Featuring Mendes Biondo

So goodnight

don't say goodnight to me
don't say it now
because you told me once
that the day really ends 

only with the last goodnight
and today is so gay

I don't want to sleep
that's why I'm continuing talking 

after your goodnight

I want to break this spell
but you are my seer
you are my witch
so I can't stop your magic

so goodnight

 Beauty Can Shine Everywhere In Hell

sliding scales are nothing but fat oil

plastic smell

rusty steel

asses of men and women

going up and down

if you're in the tube

add sweat

trolleys

shoppers

smart phones glued to the hands of people

madness in general

but sliding scales were the only place where

I can french kiss you

without issues

once we got into a fashion shop

I don't remember what they were selling

I suppose you don't remember it too

but your eyes full of desire are

still in my mind

when you suddenly asked me

would you like to go upstairs?

I asked you

why? what's there

kisses and hugs

that's what we found

and the edge of your skin

hidden by a fluffy shirt

I massaged your hips

your nipples getting hard

I wanted to have sex with you everywhere

when we were on that stairway

you told me

few minutes later

so we got home

and we reached our eden

 Oinking At The Moon

some people need a mask
to hide their face
in front of mud
shit
blood
and other human things

they mask themselves
when they write an e-mail
or a poem
or they simply breath 

maybe they want to burp
but they can't do it
without the right mask

I knew a lot of them
from politicians to clerks

they all called me the pork

you have no fear to enjoy life
you pork
you smell of sex wine women
tits and asses
you love eating tasty food
and you don't care of how
we judge your behavior

well it's all true
I love the juice of life
it's short the time I've got to pass here
and there are a lot of good things to do

but 

when I prey
making love to my beloved
she kisses me
she calls the name of many gods
I know something happened
something good and right

this pork broke his ribs
pain is the music of that gospel song
this pork saw the stars
with no masks on his face

stardust on my gaze
cleaned the dirt
gave me wings
and a pearl necklace 

for you

From The Open Window of A Church

the black dress of the priest

ingnites when flower blossomed days come

the white habits of the nuns

feel the spring tickling on their bodies

            so the coloured camisoles 

            so the shorts

            so the stained caps of children

the jubilant cries of the community 

the liturgy of nature 

the misunderstanding of religion

            a cleaning from panic dirty feelings

wondering about life 

through the leaded glass of the old church

suddendly 

it's cold winter

the windows are closed

the frozen air must rest out

the heat should be preserved in

            a church is not an house

            there's not a family in there

            with hearts and bodies always hot

            to warm the rotten walls

the church is a cold place where stands

the holy scent of incense 

where men belive to find

what stands out 

and now is elating

and now is dying

            now it's summer

            now it's winter

out of the windows

nature watches men

with her shining eyes

she stands outside the windows

awaiting for our coming

far from paternoster

far from avemaria

from genuflections

from holy ghosts

from transustanzializations

            offers are well accepted

poperysms and scismas

god and christ and his cross

from sadness that death brings

and joy that birth brings

and marriages

and confessions

and communions

and consecrations

            nature is out there

            with sun and with snow

nature is out from that open window

and there she stands 

for us

 BIO

Mendes Biondo is an Italian poet. His works appeared on Visual Verse, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Literary Yard, Angela Topping Hygge Feature, Indigent A La Carte, Alien Buddha Zine, Rust Belt Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, The BeZine, Scrittura Magazine, The Song Is, Poetry Pasta and other magazines. He is one of the editors of The Ramingo's Porch and PpigpenN. He is the author of "Spaghetti & Meatballs - Poems for Hot Organs" (Pski's Porch Publishing), “Where Hot Rod Rides” (Cajun Mutt Press),and “Young, Cruel and Angry Was The Night” (Holy & Intoxicated Press).

A Jack Henry Book Review: Justin Booth, The Luckiest Man.Blue Horse Press (2019)

 I love finding a new poet.  

A poet that kicks and screams and bares all.  I really love that.

I didn't know of Justin Booth until I returned to writing and reading poetry in the last few months.  Back in the day we had glorious mySpace and now, in 2019, we are stuck with Facebook. It's a troubling platform for any number of reasons but it allows me to find poets I have never read.

A mutual friend of Justin and I recommended I look for out his work and I did. A simple search led me to something called The Luckiest Man.  Sight unseen I bought it from a well-hated online supplier and in two days I held it in my hands.

Certainly reviewing poetry is no simple task and my approach is as random as it can get.  I carry the book with me everywhere I go.  More out of a love of the physicality of a book, the weight and the smell, but also because I need to be in a particular moment to enjoy poetry, to absorb it and let it sink into the gray matter.  You never know when that kicks in.

And while pretentious sounding, it is true.  Between meetings at work I read the first 18 pages of The Luckiest Man and I had to set it down.

From "Before:"

Before I served time

in prisons and jails for

offending the dignity

of Arkansas laws,

before I ate spreads

of ramen and Cheetos

and lit cigarettes from

outlets high up

on the wall behind the t.v.,

Rough, raw, and real. I wanted to quote the whole poem as it is the keynote of the book.  It is the message about who the writer is, what he is about, and where everything will end up.  The poem starts in the now and moves backward, before all the bullshit, angst, and trouble, back to the innocence of being Momma's boy.  And there is a keen sense of innocence throughout.

From "My Best Girl:"

She comes by

when she needs

to feel beautiful or

loved or

just needs 

to feel,

and I 

tell her

I love her

the most

and that

she is

my best girl. 

Booth's style is straight-ahead, no bullshit writing.  I imagine he writes very fast, from brain to fingers to done.  He does not delve deep into any stylistic trappings and that is a good thing.

Much of The Luckiest Man concerns a trip to NYC and adventures therein.  Some of the strongest pieces are simple snapshots in the moment. There is a great beauty in that approach.

From "Walking Through Harlem:"

            The Rowhouses stand watch

            over single speaker Dominican music

            played on transistor radios,

            the neighborhood statesmen

            in camp chairs with beers

            and pretty girls

            leaned in doorways

            talking too loud on the phone

In all I read the book 5 times.  I had to. Each read led to something new, something to think about, something to ponder, and that's exactly what a poet must do. Engage the reader, grab them, hold them, and scream in your face.

In all The Luckiest Man is a solid book of poetry, one that should be on your bookshelf.  It has power in the raw emotion of the writing.  It is true the writing and the words that make the impact, rather than an archetype of someone else.

In the end small press poets are often missed, hell poetry in general is often missed but Justin Booth's The Luckiest Man should not.

jack henry

jackhenry.wordpress.com

INTERVIEW WITH GEORGE DOUGLAS ANDERSON 21 AUGUST 2019

The poet and publisher John D. Robinson asks George Anderson a few questions about his new chapbook Fuckwits & Angels(Holy & Intoxicated Press, UK) and about his writing in general.

I like the title of the chapbook Fuckwits & Angels, where did this come from ? What or who inspired it?

The title is originally from a much larger manuscript which collected over a 110 of my portrait poems written over a period of about twenty years. Most of the poems were previously published in small press journals, many of which have since folded. I assembled the book a couple of years ago but never submitted the manuscript for publication. Only about three of the poems survive in the Holy & Intoxicated publication from the original manuscript.

Fuckwits is a kind of sampler of a handful of my portrait poems. Some are old, some are new and have never been published. I'm, of course, viewing humanity on a smaller, more personal scale. There are some wayward, crazed characters portrayed in the chap, but you will also find others innocent of their circumstances, or mired in grief or dope.

  

Have you a routine or a particular process when writing? Are you a creature of habit? Do you write poetry everyday?

I don’t write creative stuff everyday but rather tend to bank up material, in the form of brief notes or titles to be re-visited at a later date. When I'm ready, I sometimes type up a first draft in the notebook section of my phone, then email it to myself for further drafting, if required.


The hustle of writing & publishing poetry can become all-consuming and it can prevent you from simply enjoying life rather than trying to capture it in words. My early poem 'words' (2002) explores this dilemma:

words

How beautiful how refreshing 

it is one day  to wake up

without any poetic notions, or impulses;

simply to let life be

without pretence without ambition-

without words

to simply watch the cloudless sky

to feel the head wind on the shore

to silently contemplate 

that thin blue line where sea meets sky

you pedal  down the track

without any thought of reducing it all to words,

to a smattering of images or symbols

but as you get off your bike

& wordlessly focus on the sea-

it swoops down upon you, unexpected

from somewhere- the words soiling you,

seeping out of you   once again

When did you begin to write poesy? What was the trigger?

A security guard friend of mine died in his early 40s from oesophagus cancer from drinking too much of a popular cola soft drink. He drank about 4 litres a day and often experienced reflux. It was traumatic seeing him being transformed from a 270 pound giant to a 60 pound weeping nothing. I went to his viewing with my boys and wife and we were horrified! Afterwards, I kept telling myself I got to get some of this shit down before it’s too late. The poem, which became known as 'A View of a Friend' was incredibly difficult to write and went through many transformations, including a recent rewrite.

Does the ongoing time and hard work with Bold Monkey have an impact upon the time you dedicate to your own work?

I see Bold Monkey as an extension of my own creative work. The blog first developed as a showcase for my own poetry and photography but as it evolved, I started writing criticism of small press publications in 2007 to see if I could write the stuff, and later, in 2013, to feature the work of writers whom I admired.

In the blog, I have encountered many highly accomplished writers and it has been challenging and rewarding to see if I can make sense of, and especially, to give justice to their work in detailed critical reviews. Most of the writers I review are marginal and hugely undervalued and you usually won't find any substantial body of analysis of their work. So usually my book reviews start from scratch and often involve an interview with the writer or a series of email exchanges with them to get a better heads-up of what they are trying to do for my small BM readership.I like to develop both my creative and analytical writing so I really don’t see Bold Monkey as hampering my creative side.

Your poems are very grounded and personal, direct: how do feel giving so much of yourself away upon the page?

Great question! I could probably ask you the same John. Although I include many auto-biographical references in my work, the writing is essentially fictional. Over the years I have learnt to distant myself from the rawness of real experiences through the use of pseudonyms, composite characters and events, third person narratives, dramatic irony and other devices. 

The poem “Scattering Bob’s Ashes” in the chap, however, is more direct and confronting. It is about my trip to Nova Scotia in 2015 after my brother’s death. I was totally gutted by the experience. I tried to recreate the event as accurately as possible. There were a few minor edits but the poem came out in one flow. 

The poem "Miracle of a Beer Kind", although less edifying, is also is based on a real event. I try to focus on creating a clear image in the reader's head so they can imagine they are witnesses to the experience. The language is usually simple, pared back and has a sense of immediacy to enhance the effect.

How important is publishing your work, either online or in print?

If I publish some of my work I’m usually pleased- you get a momentary buzz but as you know, it doesn’t usually equate to many dollars or fame. Ultimately, I'm always looking towards the next poem- and the poem or story after that. At the moment, I am working towards collecting some of my best previously published poems in larger books. 

I don’t fear rejection but I’m deeply suspicious of the growing trend of publishers to charge a reading fee. Sometimes for a laugh, I will submit material which will certainly be rejected like the following satiric poem, which was sent to a well known online publication:

This One is For Free

Most readers,

consumers 

want everything

for free

these days.

Newspapers & magazines

are massively shedding

staff. Others have folded. 

Independent presses are drying up.

Most things are available now online

with the flick of a finger.

I tell you dear reader the best 

I can offer you now is this humble poem.

There may not be very much to it

in substance 

in style

or effort-

but you get what you pay for

you cheap prick!


Any favourite small press poets/publishers/publications that you’d like to mention?

In my early reviews I was highly impressed by Epic Rites Press and later by Lummox Press and a few others. My favourite contemporary writers would have to include Rob Plath, Wolfgang Carstens, John Yamrus, Bill Gainer, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, William Taylor Jr., Mather Schneider, John Sweet, Janne Karlsson, Joseph Ridgwell, Matthew Borazon and many others, including yourself. I reckon Brian Rihlmann is an upcoming writer to watch.

What has been the most difficult or awkward moment for you in this, what John Grochalski calls ‘this poetry business’.

I have never actively sought to publish a full-length collection of my work but I was approached several years ago by an underground American press to submit material for a possible book. I sent about 150 pages of material. The book was not ground-breaking but it represented some of my better work and used a wide variety of styles and voices. I felt burnt for a couple of weeks when the deal eventually fell through. 

I’ve since realised this is quite common in the fickle world of non-subsidised literature and many a poet since have told me they have had a similar story or two.  

What is the highlight for you in this poetry business?

My main buzz is being able to communicate with writers about their work. At any one time I am usually dealing with five writers- reading their work, drafting reviews, researching more about their art and collecting links, developing interview questions and the like.

The only time I have made any significant bread from my writing was when I wrote poetry for the primary school journal School Magazine, published by the NSW Education Department through its off-shots Orbit, Touchdown and Blast Off. I published about 25 poems through their magazine which was distributed through hundreds of schools. I’d talk to my young sons and I would create free verse poems, often sports or animal related from a child’s perspective, and unencumbered by traditional line structures. A primary teacher even devised a writing unit based on my poetry.

The cover art for Fuckwits and Angels is simply awesome, could you say something of the artist? And how this became the cover?

The portrait is of me by my partner who uses the pen name of Pam’la. A few years back she was doing portraits of the family and we came across a collage of Salman Rusdie by Dave McKean which we liked. In creating the portrait, she stuck snippets of a few of my poems, including “Flathead”, “Rain” and “Diary of a Semi-Colon” in reference to my poetic leanings & later layered it with blotches of paint. 


Have you any future poetry projects?

I have a backlog of poems which merit collection in one form or other. I’ve lost count of the poems I’ve written and actually published. Probably 700 or more. As a high school teacher I was rather reticent in getting my work out there as many of my poems are unsuitable for readership under 15. My third person poem in the chap Fuckwits & Angels“Why He Stopped Posting Shit on the Net” describes the difficulty of writing what you want, and at the same time, fearing recriminations from your employer. 


That said, I always received total support from my school through the many poetry projects I pursued- including the publication of seven issues of the student poetry journal Ephemeral. I sometimes snuck within its pages writer friends such as Rob Plath, Wolfgang Carstens and Alan Wearne.


I have recently collected many of my portrait poems and in a separate volume my poems loosely connected with the concept of death. Other collections could possibly include The School Poems, maybe even a volume of my experimental verse, tentatively called The Abstract Poems. 

I’ve also have just finished an integrated collection of short stories/novel The Empty Glass centred around a young bloke Toby Mulheron who works in the pub industry in Australia. It will be published by Alien Buddha Press in 2020. A few of the stories have previously been published in Rust Belt Review, Brenton Booth's The Asylum Floor #2 and in Alien Buddha #5 & #7. You'll find some crazy shit in there!


Thanks George.

No worries.

The limited print of Fuckwits & Angels is SOLD OUT.

See also the October 2020  Wayne F. Burke interview here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2020/10/wayne-f-burke-interviews-george.html

See also Jason Gerrish’s interview here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2021/10/interview-with-george-anderson-2.html

Featuring Jack Henry

on a bench behind a building reading a book

there’s a bench behind
a building i sit on,
during lunch or
odd times during the day,
when things seem
too much;

when i don’t want
to be in a building working
a job for which i have no heart –

in my hand
a book of poems;
i read them real fast,
see if anything
stops me cold,
or smashes my gut,
or fist-fucks me until
i cannot breathe – 

and i am reading this book
about a lucky guy; all his travels
and footsteps out and around NYC,
and i stop cold,
smashed in the gut –

i read these words
and they buzz cut my skull;
a riptide drags me further out to sea;
and this one poem;
the gut-ripper;
screams out about going back,
back to the place where
a world is simple and true,
back home, 

just back before
all the shit -

but these roads!
these many miles!

it’s page 16 and i am gut ripped,
there on my bench
behind that building,
and i think
i’d better stop reading
before i jump
behind the wheel
and just drive -

drive to a place from which i will never return -

Sunset Blvd, Echo Park

there’s a small diner on Sunset Blvd
in Echo Park
near Highway 101 –
the heart of it all –
hipster heaven –

i order at the counter,
sit up against a wall –
a slender young Mexican girl
with good legs and a tired smile,
brings me my drink
in an oversized cup –

you new around?
she says

nah,
i say

i’ve been around
a couple of times
and up for maybe one more
last time around –

a NYC punk’s in town
to read poetry on the back patio
of some place called Stories –

i stand in the back row -
watch in silence -
wonder if i could still
take the rejection,
knowing i’ll never have to worry about the fame -

for Puma Perl

in the crashing fall of electric light

there’s a storm coming
building in the hills and mountains
north of Phoenix
building on souls of 19 dead soldiers
firefighters lost
fighting a red devil burning
cascading across drought languished forests

bring out the dead

eat the dead

my castle crumbles against a relentless wash of
blue-black oceans
aching against shores of rock and stone
and sand so easily reclaimed
recalled back to the depths of Poseidon’s fist

the storm coils high above a flat melting desert
rain eager to fall
so eager to touch dying grass and scrub

we watch the sky boil and churn
we watch blackbirds seek shelter
we watch reality TV
desperate for the next breath of another worthless creation

she dances in the corner of my brain
as thunder booms
as lightning spins across the horizon
her legs spread in front of me
our eyes touch
my fingertips embrace the delicate trace of lace
i pull her free
my tongue traces down her flesh
past the point of hesitation
past the point of common sense

Jesus coughs from his station at the cross
as her back arches up
as black clouds finally give in
and rain begins to fall

burn

time tripping, tripping through time
each year ticks by, just a little bit faster

when i stand at tide’s edge, i note the sea level rise
when i stare up at mountains, i watch the forests start to die

it’s just time, tripping & skipping by
the clock a little louder, a little angrier
a little sad, but maybe that’s just me

i can feel age creeping up
sneaking up
i forget things, misread things
the synapses in my skull
don’t have the same
snap, crackle, pop

low tide water trips on my toes
the Pacific is colder today
that i remember
& the mountains?
i just turn away, smokes rising
& everything is about to burn

bio:  Jack Henry has recently emerged from a ten year hibernation and has reignited a fire to write.  Recently published in Red Fex, Dope Fiend Daily, Winamop and Horror,Sleaze,Trash; Jack has restarted Heroin Love Songs, a Journal of Poetic Chaos.  For more go to jackhenry.wordpress.com

New Release: George Douglas Anderson FUCKWITS & ANGELS (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, UK, 2019) 28 pages

This is Bold Monkey editor Anderson’s first chapbook since Teaching My Computer Irony (Epic Rites Punk Chapbook Series 2, 2016).

Purchase a rare copy- limited to 25 copies only- either through BM (Australia) or from John D. Robinson (UK): johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

Available in 1-2 weeks. $5 plus p&p.

Click on the cover to see more detail. Cover by PAM'LA.

More about the book later!