Sunday, December 18, 2011

Stille Nacht ~ Sir Simon Howard



So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the storm and the cold etc. And drove through black night and glimmersilk day etc. Then we ordered a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling in our heads. And we felt so heavy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and she puked up her guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of sleep and my eyes had turned to glass and my feet to seaweed. So we fucking uselessness of art aesthetic theory above vulgar objects of use scraggy neck lips like medicine. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped booze and puked up his guts and even puke and shit and piss are recuperable as art loveable as materials of pornography. Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked up into the vast blank of a night sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips the day black as her pale throat in love making her lips thin and. Slamming doors the storm and the cold. And we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and some cunt looked at us and we said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us pray. And for several days we were like in a dream only we had nothing to eat and our guts ached and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled in and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this old fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into the early winter mornings sockless in his shoes and read the messages out loud and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure wordless snow. 




So we hustled a creature into a car slamming doors the cold and the storm etc. And drove through a blue night and a dull day etc. Then we helped a creature out into that strange calm with flakes of snow falling into our hands. And we felt so happy and weightless. And there was this smell of chips and I puked up my guts. And for several days we were asleep or dreaming of eyes turned to glass and feet to seaweed. Above vulgar objects of use lips like metal. And he lay face down on the earth howling for the sheer hurt of hurt and gulped puke and shit and piss recuperable as art loveable as materials of prayer. Then we lifted our exhausted heads and looked up into stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth. And we went into a small shop and bought some Christmas cards and for several days smelling of chips her pale throat in love making her lips thin and chewed. Slamming doors the cold and the storm. And we walked out into the middle of a field and begged them to shoot us to put bullets through our heads. And we drank supermarket vodka on the train out of there etc. and smiled at us and said we’ll fucking throw you out of the train and night came along the tracks silkglimmering and so beautiful it made us nothing. And for several days we were like in a dream we had nothing to eat and she crossed the bridge to the other platform and the train pulled out and the train looked so small from where we were hanging from the rafters. And there was this fellow collected the cards of prostitutes from London telephone boxes 16 years ago and he would walk out into winter mornings sockless and read the messages to himself and we gulped booze and crouched in underground stations and listened to the echoes smelling of chips and the pure worldless snow.

~

And etc. And looked into the heavens where we were nowhere seen our eyes stiff with ice. And he threw up on the bed and sleep the afternoon viciously cold and the cold radiator up against his throat and so on etc. And there was this smell of chips and this fellow collecting the cards of prostitutes from Then we lifted our exhausted heads from the ground and looked into the vast blank of a dayless sky and stormy clouds and here and there stars ripped from the cloth telephone boxes years ago and she curled herself along the bench and put her fingers to her mouth and began to pray. Der gestirnte Himmel ├╝ber mir und das moralische Gesetz in mir. And we looked along the dirty looking field the hut with its ribs beaten in and its guts spilled out we fucking said the snow is fucking jet black and commuters frantically gulping pills are you a symphony orchestra or stepmother / son porn? Crepitus. And the lovers all lived and worked in an eel factory only allowed out by dark to buy darkness with its wildernesses and information plenitudes. No. Pathos. Number. Umbrella. Coordinate. And he pissed the bed in A&E the gleameringed snail on long string of fire and sublimity. sockless and read And the bizarre like all the limbs were interchangeable and leant out the window a few early passersby their countenances the countenances of angels and dreamily. Slamming doors the cold and the And she slammed the window down on her fingers and laughed and they kept looking at us and left-wing politics when all desire is desire of desire and he sliced the tips of his fingers to escape detection. And two of them walked hand in hand the length of the field and across a ditch and the great sun rolling along a path a few yards away from them and the moon with the shakes behind a chimney and a and bought.

There was this fellow he never seemed to be without a friend and they walked all day from street to street till they were out in open country and one of them made pictures and they would stop at houses and shops and go into pubs and try to sell these pictures and not often they sold a picture pictures of everyday objects like children or trees or a robin on a garden fork and at night they would simply die and the next day they would be alive again and then the situation was reversed. For there is nothing that cannot be recuperated, be it a situation or an art that concerns itself with piss shit snot puke with broken bodies dislocated shoulders things abandoned rank food etc. And one night it was snowing and the fellow and his friend walked an empty field mysterious messages in footprints and one of them the fellow who made pictures stopped to wipe the snow from his lips and then his friend was gone and he was alone. And there was a smell of chips and she puked her guts up the underground and other passengers looked at her and she said you want me dead and they said we all desire death like desire desires us and that was recuperated and night night night etc. So with his friend gone he took out the picture he had made and looked into it as snow fell on it and he wished that he could be alone now that his friend who was never without him was gone and it got lighter and was day hard and brilliant and we walked out into the middle of the field and begged them to shoot us to put fucking bullets through our fucking heads. And he wrapped the picture he had made and left us there and it was so quiet it was as though there was that except for the traffic on the road at the field’s edge. Etc. That’s what they were hoping for. There’s no symbolic order against the symbolic order of order, ordure or no ordure. He said I used to love to dance. He said I wish I had a warmer coat. He said it’s gloomy in here we should put the light on. They said did you make this picture? And hit him and kicked him etc. And she hadn’t eaten for several days and it was warmer then and raining. 




Simon can be found at walkingintheceiling

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Rules of Disengagement ~ Austin McCarron



Harness the energy in pools
of heated water but do not
release
the flame until silence burns.

Greet the world with your back
turned and know it is
filled with companions of stone.

Outcasts the soul of blood is full
of riots and dissent
and the spirit of
perfection is a light that wounds.

Beware the high minded and
deformed who gather in doorways
like homeless beings
on the edge of a sudden crowd.




Austin is from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years.  Poems appeared in various magazines such as Great Works, Decanto, Neon Highway, Survivors' Poetry, Message in a Bottle, Moodswing, Van Gogh's Ear and others


 

The Hunger of Starvation ~ Austin McCarron


The food is not well.
Huddled around wooden
flames it eats hardly at all.

Its skin is like stripes of water.

The fiery wind twists its bones.

At its table scraps of dust with
light blue veins.  All its
conversation is with animals.

Stuck in its mouth tremors
of dry vomit,
the gnawing
sensation of eternal dissent.


Around my Winter ~ Austin McCarron



Around my winter more
strict elations
and shorter versions of rain.

On my face life is printed and
it seems only the eye bled by
tyrannical races is not alone.

There is light but it is like a
photograph of noise
and sees darker sounds arriving.

Before a tower of blinds I watch
inexplicable figures write on my
calendar words to be forgotten.


Sunday, December 11, 2011

Minimum Security Prison Dentistry ~ S J Fowler

Mr S J Fowler's latest from the wonderful anything anymore anywhere. Go get it!

















 "Imagine a Boys Own Paper landscape with True Crime architecture. Laurence Harvey dodges from building to country trying to evade CCTV whose sound footage runs through Babelfish.  The smells are Jack London, the light is Genet and the memories are Edgar Lee Masters.  Equally in words is Steven Johannes Fowler's Minimum Security Prison Dentistry: elegant, coldly funny, at times emotional, textured with occasional accidental/intentional solecisms; but getting the work done.  Nowadays most pages labelled "poetry" are unreadable and uninteresting: these give hope. Anyone who can name-check Joe Arpaio and Jacky le Mat, and reference the cover-texture of an Anselm Hollo book from the sixties rides my particular range."      Tom Raworth



where he grew


I sicked up ~ Bobby Parker



I sicked up a bit on the way you say 'beautiful'. We agreed to swap stories in the garden. Midnight moon kind of Miles Davis choking on cheap vanilla ice cream. My story was about a man who wakes up one morning to find that his hands have turned into a bickering old couple. They argue about cigarettes and wine, a whore from 1949. Yours was about a man who sicked up a bit on the way his girlfriend said 'beautiful', and so she suffocated him in his sleep using a dressing gown once owned by Elvis Presley.



Thursday, December 8, 2011

The Outline Concepts Take Before We are Given Their Examples ~ Charles Freeland



Eulalie knows where the sky is vulnerable. She paces about the rectory. Three bald-headed men confront me in the garden, and I am reminded of the Iliad. They recite their prayers with the tips of their tongues forever in contact with the roofs of their mouths. As if they have been coached. Eulalie dabs at my elbow with a piece of cotton that looks, in the dim light of the universe, like the outline concepts take before we are given their examples. Everywhere the mountain groans. It’s as if we were expecting souvenirs, says Eulalie, her patience worn to a point that glints. And what we got was ordinary apples. 



On Self-Strangling Semiotics ~ Charles Freeland



I have been doing nothing but practice my whole life. And still, I have yet to move beyond the point of origin, of drawing up and reflecting in my head. The whole world has yet to get started. It has yet to step forward even a millimeter. But you – just look at the ease with which you tear at that bunny! The dead glossy gaze you give with your enormous eyes! It’s like you are made of the very substance that is the opposite of doubt -- whatever that might be. As if you had been born fully-formed. And of adult stature. Otherwise, you’d be left wondering why you have to keep sloughing off skin cells at such an alarming rate. Why you feel the obsessive need to study all those old novels.



Charles Freeland is Professor of English at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. Twice the recipient of the Individual Excellence Award in Poetry from the Ohio Arts Council, he is the author of a dozen books and chapbooks including Eucalyptus (Otoliths), Eros & (Fill in the Blank) (BlazeVox), and Five Perfect Solids (White Knuckle Press). His website is The Fossil Record (charlesfreelandpoetry.net).

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

poem ~ James McLaughlin



-  as riverbank slipping
colour fest to cone line
how outline
-  peel if irregular
as characteristic
and establish red
cool does
the sudden with flower
and contagion
- if fly rite and asking
go something
as played frond
on the widen
wire stem blue
- it afterwards
now falling if on
and transitive by
a verb wide
or noun tip
- so generate force
in this way were
sleeves of this warm
- stretched hue
woke tone
yawned lay
go particular continue
of time
 budget
- collectively violation
physical spire
on green
resplendent condition
other than novel
- environment or type
intrinsic of some
pink to
disposition for reed
scent as appearance
place or the
- portrait on aspect
the grace versus 



Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Locked in, or out? ~ Patrick Williamson



Locked in, or out? by Patrick Williamson

brand new limited edition chapbook out now..
To buy this and browse our other chapbooks and free eBooks visit the Red Ceilings Press

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Dick Erasures ~ Laura Wetherington


The lovely Laura Wetherington adds her fab eBook to the Red Ceilings Press stable with Dick Erasures.

To see this and our complete list of limited edition chapbooks and free eBooks visit the Red Ceilings Press website

Monday, November 7, 2011

Slip ~ James Mclaughlin



New limited edition chapbook available..

Slip by James McLaughlin

Visit the Red Ceilings Press website to see this and our complete list of free eBooks and limited edition chapbooks.


Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Minimum Security Prison Poetry

 
This looks good...and lot's of Red Ceilings people...

Wednesday 23 November
and free!

A Kind of Awe ~ Joshua Jones

A Kind of Awe by Joshua Jones

New limited edition chapbook out now (£3.50 inc p&p UK) from the Red Ceilings Press website.

Visit us for our full catalogue of limited edition chapbooks and free eBooks...

Friday, October 14, 2011

bar


Friday, October 7, 2011

New release ~ Maintenant: the Camarade project

 
Delighted to announce the latest limited edition chapbook from The Red Ceilings Press...Maintenant: the Camarade project featuring Tom Jenks & Chris McCabe; Patrick Coyle & Holly Pester; Sam Riviere & Jack Underwood; Sandeep Parmar & James Byrne; James Wilkes & Ghazal Mosadeq; Emily Critchley & Tamarin Norwood; Sean Bonney & Jeff Hilson; Marcus Slease & Tim Atkins. With an introduction by Steven Fowler. £5 inc P&P (UK)
Visit the Red Ceilings Press website to order and view our full catalogue of chapbooks and free ebooks

Friday, September 23, 2011

roadside savants ~ David e Haase

New free eBook out now...roadside savants by David e Haase. Visit the red ceilings press for our full catalogue of chapbooks and free eBooks


Thursday, September 22, 2011

Notes for Fatty Cakes ~ Andrew Spragg

“DING-HEY”

Unprompted, she exclaims, &
again: “DING-HY”
The oars suck at water

& clonk
in their
rollocks.'











The follow-up to Andrew Spragg's sell-out debut The Fleetingest (Red Ceilings Press, 2011), Notes For Fatty Cakes is uproarious and mannered, with tenderness by the shimmering and deliciously shifty bucketload.
   Anything anymore anywhere  

Between Soundings presents
Notes for Fatty Cakes
8th October 2011, 8pm

Poetry Cafe, 22 Betterton St., Covent Garden
London WC2H 9BX
£3

To mark the release of Andrew Spragg's Notes for Fatty Cakes (published by Anything Anymore Anywhere) Between Soundings has prepared a performance of the text with sound from Julie Groves and Matt Cockshutt. Utilising ambient recordings and live performance, the music has been composed as a specific soundscape response for the occasion.

Praise for the book:

'Notes for Fatty Cakes flickers through the landscape of demotic, roun
ding up the tribes of lenses language uses from plank to Planck: a mini-epic journey in the running heads below which letters, reportage and refrain record as I eyes an other."Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Genre-kebabs on a skewer of wit.'

Tom Raworth

Friday, September 16, 2011

sneeze poems ~ David Tomaloff



BRITTLE

on the ten
,  Lincoln
to Riverside

like some unused
breath still lodged
within my skull


GHOST PARTY

on the ten
,  Lincoln
to Riverside

a white
,  unused breath
like an invitation

the rugged
silence
of strangers

giving way
to speaking
in tongues


GESUNDHEIT

the brewing of
a natural disaster

an igloo
a sore penny

a smash &grab lurch
for a little piece of life

the devil has been sleeping
;  dust exchanged for dust




Wednesday, September 14, 2011

WORK ~ Nikolai Duffy


I want to be over there but I’m not because I’m here because this is where they pay me to be and we have to pay the mortgage and at lunch I eat sandwiches in the office with the door closed and carry on with what I was doing so I can leave a little early maybe if the day’s been good to me and is this really what it means for a day to be good I don’t know but when people ask me what I do I tell them that I am often here and I tell them what being here involves and I don’t normally mention that I’d rather be over there with you because they might take it the wrong way it depends on the person and the time here goes along and I could always stay longer but longer would never be long enough so when it’s gone dark I put on my coat and walk my day backwards and most of the time I don’t think of myself as this and often just go through the motions even though this is what I thought I wanted to do and I guess I’m lucky because now I’m doing what I wanted to do and not many people can say that about what they do but I’d like to be doing other things too and much of the time I think I’d rather be doing those other things than these things although if really pushed I think I’d probably just rather be at home with you can someone pay off the mortgage please and thank you




THE TALKING CURE ~ Nikolai Duffy


and he said I don’t even think it’s you anymore he said talking to her who wasn’t there anymore but who was there all the same, less and less now, but there nonetheless, the way a person can inhabit you without your realising or asking but more importantly, without their asking or wanting to be there, wriggling to get out because you can do this to a person, put a person inside you and not let them out even though you shouldn’t because people are people and you have to respect that and even when they’re inside you they’re also outside and so it’s only a fragment you have which isn’t what you wanted even if you think something is better than nothing but then outside they’re not the person you thought because you have taken a piece of them and changed it and them and you realise you can’t win even though deep down if you gave yourself a minute a second even you’d realise it’s not about winning and so you want to turn around and say you’re sorry and let’s start over but can’t and won’t because what if nothing is offered and this is a thought you can’t entertain even as you say I don’t even think it’s you anymore 





DYING IN THE NIGHT-TIME ~ Nikolai Duffy


Outside the window cars go by in the night. They are loud and have wheels that go round on the road surface which make a noise too that doesn’t remind me of much apart from the fact that I cannot sleep because the noise the cars and the road make is loud and it is their noise that keeps me awake, although it was a dream of dying which woke me in the first place because after I had died in my dream I woke myself up because I wanted to check I was still breathing which I was which I found comforting until I began to hear the intermittent noise of the cars on the road outside the window which is now keeping me awake and although I am happy because I am alive I would also like to go back to sleep because otherwise I won’t feel so bright in the morning and will complain about the noise of the cars on the road in the night-time and not that I died in my dream which should perhaps bother me more than it will. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY ~ Nikolai Duffy


I wanted to write it all down but I see now that I haven’t.




Thursday, September 8, 2011

FRAYED SKIN, A TASTING



A review of J. Bradley’s “A Patchwork of Rooms Furnished by Mistakes” by David Tomaloff


Most of J. Bradley’s work seems to have in common at least one important and endearing characteristic: J. Bradley can blow your limbs off with sentence-shaped grenades and manage to leave you laughing about it. You will hear yourself say, “But wait, J. Bradley, I think you missed one.” You will gladly hold the last of your precious appendages out toward his mouth, pleading him to finish the job. You will fail to remember the last time you enjoyed bleeding this much. You will wince as the shrapnel penetrates your skin. You will smile.

J. Bradley’s chapbook, A Patchwork of Rooms Furnished by Mistakes (Deckfight Press, 2011), achieves nothing short of this effect. Within the treads of his nine-poem hit-and-run, Bradley fends off emotards, expresses his want for the scoliosis of Greyhound buses, repairs his dresser’s lockjaw with the dentistry of wedding invitations, and threatens to ruin your geometry without showing his work. The latter should not suggest, however, that his work does not show. Between humorous juxtaposition and brilliant, mind-bending surrealism, Bradley’s words manage to eloquently embody the vast human landscapes of regret, anxiety, yearning, and colossal expectation with disarming sincerity:

I will eventually earn
our names on voice mail
greetings and address labels.
I will not lose your laughter
like spare change this time.
(Frequency)
 
and:

I’ll build a bridge to you
out of my mistakes. For once,
I hope I made enough of them.

(To The Rebel Who Stopped Rebelling Against Urban Planning)

You will note you are at once ashamed and relieved to be human. You will hear in your heart the words, “Damn you, J. Bradley,” followed by some random, hollow threat. You will hear your mouth say instead, “Thank you, J. Bradley” and “may I have another?” He may offer gauze and sutures. You will blissfully resist.

Relevant links:
J. Bradley: (http://iheartfailure.net)
Deckfight Press: (http://deckfightpress.tumblr.com)
A Patchwork of Rooms Furnished by Mistakes:
(http://deckfightpress.tumblr.com/post/5626351139/patchworkofrooms)

David Tomaloff (b. 1972) is a writer, photographer, musician, and all around bad influence. His work has appeared in fine publications such as Mud Luscious, >kill author, Thunderclap!, HOUSEFIRE, Prick of the Spindle, DOGZPLOT, elimae, and many more. He is the author of the chapbooks, A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN &REMOVES ITSELF (NAP) Olifaunt (The Red Ceilings Press), EXIT STRATEGIES (Gold Wake Press) and MESCAL NON-PALINDROME CINEMA (Ten Pages Press). He resides in the form of ones and zeros at: davidtomaloff.com

Jesse Bradley's The Juijitsu of Macking and David Tomaloff's Oliphaunt are available to view and download at the Red Ceilings Press

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

the little shed of various lamps ~ Nikolai Duffy



the little shed of various lamps

by Nikolai Duffy
limited edition chapbook [rcp cb10]
A6 44pp 40 copies
£4.00 inc. p&p (UK)

Visit the Red Ceilings Press to see this and the complete catalogue of chapbooks and free eBooks

Friday, September 2, 2011

Andrew seems popular ~ Mark Cobley

Andrew seems popular
~ Mark Cobley

Available from
Knives Forks And Spoons Press











Edward is lazy.


They asked him to swim.


She isn’t careless.


George isn’t a gardener.


She is brave.


Richard didn’t become a red barber.



She is dangerous.

Sarah doesn’t seem so selfish.


I’m not a spy.

Frank hasn’t become a computer programmer.


Matthew hasn’t become a bus driver.

Andrew’s uncle didn’t become a photographer.


Sandra doesn’t look brave.

She isn’t kind.



Catherine will become a police officer.
She isn’t skinny.


He isn’t a bartender.
They aren’t brave.


He isn’t a banker.

He isn’t crazy.



ANDREW SEEMS POPULAR, by MARK COBLEY


ISBN 978-1-907812-64-4



£5.00   23 pages

Broke as a Clean Dick Dog ~ Alex Stolis

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press.
Clean as a Broke Dick Dog by Alex Stolis.
Available on issuu and as pdf
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks.


Friday, August 26, 2011

roadside savants [extract] ~ David e Haase





roadside bermuda triangle

your isosceles
angles positively python
aa gorean

fibonacci flowers
bloom fractal
geometry

tactile gentle
sensory hearthair
is fog-ghost lost



roadside salesman  

his oversized teeth   
sweat & glass eye
wanders & he recalls

those movie moments singing
a gulp of carbonated polymers
sluices nicotine stained mustache

catalog brides machine guns
& prostheses he thrives how to
slick outside my event horizons



roadside whirlygigs

all spins on
road blinding vertigo
cornrows of song
clicking wind
perfect anomalies
sourtilt
centrifugal sunrises  
into pirouette
palsyballet



roadside carnival

& we meet
most by foot
some by me

we pause
against each other
at sepia

split to
different rides
listening the fourth

note between each word
echo unbirthed future



roadside briderunner

her stretchmarks
never go away
she denied forensic petting

virginity of indecision
white silent tonight

her pony tail macrame
windmill swings counter
pointing breasts





David e. Haase, a former Trout Farmer who lost his government subsidy, lives and writes in Denver Colorado. He is has recently been published in Short, Fast and Deadly and In Between Altered States and is forthcoming in Metazen among others.


An ebook of Roadside Savant maybe forthcoming. We hope so.


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

wikipedia says it will pass ~ Diana Salier

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press.
wikipedia says it will pass by Diana Salier.
Available on issuu, as pdf and .mobi (kindle)
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks.



Wednesday, August 17, 2011

New Chapbook out! Building Murder with a Smile ~ Bobby Parker


Building Murder with a Smile by Bobby Parker

limited edition chapbook [rcp cb9]
A6 28pp 40 copies
£3.50 inc. p&p (UK)

visit the Red Ceilings Press to order

Friday, August 12, 2011

poem ~ James McLaughlin


The mind confers

if the red tipped

green eyed Anthurium



sewn in folds

gathered into a sort of white abyss



gives almost a flavour - a reaction

as remit inclination



a nuance forgiven

on each stalk



contained flickering on

a single crystal rain

drop



just ready to die



or bounce

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The Lesson of Furniture ~ Chad Redden

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press. The Lesson of Furniture by Chad Redden.
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks.

selves incorporated ~ Iain Britton






one by one       I stand up

           stand down

                  self helping   

                  self replicating


persons unknown tighten screws in wood

             tighten voices in boxes


silence is fleeting


         in this deep end of the forest

   a parrot tunes up its windpipe

a horse snuffles messages in grass

         a steer locks horns

             with a zodiac punter -       

                
I pace out

          my  peripheral notification

    and keep to the outskirts

    of where I live /       / amongst houses

which burrow out of sight /     
which sprout periscopes each morning


my focus is full on


       beyond the boxed-in estates

               wooden palisades

                   the incestuousness of families

                possession by conquest

a self-centredness

     makes groundbreaking progress


my chimney’s calligraphy

           suggests a shrinking of substance

                   of head space

            of where to stand

                        what’s in it for selves incorporated


 I contaminate the gardens

of my belonging /           I do it silently

as if it were a privilege / a duty / a thing which has to be done /
a necessary marking of carved posts / a smudging on the silver-green
blades of summer’s new grass



domesticity ~ Iain Britton




is a window      a condensation hole for the eye

a shabby curtain


she overthrows a fanatic’s impression

of a blue sky

       sees what I see

   a fountain in the mouth

           of a girl


dolls lined up on a hot day


new clothes already old


she procrastinates

 
 a pleated look is the thing

           the minas spark in confusion


what exits the house
will be far different
from what enters

she pursues          the behavioural habits

of a heavy electric stage band

            which brightens the city

excites streets

the curious of the streets

the walking sleepers

the universal ventriloquists

practising conversations

               on a night’s exhumed corner


    the expectation

is a second-to-none instalment

of living for the minute


she ignores why I’m here

        black hands

            sketching mythologies

   of orchids / white geraniums / a grape vine

                   trapped on a trellis


she’s labelled her garden

          for the hard of sensing

written of love’s pictured pedestal

                   in a ghost story






Iain has forthcoming publications in Moloch Journal, Anything, Anymore, Anywhere and The Black Herald Press.

Oystercatcher Press published his 3rd poetry collection in 2009. Kilmog Press (NZ) and 4th in 2010. The Red Ceilings Press published an ebook 10 Poems earlier this year.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Leap Year ~ CL Bledsoe

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press. Leap Year by CL Bledsoe.
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks.

Monday, August 1, 2011

buff my pylon ~ SJ Fowler



complaining is the central interest of millenial American poetry
as we British poets watch the road for the terror of
the dung beetle to battle with a shitball in the carrot’s groin
who causes us so much fear because we are afraid of getting
the stink on our fingers and accidentally touching the brow
of eyelashes and then sweating black like a robbery so that
corrupted tears stream into our eyes and blind our gift, struck
down like the one walking amongst them folded into a
fucking quitter from a rough area who wasn’t given a chance to
succeed because he was from somewhere and not because he would
watch fifteen hours of television warble catwipe per day and would
n’t know the die blaue wheelbarrow full of newly rescued human
excrement if it hit him in the mouth like a beetle frown though he
does know break neck and untrimmed bush and an appeared smile
so vice versa sleek is his application for funding, his pen like the
intimidating shape of a bouncer, a soldier conditioning just for
Easter and yes it turned his life around, he can afford again, soon to
be parsimonious, kipping hemp & barley ween shouting “hard work
 a mean business” until he daft swift slips and I’ll be happy, the whole
time I was writing anyway and my stuff is solid




from Minimum Security Prison Dentistry available from Anything Anymore Anywhere later this year

don’t buff my pylon ~ SJ Fowler



for b.morris

our general is Gobbles, who gobbles art with a spade
who gobbles a nibless fountain pen, who lives on prize
living winnings, who lives on poorly tendered taxidermied
tits, who lives on no wit, who will dig for bones
who loves the saliva smell around an untrimmed bush
who will give a barrage of mutes, who tests low water quality
I know Ben Morris has dignity but the bilett homosexual
deepcut rape makes me frustrated at my mother-in-law or
something or another pigeon unearthed concerned
and encased in weed & bronze so dinner is finally ready

I have a Hackney Hanuman massage, a rubbing of the monkey
Elvis cancer of the bowels, an iron tire does nothing to halt the snow
towards a peace treaty, toward the siege of Copenhagen and Mikkel’s
bloodshed precum. O kindnesses! thoughts of you & grime music
pussyole apparently useless as a bus driver report
about being warm & smiling while peacefully asleep
while finding courage for the hardest yard, where the pink
& furry Shawnee Renee in the most charming of places
cannot fail like the acoustic guitar, a dead instrument
read the fingers, read the lettered tattoo Legavim Huy
Voram Soboda: to trashcops the dick, to thieves freedom.
Lublu Halvu Varenie Sahar: I like halva, marmalade, sugar.




from Minimum Security Prison Dentistry available from Anything Anymore Anywhere later this year

window licker ~ S J Fowler



Can we move-in together
            please, to Elephant + castle?
like lions, live free
            vows renewed in paradise
soon our civil service will be done
            & we might couple in choice
our love compelled, sealocked
            we love like pirates
we might soon love in lieu of women
            and her dastardly gap
will we be unused to must, & slackness?
            will we, hard cons, be able to fag?
I know of my own love, rock
            very well, you my soft fox
my hot fock, what have I left
            but hope of high rises & fresh luck







from Minimum Security Prison Dentistry available from Anything Anymore Anywhere later this year
 

Fights ~ SJ Fowler



SJ Fowler’s new collection ‘Fights’ is now available to order from Veer books via Paypal at Veer Books. The book is £9.00 + £0.80 If paying by paypal use the payee address ESTAPHIN@HOTMAIL.COM
(Stephen Mooney – editor of Veer).

Arcadian ~ Simon Howard



You live near where you live
& a scattering of beaks & a claw
is exemplary a coolness & tears
jaggededly melting in the sun

scratch the words & consider
negation of negation. A field shimmers
= putrid glass. You know you are
imaginary & laugh like laughter.

At the conclusion
music shifts some trees a little & makes them this insubstantial.
You've slept in dangerous rooms
though I'm un-beautiful.






More of Simon's work can be found here

Friday, July 29, 2011

Uncle Salvador's Cigar ~ Gordon Mason



The limited edition chapbook, Uncle Salvador's Cigar by Gordon Mason is now available from the Red Ceilings Press website. Lovely!

Friday, July 22, 2011

This is not Poetry. #poetry ~ Joseph A. W. Quintela

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press. 
This is not Poetry. #poetry by Joseph A. W. Quintela.
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks.



Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Juijitsu of Macking ~ Jesse Bradley

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press. 
The Juijitsu of Macking by Jesse Bradley
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks


The Red Ceilings Press reviewed







Andy Spragg's The fleetingest, David Berridge's BLACK GARDENS and Nathan Thompson's Questions for Painters are given the once over by the fine Mr Colin Herd in the wonderful 3:AM Magazine...

Friday, July 8, 2011

Rear Naked Choke ~ Jesse Bradley




I diagnosed myself with a severe
crush on you. The only treatment:
holding your hand and slow dancing
to the sound of something random.


I’ve got a brown belt in the jujitsu
of macking. Your sentences
get past my guard easily.


When you ask me which member
of the Wu-Tang Clan I’ll do it like,
I’ll answer “Old Dirty Bastard”,
not because I like it raw though.
Being beneath you will make me
loudly inarticulate.




Jesse Bradley's free ebook The Jujitsu of Macking will be available on the Red Ceilings Press website very soon.





inspired remnants ~ Howie Good

New free ebook out on the Red Ceilings Press. 
inspired remnants by Howie Good
Visit the website for the complete list of ebooks and limited edition chapbooks