deep tissue magazine 16
DESCRIPTION
Poetry for the unwashed masses.TRANSCRIPT
Deep Tissue
Magazine
Issue 16
© 2012 Deep Tissue Magazine
Call for Submissions
Deep Tissue Magazine, a creative arts magazine that promotes the efforts of poetry
writers around the world is looking for poetry submissions for the next issue of Deep
Tissue. Send no more than five poems in the body of an e-mail to:
Be sure to put the word “submission” in the subject line of the e-mail.
You can find Deep Tissue Magazine at:
http://deeptissue2.blogspot.com/
Deep Tissue Magazine is edited by Martin Freebase.
You can find his poetry at:
http://martinfreebase.blogspot.com/
Enjoy!
Mark Hartenbach entangled in quintessence
inspired by a rumor it was me that wasn't
there
despite an alleged sound mind in a sound
body
surfs biological abandon with rhinestone
cataracts
accused of irrational behavior because
they can't wrap
their small minds around the workings of a
genius
a fiery no prisoners taken attack on those
who attempted to reduce my place in the
world
instead putting me in their grand scheme
ruminating on vague concepts which will
have me
speaking of time in past tense in circular
logic
instead of breaking through into brilliant
revelation
cancelled inscription to never had it in the
first place
so why be taken for yet another fleecing of
my identity
that can only be detrimental to the final
result
an allegedly unstable entry point is
criticized
but we have to start somewhere that
hasn't
been inhabited for a thousand years of
apocalyptic
always precariously hanging in the
balance
was once blinded by the presence of a
deflated ego
that pressured me to not rise up against
the herd
a quandary of loose cannons have
reached
yet another plateau of unfamiliar where it's
doubtful
anyone will follow me when fused to a
dying light
an avowed love for self cannot be brought
to knees
with bitter descent of latent formulas that
never worked
blurting out abstract worship of that which
they can't
even fathom but they're anticipating an
opening soon
a field of alterations in no particular order
if we're going to start high-lighting the
pages
the paragraphs that seem the most
confusing
the lines that we think would work on late
night tv
an emotional wound is closing of its own
volition
after blinded perception pierced me with
bloody arrows
leaving a stark stigma attached by those
who wouldn't
believe i could possibly be placed in
pantheon of saints
without my knowledge, without my
permission
a deconstructed symbol is left unmarked
so that everyone assumes it has always
appeared
in that ragtag but uncompromising
condition
while a matter of space is told to work it
out
with supposedly declassified & shredded
nonetheless
an unabridged communication deficit
is linked to the wrong direction by a chain
gang
who enjoy doling out excruciating pain &
unfolding grief
a checkered past is jumping all over the
place
more than a mere reflection of
circumstances
which i pounded a stake into many years
ago
to save myself from the demons willing
to obliterate down to confused soul
searching
exacerbating problem of no matter which
direction
is finally taken to supposedly solved
connection
that has become exact whereabouts
unknown
incandescent immolation
is fired for not towing the line
in exhausting maximum technicalities
beneath the sod of the underachieved
or possibly the misplaced teeth of god
while a three-legged prophesy
hitchhiked a thousand miles
is now straddling what could easily pass
for another dimension
in an unexpected eclipse of stunned
pink moon dripping fetal gunk
into right hemispheric locale
while deactivating reason
in the name of eternal monopoly
finally feel i'm at the nadir of my powers
though not blasphemous by any means
but autonomous dreams laying down stakes
an imploding dogma isn't acknowledged
by blind-eyed incognito which has been charged
with chemical imbalance too many times to decipher
there is no dependency on hoodoo glide
but try telling that to festering doom
with its tricky contagious odometer
& corrupted heart with its quivering taglines
which are nothing
but dreaming of dreaming of dreaming
which is a lazy ending
at the end of each school year i
would throw
all my notebooks & papers off the
bridge
watch until the river had carried
them south
then let out a sigh that was
bigger than me
a mirage dancing seductively shaking it down
to an audience of reborn squawking heads
last gasp at learning to breathe on our own
learning to deal with the fact that the future
is always behind us unless we're heavily sedated
erratic conversation with myself
is getting way out of hand
so i believe it's time i moved on
because i have nothing of importance
to add to the escalating
argument
& nothing to say
that will nail the whole thing down
driving a stake right
through
the heart of the matter
but that seems like a total waste of energy
since the whole dialogue
means less than nothing in the grand
scheme
depending on your
mathematics
find ourselves in promised land in name
only
since there is no documented
evidence
to prove that it was actually given
away
with no strings attached
enshrined in a glass case with all the other
stoned relics
all the once valuable objects
nothing but trinkets
that will one day be
worthless
possibly before we vacate the
premises
incurable emotions are being put
on trial
which is only going to make
things
worse since nothing can possibly
stand up
under that kind of
scrutiny
jabbing at a conclusion
that might very well be
deceased
or may have been eradicated
for crimes against mankind
though it's been said to be apolitical for
many years
David E. Howerton --become in dreaming--
Beneath Mars
bubble pools ancient life
whispering come home
--Coyotes are all alike--
dark rooms and crying
unsanctioned colonists
ill prepared for new slums
--beyond the outback--
beyond halo
stars lonely call
anyone there....
--big hatreds-- Ver. B
more crime
no more rapes, longer sentences,
offenders gone centuries,
cryotech cheap
banker smiles
-couldn't have guessed--
hadn't thought colors hurt
alien's eyes tear, but dark
now makes feeling worse
Martin Freebase
Abstraction and the Occult
he goes outside to brave the falling bombs almost halfway to the park a flux of
force and energy subjective feeling and objective realities the problem is with
the multiplicity of objectivities we cannot glimpse into all the possible worlds I
find that my studies of postmodernism is leading back to Nietzsche the romantic
fusion of the soul with nature the first few step outside your door it is the late
seventies on the eastside of Waterloo my front steps are sinking into the ground
someone is cranking ted nugent out their bedroom window wang dang I have
an organ for nature I fine grasp on the obvious there is in the strictest sense no
duality in the world to experience and feel oneself in another that presence that
we can sense inside of rose is the presence of ourselves she is our otherness
offering comfort to our primitive minds the enjoyment of self projected into rose
orgasmic forms betty boop was the lady who slipped away she was gone and
then she was back and then she was gone again like the breath that escapes
through my lips the wall outside says life is beautiful I'm watching you absorb the
sun I'm your summer shadow your tricky walk and empty pockets I look up at
your ceiling a human auction someone is sticking their head out 72 virgins in
heaven it was side trip you don't want to know the truth it escapes you running
down the street you are frightened thinking it will never come back alone
forever just you and your thoughts trapped inside you never getting out you
want to run but you can't you stand there in the darkness alone totally alone
wanting to be more than you are is this possible to break free to become
someone else 5 dollars a pound Orwellian fedora turns me old and fallen I drop
and roll a bygone days of remembering I know how to work it your boyfriend
was curious I think I made him afraid I'm not here to steal your body I already
have that I want your soul a commercial with a little dark haired girl I think it was
an infomercial about the emotional thunderstorms god does love her look and
see the magic that surrounds her more self-centered apathy we buy in gallons
and throw a great big party for all our narcissists a good drug a plastic man with
a handful of push and pull it was an omen a warning of the certain outcome
the blue rider so lost and spiritually helpless primitive ornament rhythmic
configurations whose curvaceous rolling forms merge fusing figure and ground
the organic rhythm of all things you place your glow in the dark jesus on your
dashboard and drive with impunity violently dismantled the animal
anthropomorphic appropriation see things as they really are and not filter
through the prism of human knowledge we corrupt everything out of an inner
compulsion I have increasingly come to recognize the ugliness and impurity of
nature we reject the idea of the seen as being the only thing of value it Is the
hidden and the unknown which we seek and which our hearts long after we are
against the positivists building blocks of truth and reality carried to the grave in a
small coffin the secret and abstract conceptions of the inner life that is where
the vision is the greatest this is the mountain top from with the lords and ladies of
karma descend we destroy to reveal the power that is behind all beautiful
appearances we seek beneath the veil of appearances I want you to share
with us your inner life the secret you that you keep hidden behind your masks
take your mask off and show us the real you the person you are without your
defenses putt your guns away there is no need to shoot anyone here we will not
stab you in the back when you turn around show us this true thing that is left
when all appearances have been removed free yourself from human purposes
and human will show us the beauty that is inside you withdraw from the
prejudices of human perception you have placed so much trust in your ability to
see but it is this ability that deceives you your eyes do not see the truth and your
mind cannot understand because you have been trained into ignorance we
have all been trained to be sheep for the slaughter become a wolf like me
break away from the flock see the world with new eyes and a new mind see this
world through the eyes of the spirit not the eyes clouded over by religion but by
the true being that dwells inside of you religion is a human creation the spirit is
eternal and cannot be explained by mere worlds it is an absolute essence that
live behind the world that we see
Christopher Stravener
Voidcom[5]need to know
my left hand plans
a war of attrition
my right hand
stratagems of terror
neither speak
and the silence is shocking
I am nervous enough
without sulphates
unplugging my heart
as you described
whalebone attached to a chain
your hand darting
like an unpredictable bird
possibly carrion
although quite small. Crafty.
I congratulate you, excellency.
Nicole Chernick One Hermatic Corner
In the chase of misplaced syllables
dirty with the aggregation of the blood of time and admonishment
There are drops of everything here
the deconstructed cells of semen and one very out of order egg
Where guilt is around me in this bed like a frozen river
resting on thorns of probability and subjection
And the crack in the ceiling will devour this wall since you and these hours
I look to his peaceful face to pull me through your nameless moments
And then I am angry he is peaceful, and the walls become cannibalistic
In the expanse of the universe I see a bastard and in the stars an abasement
And this fallen girl and room are down to one hematic corner
Cyndi Dawson
Room 374
From what I could see, it was raining.
Room 374. Glass windows posed a risk.
At certain times my reflection
was strong enough to catch my reflection.
At certain times my reflection was unwelcome.
You know inside the past has passed.
What's done is done. You know this
as you know the trail of your own fingerprints,
yet they still seem detachable. Foreign on your skin.
You know the future is an intangible.
It exists only in the world of the sylphs.
Which leaves one simply with the present
and in this present it is raining. I am in room 374.
God help me. I have repeated the madness of my father.
I have hung my ugliness up
above the welcome mat in the house of myself.
A house of cadavers. God help me.
I will hand over my arms. I will open my mouth
to sacrifice my tongue. Just get it right.
Just get it right this time
if I am to see the rain ever again
outside the walls of this room.
Let's do it. But let me taste the rain.
Let me feel it drop to my skin, trickle nerve cells.
Get it right. I've swept too many parts of me under that mat.
Each one, marked unique with a print. All cadavers.
Danny Baker
Sunset Dance with Buddy Guy & Suicidal Tendencies
Sitting under a gently swaying palm
watching day turn to night
in a dance on a floor of no boundary
but for the horizon
One might think all is well
espying me watching flickering light
like eyes fighting sleep
futilely pushing back against the dark
Suicidal strings race from chord to chord
fermented barley and hops chase wisps of anesthetic smoke
and medicine cabinet sutures
one might think all is well but the western front is besieged
The floor has fallen from beneath feet of
tapping tides, rendering an eve of flame thrower potency
as held in the hands of original passion
in new wrapping, enveloping sanity in a slam pit found only at night
Cornelius Bent
Babel’s Bathing
no grace be louder
in this moment
our bodies dusted by seeking grains
of ancient sands
while we stare down the throat of God
plenary in span
as she raps the shore with swarming and unappeasable waves
like the tapping fingers of a parent
growing impatient
with the rumblings of disobedient children
we drink an ale of ire
fermented 'neath the pores of restive disciples
as it spews from chrome fountains
yet still
even here
surrounded by the fragility of men
who bare atrophied shoulders
chiseled by lack of labor
while their bellies boast the girth of western abundance
the anatomy of a careless species
we dance here
in the hem of babel's bathing
having purged the soiled palms
of dysfunctional conglomerates
from our heads
we dance here
being beasts of rhythm
stomping our heals into a continent
stewing in divisions
where the rebel larynx
is forbade
in the throats
of principled men
Jeffrey Park
THE AMAZON MEN ARRIVE
The Amazon men arrive
in twos and threes
decline politely to shake
hands and quickly
take their places in the den
clutching paper plates on their
knees.
It’s like an AA meeting
or a post-funeral gathering at
the home of the bereaved
only worse.
No one looks their neighbor
in the eye, no one
asks for seconds
and most importantly, above
all else
absolutely no one allows
expressions like unbalanced
or disproportionate or
asymmetrical
to come up
in casual conversation.
Glen Still
Figure It Out
Hey, I live next door to you
Even though we’ve never talked
I somewhat want what you have
I see you in a light above me
Or perhaps
Below me
Either way I have never come to terms
With my own prejudice
I live on Almond Street
A row of centrifugal configurations
Where they try to hide me
Where I am most comfortable
And the more I try to reach out
I just see and hear the propaganda
Meant just for me
I think I want to be loved
But I expect you to form into my
Inth degree of how I perceive the world around me
And unless you conform
I don’t have a problem with you becoming a victim
The way I see it
Is as you choose
The more I hurt everything around you
I have no regrets
Seeing you disintegrate
As I live past you
I will never save you
Oh neighbor
You’re not really worth that
You don’t live in my house
You're not family
You have no idea of what I go through
Trying to manage my stipends
Trying to keep my salvation
Trying to make sure that you wind up in hell
And I don't
And I won’t say please
When I kick your door in
Intent on either
Apprehending you
Making you succumb to me and my ideology
Or just putting a bullet through your head
Because when it comes down to it
I have to believe in something
And so it goes
You live on Walnut Street
We have our differences
I don’t respect them
And just so you know now
I’m on a killing spree
And you’re not my neighbor
Even though I see you
Drive up in your driveway
Next to me
This is hate
Figure it out…