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  Epic Rites: any press is only as “small” as its thinking.™

LOOKING FOR A POEM

11/14/2017

0 Comments

 
​It’s cold
outside
before sunup
and like
neighborhood kids
looking for
a cat
I am
looking for
a poem
its Veterans
day and
there are
free haircuts
and breakfasts
and I’m
looking for
a poem
it’s Saturday
and the
ghosts are
still screaming
and I’m
looking for
a poem
it’s November
in a
town by
the lake
and I’m
looking for
a poem
I’m 52
with ruined
hips a
sore back
and I’m
looking for
a poem
it’s everything
and nothing
it’s magic
and loss
it’s soap
soup and
salvation
its a
thing you
never talk
about like
a mistress
or PTSD
it hides
in plain
sight it
winds my
clock trips
my trigger
it’s the
first thing
I reach
for and
the last
thing I
think of
it’s as
thin as
smoke but
hot as
fire it’s
why I
get up
at 5 am
and drive
the empty
streets because
today
like every
day I
am looking
for a
poem.
 
—Matt Borczon
0 Comments

margin to fucking margin

1/13/2017

3 Comments

 
don't just
bleed
on the
keyboard
pick up
the whole
machine  
& drown it
in a tub
of yr blood
then
spread
yr fingers
over that
red
typewriter
making every
page
stained
margin
to
margin
as it rolls
thru
 
—Rob Plath
www.robplath.com 
3 Comments

poetry

12/31/2016

1 Comment

 
between threadbare 
nerve endings
& the skull’s wide grin 

the soul emits
gobs of spit 

—Rob Plath
www.robplath.com

1 Comment

Guru Info

12/27/2016

2 Comments

 
Ever try to make a living off of
writing poetry?

Today for lunch I had lettuce
on white with salt
pepper and water.

It was better than yesterday.

—Jay Dougherty

2 Comments

Trading One Addiction For Another

11/19/2016

0 Comments

 
Another 
late night
spent
banging 
on the keys
searching
for something
to say.

No longer
the bars,
brawls,
broads,
or drugs.

Just me,
here,
trying 
to remember
all of it.


—Scott Wozniak
scott.wozniak@yahoo.com
0 Comments

Wayne F.

9/20/2016

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living with my curtains drawn
and my windows shut
to keep the neighbors out
of my life.
They shout at me whenever
I go out
but I do not respond
because
they're motherfuckers
trying to get me down.
But I won't let them,
won't allow it;
I'll live like a clam
behind drawn curtains and
windows shut
until they come up to me
one by one
and ask
"are you Wayne Burke
who writes poetry"
and I'll say "yes.
Yes, my man
but to you
it's 'Wayne F.'"

—Wayne F Burke
wfburke2@yahoo.com
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Too Good 

6/26/2016

0 Comments

 
I’m not too good at networking at kissing the asses of administrators or of established poets & having to swallow their subsidized verse or self-seeking banter I’m not too keen to read my work out in public to pimply faced nobs or drunken yobs in uni pubs or clubs I’m not too fussed about workshopping my stuff in small groups to poets who advocate this school or that who agonize over each word each syllable who squeeze out every last pimple of significance from their work * I like the idea that editors vociferously hate my shit—that it’s too weird that it’s off the planet that it’s too populist, too full of profanity I like the idea that my work will be considered by the Literature Board as being ‘devoid of any literary merit’, that it is not being read by academics or anthologised by multinational book publishers I like the idea I’m not being paid for this poem because if you bought it & you didn’t like it I wouldn’t have to tell you to GO FUCK YOURSELF!
 
—George Anderson
http://georgedanderson.blogspot.ca/
0 Comments

TRAINING CAMP

6/18/2016

0 Comments

 
I had been drinking whiskey for
8 hours in my apartment
and it was now about 9pm
and I decided to go to a bar
I’d only just moved to Newtown
this would be my first night
out
I found the crappiest looking
bar I could and went inside
(nice looking bars always
hassle you when your drunk:
crappy bars appreciate any
business they can get)
I ordered 2 whiskeys and was
feeling pretty good
I had been listening to music
and watching old m.m.a fights
most of the day
“What you celebrating pal?”
said the bartender
“I have an m.m.a fight in 2
weeks.”
“Why are you drinking!”
“It doesn’t matter. I will
walk straight through
him,” I said and shadow
boxed for a few seconds
“Good luck mate,” he said
and I took a seat at the table
by the door
I could hear the bartender
talking about me and laughing
with another customer
I finished my drinks and went
to the bar
the bartender had a grin on
his face
“Another drink champ?”
“You want to be part of my
training camp?”
he didn’t respond
I left the bar and got a cab to
the brothel
several girls introduced
themselves
I told the skinny young blonde
with the small boobs and red
lingerie I was a poet
“You look more like a fighter,”
she said
“No I am really a poet.”
“Sure. What do you write
about: beating people up and
sleeping with hookers.”
“That all depends on the hooker,”
I said and followed her tiny
beautiful ass upstairs.

​—Brenton Dean Booth
brentonbooth.weebly.com
0 Comments

Art

5/29/2016

0 Comments

 
no wife
no kids;
it sometimes seems
as if life
is not worth
the living,
like I missed the boat
somewhere
but then
whenever I start to write
I think
this art is what
I have to love:
as fickle as it is
as un-glamorous in the
morning
as moody in the night
as meaningless as it
sometimes seems--
in all its flaws
and wrinkles
it still comes through
for me,
still there
whenever I reach
for it,
from the dark
or from the most desolate
shore.
 
—Wayne F Burke
wfburke2@yahoo.com
0 Comments

420 and fetish friendly 

11/30/2015

0 Comments

 
I tried to sell out by writing erotica
but nobody was buying;
now I have no artistic integrity 
to go with my poverty.

Sex sells . . . 

That’s what they say,
anyway.

I’m so broke and sick of peanut butter 
and jelly sandwiches,
sick of crossing my fingers 
and holding my breath
when the cashier slides my debit card,
sick of praying to a god I don’t believe in
every time I key the ignition--
--my most recent quarterly royalty statement
reads zero units sold; 
if things don’t improve soon 
I’ll have to quit this silly writer game,
post a provocative ad 
on backpage
and show my cardboard characters 
how we take it up the ass
in the real world. 

—Ben Newell
www.bnewell.com
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<<Previous

    THE 
    BLOOD
    MACHINE

    Writing about writing

    “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
    --Ernest Hemingway
    “Of all that is written, I love only what a man has written with his blood.”
    ​--Friedrich Nietzsche
    To contribute, send your very best poetry about writing through the contact form below. If you have a website, or want to use an email address, please include address with your submission.

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  • SPLITTING SKULL
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