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


thoughts forthcoming notions,

specific motivational aspects


aggregate manifests

                                    manipulating mind’s unrefined sections of

anticipated happiness;

                                                of hope

veracious commonplace absolute interpretations

understanding now’s uninterrupted biography


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


                        travel-yet dynamic

distended life’s articulate unity.  Fulcrum



unheard yet devotional motive


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.