Featuring Scott Wozniak

The Way the Universe Intended

I’ve lived

under the pretence

I’d die young

and leave

a good looking

corpse.

With age extended

and opportunity

lost, I now see

how dull

that sounds.

My new goal

is to leave

the most gnarled,

no organ usable,

scared,

bruised,

beat up

carcass

cemetery gates

will ever see.

I want morticians

to have nightmares

from the sight

of my remains,

I want Earth

to gag

as I’m lowered

in my grave,

I want worms

to be nauseous

at the thought

of digesting

my flesh,

I want hard living

and bad decisions

to read

like an epitaph

on my corpse.

Risky Mark

Walking

in the ghetto

alone, caring

about nothing

but a fix

is dangerous.

But when demonic

orchestras

are composing

anguish

on decomposing

bones,

even the blind

can see

you’ll take them

to hell

with you

if that’s

all it takes

to kill

the conductor

and silence

this symphony

of discord.

As Death Begs

Death is sitting

on the sidewalk

against a storefront—

knees pulled up,

head sagging,

arms outstretched,

hands cupped—

begging for change.

He’s dressed

like a bum

I see there

daily.

Not one person

in this city

has noticed

as they walk by

him, except me.

And I’m too busy

chasing Chiva—

Death’s cheap catalyst—

out the pockets

of Mexicans

to give a shit,

either.

Chew, Motherfucker

Panic stricken,

clawing the wind

searching

for an exit,

yet afraid

to gnaw bone

clamped on

by the trap

you’ve set

and sprung.

The time

has now come

to chip teeth

and taste

blood.

That’s How We Rolled

When I was a kid

There was four of us

that ran around

together every day—

We drove a homemade

two stroke

lawn mower engine

Go-cart, all of us

taking turns

racing around

the neighborhood

on wheels stolen

from the kid on the block

we called, “faggot.”

We made a scrap wood

lemonade stand

out of lumber taken

from construction sites,

then tricked a girl

we called, “freak”

into drinking our piss.

We ding-dong ditched

the Asian neighbor

Billy’s dad called, “gook,”

after filling bags with shit

to leave on his porch,

then lit them on fire

and went running

to hide in bushes

where we laughed

as he stomped.

We even tricked

the “Brainiac” kid

(who was always in his house

doing things

we didn’t understand,)

into believing

we wanted

to play.

We invited him

to my backyard,

and when he got there

we kicked his ass,

then sent him running home

bleeding and crying.

I don’t think any of us

intended

to be malicious,

I just think none of us

wanted to be the victim

who got stuff stolen,

drank piss,

stomped on shit,

or ass kicked

for no reason other than

being different.

We were your average

Middle America kids

raised to believe

cruelty crushes fear

and might is right.

So we got everything

that scared us

by being different

before it

could get us.

After all, isn’t that

the American way?

Bio: Scott Wozniak is a poet, short story writer, and chaos enthusiast. He works can be found wondering like lost bastard children both online and in the real world, if you find one please keep it warm. Also, his latest chapbook collection needs a home, if you have a press with room for a vagrant or would like more info about him, please go to: https://about.me/swozniak

Book Review: Karl Koweski Blood And Greasepaint. Epic Rites Press, 2010 (205 pages).

I finally got around to closely reading this book in my grand tour of Epic Rites publications. This is an unusual collection of 11 loosely linked short stories set in South Chicago and Alabama. Koweski grew up in Chicago and moved to Alabama in 1996 where “he became the 432^nd Alabama resident to read a book”, according to his biography.

The title story ‘Blood and Greasepaint at the Tombstone Bar and Grille’ is the opening short story in the collection. This isn’t your typical bar story and will blow you away. The local drunks decide to take on a troupe of crazy-ass mimes studying nearby in the strip mall at the Marcel Marceau School for Kinetic Expression. Things turn ape-shit in the ensuing surreal battle royal. Some lame Cubs jokes are tossed into this broth of insanity. Find the first publication of this story at WhirliggZine here: http://www.whirligigzine.com/2.0_karlkoweski.html

In a good slab of the book, Koweski satirises the Alabama community he has migrated to as a young adult. ‘Rebel’, ‘Eli Whittaker’s Super Fantastic Family Circus’ and ‘Give Satan An Inch and He’ll Swear He’s a Ruler’ and especially ‘Big Angry Cocks’ are hilarious stories which send up racoon hunting, dodgy circus performers, a mock mass exorcism which goes terribly wrong and deep south cock-fighting, respectively.

Five short stories are told from children’s perspectives. The kid’s are typically nasty and foul-mouthed from the south side of Chicago. The stories realistically reveal the hateful underbelly of children who had to grow up tough. ‘Nervous Harold and the Implausible Impala Incident’, ‘The Great Ice Cream Truck Robbery’, ‘The Great Funeral Home Candy Bar Heist’ and ‘The Great St. Casimir Hard Liquor Theft’ are wonderful unsanitised takes on growing up.

The last story in the collection ‘Ill Gotten Gains’ is about what happened to the kids in the south Chicago stories as young adults. They have turned to a life of break & enter & thievery- without a moment of regret or empathy for their victims or co-criminals.

This is an uneven but highly original collection of short stories. The language is simple but will constantly surprise you. I love Pablo Vision’s front & back covers. Karl Koweski’s head is on the block ready to be judged by you!

Buy the book here: http://www.epicrites.org/uploads/4/7/9/8/4798714/press_release_greasepaint_pm_print_final.pdf

Find a September 2015 interview at Blotterature with Karl Koweski here: http://blotterature.com/2015/09/13/blot-lit-reviews-an-interview-with-karl-koweski/

Book Review: Wolfgang Carstens (poems) & Janne Karlsson (illustrations) RENTED MULE. NightBallet Press, Elyria Ohio, 2015 (38 pages).

In this latest collaboration between the Canadian poet Wolfgang Carstens and the Swedish artist Janne Karlsson, the ambitious duo use Carstens' recent work experiences to satirise the world of low-paid, low status retail jobs which have mushroomed throughout the Western world in the last 30 years as a result of globalisation and the gutting of our manufacturing heartlands. The writing is characteristically first person from Carstens’ perspective and is highly accessible. Karlsson’s weird minimalistic illustrations wonderfully capture Carstens’ quirky ideas.

The opening poem in the chapbook ‘i’ve been self-employed for over two decades’ quickly establishes the context for the reader. To help support his family the speaker Carstens, cuts his hair, shaves his beard and gets “a real job” at MegaMart, a pseudonym for one of the many superstores like WalMart that now inhabit our neighbourhoods. In Karlsson’s accompanied illustration, Carstens stands in a state of shock surrounded by his family. His wife lovingly adjusts his tie and his kids snigger in bemusement at seeing their father in a suit. Most of the 20 poems and 15 illustrations which follow mockingly focus on the demoralising and humiliating effect the work at MegaMart has on Carstens.

What distinguishes Carstens writing from most contemporary poets, is that he does not wallow in a fog of perpetual despair, but over a series of books, he has carefully crafted his own brand of wry humour.  Much of the humour in the collection is anecdotal in form and stems from a variety of work place incidents. Carstens employs every tool in his poetic kit to reinforce his ideas and to prod and to sometimes wallop our funny bones. The types and forms of humour he uses varies from poem to poem. The humour is largely situational and often the poems weave towards an acerbic punch-line. The low-status and pay of the job, the nature of the retail trade, the quirky demands of his customers and the eccentricities of his fellow workers all become targets of Carstens’ venomous pen.

In a recent conversation, Carstens says that his move into humour was inspired by some of the most staunch stalwarts of his Epic Rites Press venture, "It wasn't until I started working with Karlsson that I started to really explore my strength at humour. I have always been the guy who puts everyone in stitches, who always has a quick sarcastic response, but it was Karlsson who kept pushing me to write funny poems. At some point I compromised and merged my seriousness with humour. Saying that, I can say that John Yamrus has taught me many things, like getting the author involved in the poem, and, to a degree, (along with my friendship with Rob Plath) in learning what not to say, but with humour, or better, the choice to work with humour, I credit to Karlsson." Carstens concludes, "In thinking about it, my humour really took root in FACTORY REJECT and my influence was the work of Henry Denander, my favourite poet."

In the poem ‘I think’ from which the title RENTED MULE emerges, Carstens uses irony to express the exploitive way he views his status as an employee at MegaMart. He complains to a fellow worker that his name tag has been spelt wrong. He caustically adds, “it should say/ rented mule.” In ‘is there’ a customer returns a fan because his wife “doesn’t think/ six inches/ is big enough.” In a characteristic deadpan, sexual innuendo Carsten replies, “they never/do// they never/ fucking/do.” In ‘is this net’ his wife examines his pay stub and asks whether the amount is net or gross. In a mordant pun he replies, “i work/ at MegaMart,// it’s all/ gross.” In ‘i need’ a customer enters the store and wants a replacement light bulb for his stove, probably from the 1950s. In a light-hearted quip, Carstens tells him, “I think/ we should start/ in electrical// because/ clearly we need/ to build/ a time machine.”

In some of the stronger poems, Carstens makes more significant social or political statements. In ‘everyone’ most of the staff at MegaMart hates their job & frequently talk about revolution, of walking out “if things don’t change/ around here.” Carstens satirical points out the gulf between the workers’ threatening words and their eventual inaction and how “nothing/ ever changes.” Karlsson’s sketch of middle class workers linked together by a chain around their necks hyperbolically reinforces the idea that they are trapped and powerless, mere  slaves to the system.

Another powerful poem ‘how to tie a half-Windsor knot’ is a parody of an instruction manual on how to hang yourself. The grim, black humoured poem provides us with a surprise ending which likens the work at MegaMart with dangling from the end of a rope:

carefully tighten knot

with both hands

stand on a chair

throw wide end

over ceiling beam

and fasten securely.

kick away chair

and dangle

forty to sixty

hours per week.

Perhaps the best poem is the last in the collection entitled ‘some men.’ Through juxtaposition, Carstens reflects on how some men devote “their entire lives” to “creating great works of art” or “contemplating/ the fundamental questions/ of existence, ” whereas he has squandered his life at MegaMart “doing unimportant things/ for unimportant people/ that will never be remembered.” Ironically, when he dies, he wishes to be buried with his name tag on a hill overlooking his former employer MegaMart. Karlsson’s illustration shows us a faceless MegaMart building in a lifeless field. Carstens’ headstone reads: “over worked, under paid, and, as always fifteen minutes early.”

RENTED MULE is a tight and original collection. The chapbook is printed on textured, pale of grey paper and is beautiful to hold. Purchase the book here: http://nightballetpress.blogspot.com.au/2015/10/presenting-rented-mule-poems-by.html

Featuring John D Robinson

Update: 4 March 2017: More new poems

Rated M (15+)

AFTER READING SHE SAID

‘Do you have to use that word?’

I knew the word she referenced

but just for the fucking hell of it

I asked ‘What word?’

‘the C word’ she said

‘Cunt’ I said

‘Yeah’ she said ‘You really

have to use that word?’

‘Well, I couldn’t think of a

more vile and vicious and

suitable word that I could use

to capture the subject of the

poem’ I replied;

after a few moments,

 she slowly

nodded her head, perhaps

beginning to understand that

‘cunt’ was probably the right

choice of word to use to use

for this particular asshole

manager.

SHE WAS

She was tall and blonde

with big tits and long

creamy legs and I never

played and sucked on

those big tits and I never

got between those

wonderful long legs,

she was a friend of mine,

I was a friend of hers,

we had partners and

families, it was like

being hand-cuffed to

something so special

that something as basic

as fucking one another

would have

repercussions

way beyond our

imaginations.

THE BAR BULLSHITTER

‘I finger-fucked her a

few nights ago’ he told

me grinning and then

looked over at the

woman I was drinking

with,

‘Maybe you’d like to

tell her husband that,

he’ll be here shortly’

I replied draining the

Jim Bean chaser;

‘What the fuck did that

asshole just tell you?’

 asked the woman

I was drinking with;

‘Why don’t you ask

him yourself’

I suggested and then

we both looked over,

but it was too late,

the barstool was vacant.

Older stuff from 1 Jan 2016:


THE TOUGH GUY

In my mid teens and into my early twenties

I used to think of myself as one of the

tough guys where ever I worked;

in the army, in the factories and warehouses and

supermarkets and restaurants and

government work placements, but

the construction sites proved to be

an awakening;

I found that most guys were twice

my age, twice my height and weight,

they worked twice

as hard and drank twice as much and

fought twice as hard as I;

very unwisely,

one hot July afternoon, I became

involved in a verbal altercation

with one of these guys,

which very quickly escalated into a

potential scene of carnage;

it took 5 guys to hold my assailant

back and stop him

from ripping me

apart, limb from limb

and it took 2 guys to hold me back

from running away

and as the situation began to cool and

tempers levelled out,

and my heart dropped back

into its regular beat,

I thought of something

that Outlaw legend president

Sonny Barger

once said,

“Everyone’s a tough guy,

until they meet one”

HAVING A DRINK WITH THE OLD MAN

I had left her in bed

it was early morning

and we needed a loaf of bread;

by chance or fate

or bad luck we met

and he asked

“Do you fancy a drink?”

“Of course” I said

“Where?” he asked

“Your choice” I answered;

we ended up on a ferry crossing the

channel to Belgium and for three days

and nights we stayed

drunk and crazy and

slept a few hours in a bus depot and we

staggered into carnivals

and danced with

nuns and kissed the

hands of fat barmaids

and then

3 days later  returned home,

weak and fragile and vulnerable

but my lady was angry, very angry;

“You bastard! I’ve been phoning hospitals

and police stations for

3 fucking days, I didn’t know if you were

dead or alive!”

she screamed

“You’re a lousy

thoughtless bastard

and you didn’t even

bring back a fucking
loaf of bread!”.

THESE DAYS

These days I rarely listen to

anything else but soft

classical music or silence;

but occasionally I need a rush

of something electric;

recently I tuned into a

black and white You Tube film

of Jimi Hendrix, live in

Stockholm in 1969;

15 minutes of Voodoo Chile,

a quarter of an hour of

absolute mastery, beautiful

and strange, the guy was on

another fucking planet; a

genius no doubts;

this film has had, and counting;

over 2000 000 hits;

for souls who have time and

no imagination there is a

global opportunity to give the

film a ‘thumbs up’ or a

‘thumbs down’

271 people, and possibly

counting have given a thumbs

down;

now I would suggest that

these ‘thumb downers’

be hunted down,

beaten and then questioned

as to why the thumbs down

because if these 271 people

see fit to give

Jimi Hendrix

in his creative prime

the thumbs down

then none of us,

no matter what we do

or how well we do it,

stand a fucking chance.

WHEN UNCLE VISITED

My little sister had to

give up her bedroom

and share mother’s bed,

father slept it off down

stairs and I was left

alone in my box-room;

we were told he was

an uncle

but he was a hobo bum

drinker my drunken

father met and felt sorry

for and brought him

home for a couple

of days warm comfort;

within hours we were

smothered in flea bites;

mother and father

argued behind closed

doors, but uncle

stayed and he smelt

terrible and he was

filthy and he was old

and toothless and he

ate food noisily and

never spoke a word

to my sister and I;

uncle didn’t say

goodbye, he just

disappeared after 3

days;

mother called in a

pest control company

and my sister returned

to her bedroom

and uncle was never

seen again;

father vanished on

a 4 day drunk and

then returned with the

usual remorse and

alcoholic tears and

promises; no more

visiting uncles.

DANGEROUS

Standing at the urinal,

my dick in my right hand;

half-way through, my

mobile sounded; with my

left hand I fish inside my

leather jacket, jiggling

and wriggling this way

and that and finally

retrieve the thing and

then I thumb a pad

and say “Yeah?”

“Hi; are you okay?” she

asks;

“Well, I’ve got my hands

full at the moment” I say

“Where are you? I can hear

an echo” she says;

“I’m taking a piss in a

supermarket crapper” I say

I look down at my shoes

and noticed I’d splashed

them; I glance over

at the guy in the next

urinal and for some

reason I wink at him;

he frowns, quickly zips

up and disappears;

“Are you there?” she

asks “I need some

cigarettes”

“They’re bad for you”

I say

“So are you” she says

I don’t argue.

“Okay” I say and

terminating the call

I zip up, wash my

hands knowing that I

am more dangerous

than a pack of cigarettes

and I step back into

the supermarket feeling

invincible as I join

the queue with the

other nicotine addicts.

IN THE CORRIDOR

I have known Christine

for a decade or more;

working with her on

2 or 3 occasions;

recently in the corridors

of a hospital we met again

but she didn’t recognise

me and when I

explained who I was

and how I’d helped

her in the past,

she looked me up and

down suspiciously

and she shook her

head and asked

“Are you the REAL

John Robinson?”

“Yes I am” I said

“What’s happened to you?

you’ve let yourself go!

you look awful! but I can

help you” she said

“How can you help me

Christine?” I asked

“I can go to my room

and get a jar of cream and

put some all over your

face and cover up all

those scars and cuts and

blisters” she said

seriously,

“Thank you” I said

“But I’ll be okay”

“Are you sure you’re

the REAL John Robinson?”

she asked again

“I’m not too sure now”

I said

“My grandfather was

Willo the Wisp and I

can prove it; I’ve got his

birth certificate” she

said walking away and

then she turned and

said “You’ve let

yourself go! the real

John Robinson wouldn’t

do that; he wouldn’t

look shitty”

It wasn’t yet 09.30 a.m.

and maybe Christine

was right about some

things but I was sure

it wasn’t about

‘Willow the Wisp’.

KING’S PRESLEY & BODENHEIM

It could be seen as

undignified

to die on the crapper

but saints and geniuses

frequently

die

in the most

strangest of

ways

and

places;

thinking of

Villon or Chatterton

or Harry Crosby or

Hart Crane or

Harry Fainlight or

James D Quinton

Or

Jesus of Nazareth;

but mostly now

I think of

Maxwell Bodenheim;

an early 20th century

sleazy alcoholic angel

of poetry and prose;

10 books of poetry

13 novels

in a decade or so

of money

and parties and a

couple of marriages

and friends and

supporters like

Doris Day and

E E Cummings;

and then it all crashed;

WW II changed everything

and his works went out

of fashion, unwanted,

and he became a derelict

alcoholic in NYC and

he’d peddle his poems

for shots and married

a young whore in her

20’s and he was 60

and homeless and she

sold sex and one

bitterly cold freezing

february night in 1957

refuge was taken in

a flop-house with a

deranged dishwasher;

who fucked Bodenheim’s

wife; shot the poet

twice and then stabbed

the young wife 4 times

in the back and

escaped with a life-time

in a secure hospital;

and Presley,

he had his own ride

on

food

women

prescription drugs

and a

shattered heart

that exploded in

august 1977;

despite

this,

Presley Inc

rock and rolls on

and

Max Bodenheim

lays in traces

of dust

in a

new jersey cemetery;

forgotten

mostly.

See also 2020 Feature here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2020/06/featuring-john-d-robinson.html

 

More poems 27 April 2022 here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2022/04/new-poems-john-d-robinson.html

BIO:

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began writing aged 16 and 1st poem published a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small presses and numerous online Journals including Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, The Kitchen Poet, The Commonline Journal, The Chicago Record, Mad Swirl, Poetic Diversity, Horror Sleaze and Trash, Pulsar, The Clockwise Cat, Your One Phone Call, Zombie Logic Review, Poetry Super Highway and promises from Ink Sweat & Tears, Message In A Bottle, The Legendary, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; he is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats and 1 dog; he likes to drink copious amounts of wine and stare into dark skies.