Browsing All Posts filed under »Writing«

Dogs

June 15, 2009

3

Tonight I leave New York forever. I'm on Christopher street, the half litre of vodka decanted into my old jogging bottle and the plan is this – History day – I am history - I will stand beneath the triumphal Arch on which Duchamp in 1913 declared the Free Republic of Greenwich Village. I'll have a double in the bar on 11th where Dylan Thomas had his last. Another double in Café Wa on McDougal where Hendrix played and Ginsberg ranted. By Ewan Morrison.

Three Poems

May 18, 2009

1

I don’t blame you / Well maybe a little / Another reason I keep talking / Like I had a theory of everything / And why you think to live for ever / No great shakes / Too many full moons you say. By Paul Perry.

Four Little Pieces

April 24, 2009

1

Marion Bloom was standing in the middle of Clare Street, in the drizzle, watching them both. She was clearly unimpressed, and frowned, as she slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith. On glimpsing her, Stephen tried to make amends and appeal to her more merciful side. He held her steady-eyed gaze. “The heart is capable of great sacrifice. It is able to forgive and repair itself,” he said softly. “It is the same with the vagina,” said Marion Bloom, biting into the last piece of soft scone, hungrily. By Graham Bendel.

Red Tips

April 20, 2009

0

It was all so friggin simple, wasn’t it, back then. All us young shites, seven year olds running havoc around the estate, putting the craps up the old folks setting our crackers off behind them like that, driving our mams wild walking dogshit into the house, or letting off stinkbombs, not sure which smelled worse, but all the friggin same we were loved. Don’t you think? Or am I remembering it with a bit too much rose tint? By Martin Reed.

Three Poems

April 20, 2009

1

You mistake my head for a cantaloupe. Your mouth is speed metal against dry chalkboards. I dig your inner thighs out of my ears. I wear what’s left of you. By J. Bradley.

Thanksgiving

April 13, 2009

0

I don’t want to talk about bars, the people who go to bars the endless interesting events that don’t occur in bars when you’re actually in the bar but, rather, happen after you leave or years before you arrived. It’s a tired and trite subject, and I very much want you to like me. It’s a new country with new teeth, and I want that new teeth reflection on me before my amazing looks disappear, leaving me tear stained, and dimly poisoned, merely good looking. I want us to get along. Like coal miners in depleted air. By Zachary Lipez.

Deep Blue (Sea)

April 13, 2009

0

Gigi's mother, for the most part, is not like other mother's. She has respected the fact that Gigi's room belongs to her and so does not creep around like her friends' mothers' do in their rooms. Gigi does not smoke cigarettes. She is not hiding condoms, or birth control pills. She does not hoard magazines with bare chested boys who look sullen, but lovely, nonetheless. No, Gigi does none of those things. Gigi hides piss soaked sheets, dried stiff, balled up under her bed until she has the house to herself and she can wash them. Her small bedroom sometimes smells like ammonia. Sometimes like maple syrup. Gigi thinks the smell has come to "define her." By Michelle Reale.