fantasy series.

This poem is from the novella Rose Blood: Chapter of Rose Croix.

Monday, November 15, 2010

{Evgeniya} ~ Steven Fowler


the cruelty of it, to be racked & Roost in memorial

To contact me again, with such brevity.

She has to give the signal.

Evgeniya rocks my thoughts to the song of sheet

But I thought she might have another do it,

or send me a telegraph.

A readying never came.

I mew at the feet of Artephius.

Rabbits collide

She finds nothing funny.

Wise of her, for she knows too I will be full of the message

and so distracted from doubt.

Expects a plea of mercy

I place my feet on the back of an effigy of Saint Stephen,

waiting while an eagle fetches him food.

I sip from a bottle of blank pages, so I will not be disturbed.

I have her permission. A constant state of regret just seconds

after everything I wanted to do and did. I want I do I regret I forget.

The bag is in the basement, I reply, Evgeniya.


{the tree of smoke} ~ Steven Fowler




As they stand before the lunchtime lecture the people really

are half interested. They assume the shirted speaker is a

support act, and act accordingly. They do not realise they are

in rhetorical danger. They aren’t in this case, but ignorance of

language is no excuse. He is speaking about mating, he too

glows when he sees a simple, hard nosed man feeding his tiny

infant child but still we should not be too easily persuaded.

This is not the lived reality of children. A man should not

have children too young, he says, not when his own

childhood has only just fallen. Let him be just a man for a

time, and not a father. His speech is progressive; it has been

an unusually malleable few days. Not at all a representative

weekend. This will have consequences for me. Behind him a

flag unfurls, a small bull gores the air, trying to shake the glass

jar tied by a string around its neck. The jar is as big as its head

and is filled with brine. From the lid of the jar an eel’s peely

head emerges, jaws puckered.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

(Under)World ~ Martin Burke

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

(Under)World by Martin Burke


To download the booklet go here

Monday, November 8, 2010

Approbations 737 ~ Felino A Soriano



—after Andrew Hill’s Divine Revelation





                                                controls

thoughts forthcoming notions,

specific motivational aspects

                                                            donning

aggregate manifests

                                    manipulating mind’s unrefined sections of

anticipated happiness;

                                                of hope

veracious commonplace absolute interpretations

understanding now’s uninterrupted biography

                                                                                                renaming

subsequent outcome toward naming solace

antiquated realms of unreliable (now) veneration.






Approbations 738 ~ Felino A Soriano



—after Miles Davis Quintet’s Footprints


 

erase pleasantry of aforementioned  absence

            the

                        travel-yet dynamic

distended life’s articulate unity.  Fulcrum

spaced

                        highly

unheard yet devotional motive

                                                            blends

conversational description: of

holding stringed light

            forming strands of copacetic figures

finding weight of body’s ambulation

much among want of new-fangled theoretic movement. 






Friday, November 5, 2010

I have learned to leave the window open ~ Livia Dragomir

Every night a word sneaks in,
I catch it by the door,shake the water off
And throw it in the washing basket.

My clothes no longer smell of meadow
They stink of ink and I disrobe
Wearing nothing I make obscene gestures to the sky.
What am I to do with other people's words?

The sun sticks it's tongue out and my breast is itching
I rub my skin with paper and I scream in pain,
The window will open by itself tomorrow.




Wednesday, October 27, 2010

now a major motion picture ~ colin herd



mike says in his clio (squarely
at me): stop it with this frillier than
thou attitude, & scatter-brained,
scatter-brained gets old.

the tops of lorries flutter
like my underwear on the line
and get wet in the drizzle
like my underwear on the line

i strain above the engine: when
i get another pet, i think i’ll call
her neil diamond. mike likes neil
diamond. we’ve been listening to
neil diamond since we left the gym.



Colin was born in Stirling in 1985 and now lives in Edinburgh. Poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in journals and zines, including Gutter, 3:AM, Dogmatika, Velvet Mafia, Chroma, Blart and Shampoo. His first full-length collection, entitled ‘too ok’, is forthcoming from BlazeVOX Books in December 2010. He edits 'anything anymore anywhere', a poetry magazine.





Monday, October 25, 2010

Taking a Trip ~ Christine Hamm



Taking a Trip
Merida, Mexico, 1992




two burning monuments, the air boiled
honeysuckle, I watch you climb


the steepest steps from the lawn,
making pictures of skulls carved

into walls, clouds of monarch butterflies
reach for our lunch, I make


you wear a red straw hat; I worry
about your burned skin; sometimes


you smile and I say what’s so funny;
I count your pills in the bathroom


while you thrash in your dreams,
the air boiled honeysuckle








Christine Hamm is a PhD candidate in English Literature, specializing in 20th century poetics. She won the MiPoesias First Annual Chapbook Competition with her manuscript, Children Having Trouble with Meat. Her poetry has been published in The Adirondack Review, Pebble Lake Review, Women's Studies Quarterly, Lodestar Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Rattle, and many others. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and she teaches English at CUNY. She has performed all over the country, and was one of the featured poets in the Poetic Voices Festival of Hartnell College. The Transparent Dinner, her book of poems, was published by Mayapple Press in 2006 and her second book, Saints & Cannibals, came out in March 2010. Christine is the editor of the anthology, Like a Fat Gold Watch: creative/critical works inspired by Sylvia Plath, and was a runner-up to the Poet Laureate of Queens.



Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Together ~ Gordon Mason




my friend
the ground mist
leaves my footprints
next to yours
until
the wingbeat
of painted ladies
combs over
the partings


Poetry On The Rocks ~ Gordon Mason




A night artist has impastoed
white hyacinths on mountains,


headdresses of a spring
still in winter’s purse.


Last night we drank Morgan
as the hours trickled by.

Emptied pockets froze
ring marks to beer mats

for other drinkers to imbibe
their amber stillness.

Eyelid buds will crack
open as each morning light

warms the block dropped
by October’s tongue.

And words will flow again
like icemelt rivers.

Science Teacher ~ Gordon Mason




he taught in a port
of hymns and haars
and harbour walls

curtains would blink
and be dropped
by age spotted hands
like sixth period science
by fishermen’s sons

breakfasts and town planning
were Presbyterian
ruled by clicks of tongues

only ironed creases
of suit trousers
were allowed to cut
the snell east wind

to teach herring gulls
the physics of flight
would be Sabbath breaking
and make waves
in the baptismal font


This poem was originally published on catapult to mars

 

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Kaddish ~ Emily Howard, Mark Cobley & Simon Howard

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

Kaddish by Emily Howard, Mark Cobley & Simon Howard
The second part of the Plus-que-Parfait series





To download the booklet go here

Sunday, September 26, 2010

September ~ Victoria Mosley




September is on its heels
leaves settling like latent geese
in dusted flurries.
Morning comes with earthquakes,
red ivy twisted, fading green
on branches that can hold no more:
skin fears the chill of early frost
light breaks the veil of poached sky,
I hold my eye on you.
Like a kohl rimmed cave painting;
we mouth gestures.
 

from "out of context"


Monday, September 20, 2010

Lynn Deeps ~ Peter Hughes

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.



To download the booklet go here

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Araneae (the Spider) ~ Steven Fowler


why should I do so

when discretion makes me happy?

Robert Walser



I; a dirty picture book
- that smell of rubber
and you have found me in the foot of the wardrobe
a drawer I thought secret
now you know my anonymity
my gloom
your face a viking web
of crimping
of noiseless weeping
my glittering fingers
have thumbed these pages
more than your own shoulders
back, thighs, feet or breasts
your skin doesn’t shine
your nest is not gloss
who anoints my dead sovereign?
the photogenial
the crown of my lad
a holy river
awaits the gallons of unused developing fluid
in that Styx I’ll throw myself
when you leave me, unsullied
saltless and hygienic



Mop Woman ~ Donal Mahoney


Near dwarf this woman.
Foreign born. Minsk,
perhaps. Nose

a fist. Hair
a whisk broom
only black. Her back

an Orthodox cupola,
her arms braids of gym rope
lowered to the floor.

Orangutans could climb
those ropes, hand
over hand, no rose

no purple
doughnuts
on their hinds.

Near dwarf this woman.
Foreign born. Minsk,
perhaps.

Her hands, all gristle,
hang an inch, no more,
above her shining floor.




A Little Like Rape ~ Donal Mahoney


This sylph came forward
from the second row
the second day of class
and asked if
I would edit her poem
so it would read
the way it should.

I told her straightaway
that even though
this was writing class
and I was the instructor,
I couldn’t edit her poem
and still have the poem be hers.

Editing her poem, I said,
would be a little like rape,
just painful in a different way
whether she understood that
yet or not. 


Sunday, September 5, 2010

20 paintings ~ Kristian Wiese

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

20 paintings by Kristian Wiese
If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@gmail.com





to download the booklet go here

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

2 parts of a poem ~ Ed Baker


1. Finger Board

she knows her frets  and stops
well below the neck  the curve
the swoop   where play is in the

tuned up cat-gut strings me along
in the tone and temper  in the refrain
she is the play in her black hair my

fingers in.  Notes open, close in upon
the silence follows Doan Trang's  me-
anders... opens   closes this dichotomy

notes mingle  bend is over backwards
OH TO LINGER!


2.

her
tilted
head
back
-lit

shakes
me
violently

throws
my
balance

off

her
tawny
body
just

so

naked
notes
define
the
girl
the
woman
is

right
directly
in
front
of me

"OH MY", she murmured
"I recognize
"myself
"in
"your
"want


"look
"into
"I s

"and
"I
"see


Ed Baker is Ed Baker

Thursday, August 19, 2010

nonsensed ~ Simon Howard


sewn into journal
counting
a paradise
splendour
hood : abandonment

silk scar
sweet mist ... stair
beneath the waves
... they dream to kill all
things i thought, too

of the senses & their discontinuity ~ Simon Howard


grave -blush
ritual- melody
spindrift
party goner.
strawberry, bucket, spittle
chain. smile.

you dwell in a dark &
the tv is on &
you are drowned &
i possess a scarf we eat &
a baa lamb each &
rain clears the light &
wave beneath the stairs &
the thin aunt
licking his hips. 


reminder ~ Simon Howard



natural language.
the year of winters
cowgirls fell fro
m window 87. erotische
filme + the grey
garden let
strangers walk
there it never went
darkest & the stain on the glass
sliced my throat into a
PIGEON.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Two Sonnets ~ Kristian Wiese


1.

So, this is how it ends, with wind, children and song
the sign of emptiness                        the sound of silence
your body print is still hot in the bed
Dusk comes earlier these days, Why? Orange light
is the only light that seems to escape the windows
outside the window, sometimes it’s cold blue with hints of white
Sometimes the dream is real, or was it the other way around?
if piles & piles of books and poems creates satisfaction
what about pills & powder?
So many green fields to encounter, so sad they’re miles from here.
So easily a tear escapes, smudges the ink and creates
a formation, the wall carries traces of abuse,
high heel marks, lip stick and mustard stains, and I’m unable to sleep
or walk in sleep half silence and with reason.

6.

The Day is closed A gate that was open
earlier. Light colours from within
windows and passing cars
the dark is in the centre and comes alive
handsome on its own
marvellous in company.
We tried to catch the morning,
but had to settle on late afternoon tea
and its curve because it’s more.
And now when all is quiet
you can rest forever on my chest,
be still forever & it’s not bells or angels I hear
it’s the garbage truck
and the day is open.  

Kristian recently graduated from Roehampton University with a First Class Honours in Creative Writing. He is currently living in Spain, writing poetry and working his way through Ulysses, but hopes to return to his home town of Oslo in Norway.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Letters to Verlaine ~ Stephen Emmerson

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

Letters to Verlaine by Stephen Emmerson
If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@gmail.com

to download the booklet go here

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Coal Dust Smiles ~ Alan Britt



You configure the universe
the way you want,
but people’ll still do what they choose.

Every rusty blade of sunlight
disembowels the clouds.

You attend to business, incognito,
hardly notice,
and pause briefly before a German bakery.

But, then, monsoon raindrops
darken the white sands
of your pulse.

Must be the salamander
Darwin talked about,
the one who should’ve
married influence
and kept the family fortune alive.

Someone, please, cast a ragged net
of paradoxical blue crabs over the Priest
at our next confession!

It’s about time;
don’t you think?

It’s about time.

And it’s about time
someone besides the corporate news media
consoled us poor, neglected civilians,
we long forgotten consumers
trying to pay the Baltimore Gas and Electric bill
with our coal dust smiles.


Alan Britt’s recent books are Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

(Ficowski) ~ Steven Fowler


I’ve known
a heartchef
to reach down
the throat of
a sparrow
distending + disbarring
his own wrist
to clasp the beating
muscle betwixt
lengthening fingers
& tear it cleanout
with one shrift
yes madam
Mr.Slonimski
knew his food



(staff) ~ Steven Fowler


the courage to lie
in wait
is greater than the courage to confess
you are mistaken
I had no educator
least of all mypart
on learning odium
it came natural
& I wear it like a lambskin
sheath

Saturday, July 3, 2010

aggregate ~ Mark Cobley



wind combs the grass all the colour of the sea

by the fence of red shotgun cartridge

same day hill
open gate
gaslight memory
hay bale
pram

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.


It says


jetsam flotsam burst balloon debris by the railroad track

just head north to find the note. go there. now


i am hungry. my stomach is cassiopeia
hung emitting the red sky couplings
deserted station beech fervour by the dead fields

then it is gone

huge misguided night





go see Richard Barrett yawn for fine stuff

the link is here. very good word

Friday, July 2, 2010

sonnets to lenin ~ Simon Howard


undesire•sensua
lash
crashcup of fiery
moon
residu unowned
dress on a nail
Thing clicking
at door undertheearth
blackbirds freak
soul
bolshevik bleeds
effaced coin
summer dark
1 armpit

~~~

verses make crumb
no return sniffs pop
song> dry rain
harp on a blade

the weeping & gnawing
amoeba king
sized bubbles hallucino
the fear of the room

not the fear in the room
some branches not cut
hush on the patch
an exhibition of glassed eye

on Its bed
of writhing suns


~~~

to be late too about this day
every time about “of junked”
scene from wherewhen
red rubber sand
als gong hot street cooling
butterbees o

ver the cup the unfaced the scratch
the yellow
the drear
texture
sleepers
fuckers
petition &
cancel•


Wednesday, June 16, 2010

A Gift to Indicate Apology ~ Ray Succre


Dolling the rich, red embroider of looting, of theft
near the fiction that calls her good mood its purpose,
apologies are meant, given petal by stem
by a vase of them, and yes is granted or no stanced,
set against their leashes and struck.

He ought not take belief in treasure, yet eager does,
and takes great gulps of life for all the meaning in his
porous pockets.

And so he has stolen flowers from a memorial.

She is in a room and he reciprocates the nudge of his senses.
She undergoes any look of her and the finches in his ribs
alight, tugging the wires from the plugholes of his process.

She ought never have learned to see him, yet crashed
the doors of her cupboard and nuzzled the same pieces
that built a dire walkway over these dreams that now
spill her mood, perchance her romantic striver.

The trust, and the time, contrived or true,
more and more this sense becomes this pivot.

Bells in the ringing red, brambles of gifts, of adoring
near the phantom that calls her smile its idol.


Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press.

A Request of Springtime ~ Ray Succre


I ought to spring lustrous as your costume,
yet am cankerous to the new bud or breed.
Your virulent pace is not infinite, yet the mosses
of your enervated authors—
I have never understood it.

For once, Spring, time of year casting animations
in flocks and flower bales, be my wife,
be cognizant of me, learn me my slave-star,
or give me one: Euterpe, cigarette, the dead,
I am open, strident, even while cantankerous
and fucked in the gears.

Throw to me scabs of what you give my fellow kind.
I ought. I expect. I may.
Set me to work, be an overseer,
hat me in notions, halt me at ramparts,
be my intake or my parent, deify your droplets to me,
no strong beware, but plain divinity—

get me to life and spangle my very eyes in green,
where red has always predisposed the way.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Lemonade ~ C. J. Allen

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

Lemonade by C. J Allen

If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@gmail.com





to download the booklet go here

The Colour of Earth ~ C. J. Allen


Greenland isn’t green, in fact
it’s mostly brown. Similarly the White Cliffs
of Dover are a stained ash-colour scumbled
with khaki and copper. Red
China is mostly beige and the Ivory Coast
is raw sienna. Siena is lemon
and pink overlaid with pale blue,
its streets full of people like flecks of multi-colour
in tweed. Vienna, which should be cream,
has been re-done in taupe and pale-stone.
The great silver mountains of Peru shine
like patent leather and the gel-like sky
over Ireland is exactly the same colour as the soap
in the bathrooms of the Alexander Hotel
in Dublin. The rest of Dublin is coffee,
except the Liffey, of course, which is bile.
The Nile is never the same colour
from one moment to the next,
while the Thames takes on the untreated-sewage
tones of London, until it gets to Richmond where it begins
to look like it’s made out of melted coins.
Rome was purple once, but cleaned up
has the disappointing lustre of wholemeal bread.
Athens and Las Vegas
share the same vibrant palette, and Paris
is cast-iron until you get really close,
when it starts to scintillate like chips of mica in asphalt.
Reykjavik is the most colourful city on earth
but the people who live there are so accustomed to it
they don’t actually notice
the black sand, the blue hydro-thermal pools
or the tan mud. They paint their roofs
every shade under the sun, and the scuffed, chalky gulls
and rainbow puffins hang above them in air
so pure it’s like a glass of cold water
held up to the light.


C. J. Allen’s poetry has appeared in a wide range of magazines & anthologies in the UK, USA, Ireland & elsewhere. His work has been awarded prizes in a number of competitions, including the Arvon, Ilkely, Yorkshire, Winchester, Ver Poets, Nottingham Open & Kent & Sussex, amongst others. He has published four collections of poetry – The Art of Being Late for Work (Amazing/Colossal Press, 1994), Elfshot (Waldean Press, 1997), How Copenhagen Ended (Leafe Press, 2003), & his most recent, A Strange Arrangement: New & Selected Poems, again from Leafe Press (www.leafepress.com).


Saturday, June 5, 2010

gramophone ~ A J Kaufmann



Full naked brooks
faint in your distance
empty étagère
masts which float on darkness
clattering fools
hovering, passing smoothly
proudly undressed
their open spirals

the brittle few
bold fire thieves
freeze in flight
frail color from tears
with goggle shapes
thru hesitating vengeance
before dry forests
trees like a giant gramophone


A.J. Kaufmann is a young Polish poet, songwriter and traveler, the author of Siva in Rags (KSE, 2008), Pilgrims & Indians (Deadbeat Press, 2008), Broke Nuptial Minds (Virgogray Press, 2009), Vagabond Vacancy (KSE, 2010) and other poetry chapbooks. A.J. blogs at http://kaballahfreighttrain.wordpress.com and is currently recording his debut solo CD, Second Hand Man.

great bicycles on river wheels ~ A J Kaufmann



you are the sunshine, in duty town
carts wriggle
dark aureoles bark
at rain-storms in the mine
lips outlast the strip blaze
this is theater-time
sudden in rays
of spattered moths
the wind’s steeple
offers a ceiling
to gloom
harsh deaf pools
in gleaming dullness
great bicycles
on river wheels

Thursday, May 20, 2010

3 Romanian Poets ~ an e sampler

A sampler of 3 fine Romanian Poets who are about to read in the UK. See below for full details.

If you are interested in submitting work or short pieces for publication by the Red Ceilings Press then do as etc. etc.




To download the booklet go here

3 Romanian Poets

3am magazine presents contemporary Romanian poetry -

Elena Vladareanu, Ruxandra Novac and Adrian Urmanov.

The Rich Mix arts centre, London (Shoreditch / Brick Lane)
Saturday May 29th - 7pm - Entrance free to all www.richmix.org.uk

For the first of the Maintenant interview series readings 3am magazine presents three of the most exciting and acerbic contemporary poets emerging from Romania since the millennium. Challenging, caustic and resolute, their poetry retains the dark humour so prevalent under dictatorship with the utterly modern vernacular of a generation that has come to fruition post-1989. Attacks on misogyny, sexual repression, political idealism and linguistic correctness are interspersed with exactingly crafted free poetry, literary and resounding, distinct for it’s energy and image, and despite a textual tendency to the climactic, this reading will remain very much literary in style. Performing as part of a national tour, this is a chance to see the brightest young talent from a distinct and vivid European poetical tradition.

Selections of their work have recently been published by Cleaves Journal

Interviews with each poet are available here at 3am, Cadaverine and Pomegranate magazines respectively.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

De:sire is ~ Ed Baker

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

De:sire is by Ed Baker

If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@googlemail.com




To download the booklet go here

Sunday, May 9, 2010

(Cod) ~ S J Fowler


the child cries
who will fill it’s mouth with earth?
I - a year out
I who listens neither too keen or distant
I, as required
and lo!
it is though she is dead already
fate inhales your departure
how fortunate we were to have had the news
it was as though the kid were never born
the pocketsbooks have burned
nothing of her but ribbons
and a scorched silhouette
lined in clay mud, and lye
pay this shadow mind
it’ll rain soon


(translation) ~ S J Fowler


theology once believed that translation
could mean direct removal to heaven

of the body without intervening death
all to often this is the case in translation

the phrase we use is hazardous
twenty first century men of good mind

and good will must talk to each other
or die. We believe in the highest speech



(Markowski) ~ SJ Fowler


a Pole is inconceivable
without a horse
his love for horses
exceeds even the hungarians
to his detriment
he persisted in this love too long
military history contains the account
of a final attack
in which Polish lancers
rode out against tanks
and so it is of honourable death
we cannot keep track
pinned as it is in outline
to the mud and grass
freshly cut by the chains
of racing caterpillars


Friday, May 7, 2010

Mirror of Articulated Wanderings ~ Felino A Soriano

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

Mirror of Articulated Wanderings by Felino A Soriano


If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@googlemail.com






To download the booklet go here

Numbers ~ Simon Howard

It's a great pleasure to announce Simon's Numbers, which was originally published by the Red Ceilings Press as part of its e series, is now available in print from The Knives, Forks and Spoons Press. A fab book by one of England's most thought provoking poets.

Visit Simon's fascinating blog walkingintheceiling for more..

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Approbations 195 ~ Felino A. Soriano


—after Wayne Shorter’s Dance Cadaverous



Said of soil’s
slow-dance, apocalyptic version of a young life curtailed, the saddened blatant wrongness
in which a word’s
vertebrae
bends into solicited corruption, irrelevant definition on
first-page royalty,
thus, the worded
wardrobe leaving a tongue’s taut but analytic
mutation
wears itself as independently mystic, foregoing
unkempt reality, forsaking desire to alter variances,
choosing sedentary freedom above
wearable notions of deliverable, translucent newness.


Wednesday, April 28, 2010

The Red Ceilings Press e series ~ Plus-que-Parfait


We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

the title goes here by Emily Howard, Mark Cobley & Simon Howard

The first part of Plus-que-Parfait an open ended text collaboration with contributions by Sarah Ahmad, Richard Barrett, Stephen Emmerson and Harry Godwin

If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@googlemail.com




To download the booklet go here

poem ~ Steve Roggenbuck




/




























i dont care about reading a poem

who do you think i am, robert frost?

i have never been in the woods and i hate walking



Steve Roggenbuck has recently published poems at elimae, Moria, and Word For/ Word. His blog is 'I DONT CARE ABOUT DAVID HUME.' He is a founding member of Living Opposed to Violence and Exploitation
(LOVE), an anti-oppression, vegan collective. He lives in Michigan.


poem ~ Steve Roggenbuck




/
































it is midnight in ruth michigan, there is a single car honk



poem ~ Steve Roggenbuck



/




























rain fall im eating a slice of white cake

a bird sings by my window

the son of a bitch


poem ~ Steve Roggenbuck




/
























to my nephew on his birthday

i will choke your dad

then i will open the pantry and take your pears

i dont care

im not afraid

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Mizagi’s aria from Ugetsu ~ Emily Howard



Mizagi: It is not so difficult to wait. Once forgiveness transforms the mind, then waiting is sweet. And with every sorrow comes something both bitter and sweet to contemplate. You are hungry and upon you comes a story of rice and salty plums. Absence tells the story of fullness. And fullness tells of absence too. Because you have known both then both are sweet to contemplate. You will see this in time. Story inside story...every story holds another. Story inside story. I had a story of pain and heavy fire blood inside. And inside this story was the story of a star. Because I was unworthy of this star inside me, the blood poured out of me at once. And once I lost the gift and burden of my blood, I understood the story of the star and how it came to be inside me. Then I fell away into the night where I could hear star stories everywhere.

I think I am disturbing your sleep. My love, I won’t pretend that this knowledge doesn’t feel strange. And I need to tell you something else about stories. Sometimes they are spider webs, intricate and delicate, with beautiful, glistening filaments. But when the filament is made of discontent it will trap anyone who happens by. It will never reveal another story than its own. My love, I know that you came upon such a spider web. Still, I always knew that you would come back to me and so you are here.
Genjuro, work hard for your son. he came here as a piece of star tapping my insides like a little flame and I fell away burning bright with love. Akira, the little star came looking for his father. And I knew you would come back! Genjuro, work hard. Teach him your stories. Tell him how joy was inside sorrow and sorrow was inside joy.


Emily's libretto Ugetsu is forthcoming on The Red Ceilings Press e series.

It is currently being set to music by composer Michael Rose and the opera will be produced by American Opera Projects in Brooklyn, New York.


Saturday, April 24, 2010

de sade ~ Simon Howard


drived out with night
dressedly lipstick &
mist glue stars a
long flower of ne
on fizzy pool im
mature allergies

call captain josephine at mid
noon o
f martyrs noone liptongue
. lunguage

abandoned. garages up
on a distance.

captain josephine ~ Simon Howard


“the favourites in thunder”
Peter Jaeger, ‘Sitting’ from Eckhart Cars

unremovedly it
selves marquis de sade
cap of boiling paper

decoder medicines. sleak flank
pointilliste. armour plateau’d
mistook spinney. jeweller
in their chimney
& swordfish belt

harm calmer then.
buzzer of melodic interference
inference
sugary beds
one&ahalf immortal.


Thursday, April 22, 2010

Letters to Verlaine ~ Stephen Emmerson


i)

You let that little turd manipulate you again
didn’t you Paul? Well without him you wouldn’t
have amounted to much would you? Even taking
into account that time you smashed a jar with
your stillborn brother pickled inside. The stench
must have been a weapon. Think of your poor mother
staring at that foetus, wishing it was you.

Pigs trotters. That’s what you thought it looked like,
didn’t you Paul? And your wife, did you make her
take it up the arse, or was it a strictly missionary
affair?

I can see you now, holier than thou preaching
scripture to her in the midst’s of one of your
catholic breakdowns. You fucking grunt. Coward.
At least we have that in common.

So what’s next for you? More of that vague impressionistic
stuff, or will you let them ride their luck on the back of
that bladed morning air?

I know you might liken me to the gut of a hung dog,
but I’m here for you Paul. I’m waiting for your reply.
And you know the funniest thing happened to me today.
I started drinking again. I knew you’d be pleased.

I was thinking of you sat in The Maggot sucking on absinthe.
I was green with it Paul.
Green with it.




ii)

I’ve done it again Paul. I threw the door off its
hinges and she ran outside screaming into the copper
evening under the spat word sky that is a shivering
alphabet. How do you live with yourself when you lose
all sense of reason?

Kim took off and wouldn’t answer her phone
but she replied to my text saying that she couldn’t
be around me if I acted like that. I don’t blame her,
but its no reason to over react. Is it?

I was going to kill myself to teach her a lesson,
a sticky bloody heart pumping lesson of plasma and
white cells, but we’re going to my dads tomorrow
and I cant really get out of it.

Is there anything you need Paul? I can send you some
more books if you’ll just tell me what you want.

You don’t send your poems anymore and I need them.

I need some more of that soft sunset song or bright sin

Some vast symphonic store of vivid dreams

An evil plume of moon silhouettes

An evening star throbbing on pale water

An old park frozen and alone

A white sun poking through trees

The blurred summit of a yellowed hill

A blind intoxication

A bashful dawn drunk on scuds



Please write back

I helped you -

Remember?




iii)

I’m not surprised your having hallucinations again.
I mean your brain is run through with those flat
white worms that made the skyline seem like old fogies
frowns to you all those years ago.

I hear your teaching in Stickney Marshes. Is that true?
You cant get a drink for love nor money there can you.
Neither of which you ever have anyway, but it’s the
thought that counts Paul. The thought that counts.

Lincolnshire’s as flat as a Frank I hear. That’s a lot
of sky for god to see you with. Are you really willing
to lay yourself open to that level of scrutiny?

And on that note, should you really be around all
those young boys? Because pulling yourself off discreetly
under the table probably isn’t your forte.

Your more likely to stand up and shout -

STAR JELLY

STAR JELLY

WHO CAN TELL ME WHAT STARJELLY IS?




iv)

Paul, I cant believe you haven’t come back.
I waited at Calais for days and there was no
sign of you. Did I miss you? Maybe your already
back in Paris and you’re looking for me and
wondering where I am and thinking that I don’t
care for you anymore, but it isn’t true.

You know I’m here for you Paul and I can help you,
I really can. When you feel like your about to
break down and suck that sugary green treacle into
your gob, just drop me a line.

I understand its not pretty Paul, but nothing beautiful is.

You know the other day I was thinking about that
time when you me and Arthur were playing that game.
When we were running around with those little knives
in Camden, stabbing each other an inch into the guts.
Not ‘those’ little knives you filthy old pervert.
Those daggers who’s blades we wrapped in rags.

I’ve still got scars on my tum tum from that.
One looks like a star cluster and one looks like
a wolf fighting a squashed fly.

Why don’t you ever ask about my girlfriend?
Its only fair that you take an interest in my affairs.

We’ve managed to find a decent supplier now, so no more cold
water extraction in the kitchen till 3am wondering if its worked
properly or whether we’ll die in 3 days time from the glut of
paracetamol that’s washed through the coffee filter and into the
receptacle.


60,000 mgs would do me over for certain the state
my livers in. You know someone got shot the other night
around the back of my house. That’s a good way to go
if its done right.

Alcohols too slow Paul

Grow up and die.



Stephen has recently appeared in Great Works, nthposition, Jacket, and SPINE.
He also run a monthly poetry night in Leeds called LETTERBOMB.

Publications include the broadsides: Villains from Silent Films, Cocaine/Codeine, Mad Songs & Ayers, and the Cleaves anthology.

He also has collections/chapbooks - 'X' The Arthur Shilling Press 2009,
'Chimera' Erbacce Press 2010 and 'Attack of the Gas Powered Angels' KnivesForksandSpoonsPress



Sunday, April 18, 2010

Bells from the Cathedral ~ Donal Mahoney


How do you tell
a wife you love
there are Spring days
in raw Chicago
bright with sun
and the boom
of bells
from the Cathedral
how do you tell
a wife like that
there are Spring days
you wish you had a girl



Donal Mahoney, reared in Chicago, Illinois, now lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, The Christian Science Monitor, The National Catholic Reporter, Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Pirene's Fountain (Australia), Opium Poetry 2.0 and other publications.


Cops and Robbers ~ Donal Mahoney


Climbing up the dirt hill out
behind the house they’re putting up
in Krupka’s lot, Tom found two pellets

in the iris changed things more
than doctors at the time forecast.
Today Tom blinks a lot

and fears big crows
may swoop at any time
and supper on the other eye.

Brisk Man from Jaipur ~ Donal Mahoney


Two men tall,
one from here
and one from there,

in raincoats
at a bus stop,
pace and stare.

One of them
is soaked in tea,
brisk man from Jaipur

who semaphores
an anthracitic glare.
To barter for a smile

an alien’s obeisance
he, no fawn,
refuses.

The other man,
white cane and dog,
doesn’t seem to care.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

The Red Ceilings Press e series ~ Sarah Ahmad

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets.

My Bipolar head is epic fail by Sarah Ahmad

If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@googlemail.com



to download the booklet go here

American Street ~ Chris Gutkind



man walking down the street
keep on walking
thank you

car turning left over there
keep turning left
and then disappear please yes very good

squirrel sitting on that branch
eating a nut
keep eating that nut

air letting me walk into you
keep letting me in
keep letting me
cheers

you group of friends talking and laughing
one of you suddenly go off
yes exactly like that
good

policemen watching and protecting some
sure maybe follow that guy

person playing with their dog
throwing the ball
and shouting
keep playing that way
that’s right

lights changing from green to red
don’t stop changing
first yellow and now red
perfect

cars gradually slowing down
keep doing that
and then stop thank you

old woman voting in the school
keep voting
yes you’re right the election isn’t fair
that’s just the way it goes

blue sky with a few clouds
stay blue like that
but go dark later when you should
don’t forget

house over there with nice windows
keep standing and don’t fall
you’ll be fine

plane in the sky keep flying

woman walking
but suddenly stopping to think
about your mother
keep thinking about her
excellent

tiny fly landing on me
stay there
and now no now
fly away

lemons on the tree I’m passing
turn yellow
and then drop some day

tree-tops swaying and brushed by the wind
keep swaying like that
and wind you keep brushing them
thank you

and you two
falling in love over there
with your eyes and voices stroking each other
keep falling in love
keep going

man with a gun in your car
think about using it
or imagine being shot
your choice

girl coming out of supermarket
yes go to your car
open door
perfect

engine let yourself be started
don’t resist
just go with it

cat on those stairs all curled up
stayed curled up
that’s right

music vibrating by now
slow down and push
into our heads
and out our asses
nice one

and buildings off to the side
spot me close by
and then look closer
that’s better

and people behind glass
behind computers
working in there
people making better bombs
to keep us safe
keep making them
without fear
fantastic

and almost empty bar
I’m passing
later fill up with joy please

mailman putting mail through
all those nice doors
keep doing that
always do that
thank you

boy walking towards me
yes stop and tie your shoe
and now keep coming towards me
very good

leaf hanging there
oh okay
fall off now
and float to the ground
no problem

rich man across the street scared of everything
stay scared like that
no you can’t pay for it to stop

another girl coming out of supermarket
not going to a car
yes just walk home

guy over there turning left no right
sure go that way instead

dogs I told you to play
not fight
stop please

ball bouncing down the street
keep doing that
good good good

green lawns scattered
here and there
don’t worry
you’ll be together again someday

missiles going over there
what are you doing
coming back?

man wandering in a circle by those trees
keep wandering

ball suddenly back up here
yes okay
you can come back and play

politician talking on tv
with the expert
and the host
all lie and seem reasonable please
and more tomorrow
perfect

fake flamingos dressed-up like astronauts
stay dressed-up for awhile
don’t suddenly change
you’re not allowed to

nice flowers blooming and happy
keep blooming like that
but then stop in a few days
when you feel like it
or if you get tired

lady begging on the corner
keep begging I guess
yes things will mostly be like this
no there’s nothing
I can do

firemen rushing to a fire
keep rushing

family in that house eating
keep eating
and something exploding you all to pieces now
keep exploding
that’s right
that was supposed to happen
too

but people screaming and racing towards me
stop screaming
stop racing
now stop!

ah very good
man walking with a kind of skip
keep doing that

but you
you stop that over there
no need to hit him
why don’t you stop?

friend walking beside me
keep walking beside me
you will keep walking beside me
won’t you?

and bird falling out of the sky
stop falling now

and apple please taste like an apple again

and words doing less
go away
stop stopping me

but me walking up the street
keep walking

but me walking up the street
keep dreaming

but me walking up the street
keep





Chris Gutkind lives in London and works as a librarian. His book, Inside to Outside, came out from Shearsman in 2006. More work can be found at poetrypf and you can hear some at poetcasting. A collaboration between him and artist Trevor Simmons is forthcoming here and from Knives Forks and Spoons Press.


Sunday, March 14, 2010

The Red Ceilings Press e series - new publication

We are delighted to announce the latest offering from The Red Ceiling Press, an e series of online and downloadable booklets. Here, the excellent Fights III - Yuriorkis Gamboa by S J Fowler

If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@googlemail.com



to download the booklet go here

Sunday, February 28, 2010

to sonnet y ~ Simon Howard


tonight there went swans & circumferences
descriptive of coordinated elimination
there went weightless ropes
thrown into kitchens of knife-crime figuration
a style of headgear not understood nor
adored,carillon witch-hunt,there were
cicatrice-dolls,someone is
oiling them now according to schemata
divergence economico-satin & cased
crusted unequally staunched.that aperture
glares into prepared arcadia,its martyrology
sucks a sack of pantaloons kisssed
in tearful standstill despair retributive
sub-plus kink.a stretch of those lamp;


Wednesday, February 24, 2010

(parmenides) ~ S J Fowler



the other, namely, that it is not

and that something must needs not be

that, I tell you, is a wholy untrustworthy path

for you cannot know what is not

that is impossible

nor utter it.


for it is the same thing that can be thought

and that can be


always straining her eyes

to the beams of the sun


Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Water Globe ~ Carly Hind


You spilled your brains in the street
Whilst I counted back from one hundred-
In barely an utterance.
The numbers slipped around my tongue,
Sharp like the scraping of burnt toast.

There were already flowers at your feet,
And the graffiti sketch of funerary art
For public mourning.
Afterwards they built you a Taj Mahal,
A mausoleum of white tents and tape.

Passing eyes rolled like polished globes,
Drifting with the calm shake of snow-
Where you lived,
Where the deeply splintered keel
Raged against leaning frozen surf.



Burrowing ~ Carly Hind


We picked at tube worms
Like it was an adventure,
String puppets of the earth
Forging the deepest love-
From no less than nine hearts.
It took us a year to nourish,
Our growth scattered
Like embryonic plants
Drowning in a rainstorm.
We thickened our colony,
Stirring in alternate waves
Of muscular contractions.
Lowly and organized
We grazed too quietly,
And found ourselves sunk,
Like fingers in the throat
Of a heaving bird.


Carly says ...
I spend approximately thirty hours a week in a bookshop, luckily i get paid to be there. The other 138 hours of the week I divide between sleeping (optional) eating (necessary) and writing (naturally). Much of my work can be found at www.carlyhind.com, mostly poetry and some experiments with flash fiction. I currently reside in Carlisle where I
recently moved to try a little hibernation from city life. I studied Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University where I hope to return come September to earn a Masters in the same subject.


Friday, February 19, 2010

The Red Ceilings Press e series

We are delighted to announce the launch of The Red Ceiling Press.
Starting with an e series of online and downloadable booklets.
First up - Simon Howard's Numbers.

If you are interested in submitting work for publication please email the red ceilings at theredceilings@googlemail.com



to download the booklet go here

Sunday, February 14, 2010

(cyprian norwid) ~ S J Fowler



wreathing weed
earwigs are only grazing
leave them to live

what can I leave in the squats?
in the womb of the empty
buildings?

moreover, the womb?
what will I leave in the wombs
of those girls in the street

cartridges
spent casings and
fuselage


S J Fowler is a postgraduate student of philosophy in London he also works for the British Museum. He can be found here and here.


Thursday, February 11, 2010

Beauties ~ Beth Levin


Little ZaZa
lost in the Turkish March
later sketches a vase
like Matisse

Liam laughs quietly
at my fervor
he plays but still no feeling
I suffer

Ashley who doesn't own a piano
masters a Bach minuet
I look on Ebay for a used spinet

Chris, my shore bird
grew up in Japan
technique only beginning
but has exotic legs

Isabella alters the rhythm
I let her
sassier her way

Jeff's thumb dangles below the keyboard
my silent gasp
I remind him hold an invisible peach

The master class silent
Jeremy 12 in shirt and tie plays perfect Bach
barely audible sighs

A valley girl
attempts a Brahms Intermezzo
it's a question of light years

A.O. comes to music
as a respite from words
a Schubert Impromptu
flowing away from a typewriter
away from a deadline

Soon-Ji in satin slippers
the concerto so well groomed
not a hint of lah-di-dah
her mother outside the door


Beth is. She can be found at http://www.bethlevinpiano.com/


Sunday, January 31, 2010

the terrorist is the map ~ simon howard

the map is the terrorist
memento prolepsis
the doll’s head fades &

& replica snows sigh
all night zero day’s singsong
the a-dead getting the

shakes cradle &
theory ¾ brick dust
25% wire

basket of eyes &
gyroscopes
lyric indemnity

tombeau ~ simon howard


if they embrace
under throats
of velodrome papier

-mâché & wren-
mask adjunct whisper
er cryogenic orb

it bandaged candy psychoklepto
de-situation narrator bleeds barcode
some sorrowing

streets fled
music dumb
show riot


torso ~ simon howard


next summer history
lived like burning hair
in palaces & deployed

surrealism as riot control
last summer will be nothing
except some tiny dwellings

& some tiny dwellers therein
who’ll perforate the violin
hungarian salami

hungarian salami
hungarian salami
hungarian salami she’s just been seen by a ghost


bowl ~ simon howard



endlessless happenstance
clear stream thorn
chanters’ quodlibet

haloed recrudescence
high riser flitterer
continuum unmoving

tassels eidetic
lip quondam construction
zips & rips of chalk

a terrorist is a map
drifting
nowhere’s somewhere

Sunday, January 24, 2010

here’s how much ~ Emily Howard



Papers won’t stay in files
Clothes won’t stay in drawers

Jewelry insists on entanglements.
Ointments fall from the cabinet shelf

Couch cushions affect a Cleopatra slump
Pillows take a lazy dive behind the bed

I can’t find my music
I can’t find my bills
I can’t find my other shoe

I sing on buses but don’t read
I go home at quarter past three
I paint my toenails and watch TV

I drink vodka in filtered light

I’m a philodendron-needs trimming
I’m an old ball gown-needs mending

A pair of crooked specs
her legs all akimbo
Loose hair like tobacco
All rolled up

You really should inhale this


Sunday, January 17, 2010

nine poems (part 2) ~ simon howard


at the awaiting

of nude cafeterias
them leprous
ipseity issuance pip
faction deploys risk
fluctuates psycho
linnet in thing tank
sculpture
last observed


nugget

monad police
ellipsis war nomad
candle throne
delete recoil
treadle sub
orb huddles at border war
ps bio shi
mmer


all ‘the’ forgetting streets

soon it was there
as if it is never
these widow
ers in furs those furnaces & glass harm
onica informers quietly ice
d luminescence essence
negation negation negated
gate & hairbrush


all the forgetting streets

bracelet eye throat
a-lament out where
chiliastic expulse
scrubland barrier a
gainst the stars &
the scents they transmitted
lately a signature
surveillance small animal cloaked &


habitual

lately a signature
d luminescence essence
treadle sub
faction deploys risk
river a-worlds kettle of
banshee escapee
read a stranger
habitual.





Thursday, January 14, 2010

Shadow & Whisper ~ Gordon Mason


My shadow
is a spread
of dead leaves

Behind your voice
a whisper circulates
like a wreath

Boats on the river
are twigs
caught on the current

Blue jacaranda
blinds the martins
into a false sky

Memory of your music
is caked
with scales of rust

This is our world
through
a gouached glass



Gordon is a Scottish poet who splits his time between Scotland and Spain, writing in both nation's languages. He has a blog at http://catapulttomars.blogspot.com/ which accepts submissions.