Monday, November 17, 2008
beautifully creative zines that I have ever laid my eyes on. That is saying a lot. I have seen a lot of zines in my day. The cover, the pictures inside I have to say is all aesthetically beautiful.
With that said on to the poetry. The first two poems I have to say hit you like a good punch in the face and drag you in. Lost Petition: For An Endangered Species is an amazing poem, by far my favorite in here by the editor Amanda Oaks. The second poem Parallel Universe by Ellyn Maybe well, I've been an Ellyn Maybe fan since The Cowardice Of Amnesia. If you read on you will find twenty two other woman writers. Each individually skilled with their own strengths. There is not a bad poem in here, the stuff that really stood out to me beyond the first two were the poems by Rebecca Schumajda, and Heather Bell. Words Dance is an incredible zine, well put together with a creative passion. I hear a lot of talk that there are not enough woman writers out there right now. This will change your mind. www.vervebathpress.etsy.com
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Breaking freak'n' All Hallowed evening noose: live performance & screening October 29th of Unholy Sideshow, Manhattan & ARS NOVA fest the 31st!
32 2nd AveNew York, NY 10003(212) 410-9404
MISCHIEF NIGHT EVE OCTOBER 29
"Wednesday, October 29th
curated by Matthew Broomfield
NewFilmmakers Celebrates Halloween i
n big way. Alive! Undead! On the screen and in the audience,
death defying sideshow stunts, scary clowns, zombies and black magicians.
The Grotesque, the strange, odd and Macabre!
See needles skewered through a man's flesh, amazing stunts
and feats of strength with swords, nails and spikes.
The Undead are among you!
Or at least more than at our usual screenings"
8:15PMNEWFILMMAKERS LIVE SHOW AND SCREENING
ULAers Matthew Broomfield, Eric "jelly- boy" Broomfield, and Frank Walsh take NYC by storm crashing the gates of the Imperial Necropolis!
UNHOLY SIDESHOW (2008, 70 Minutes, Video) A family of Serial Killer black magician sideshow freaks known as The Unholy Sideshow, are called upon by The Order of Mystery, a secret society of Wizards, Sideshow Masters and Vampires, to prevent the coming of the dead.Unholy Sideshow (the movie) is a modern epic of the apocalypse. The beginning of a series. The Unholy Sideshow must perform a ritual sacrifice to appease the Ancient Ones and earn their right to join the ranks of The Masters of Mystery. If the ritual is not set in motion, if This family of magical killers is not up to the task the gates of the abyss will cover the earth in darkness.
H AL LOW EE N
ARS NOVA, NYC ARTS FESTIVAL
There'll be scary sick-twisted poetic interlewds from the mysterious "Mr. Hellbore" aka "Mr. Lazari"played by an equally insane ULA Poet going by the initials FDW...
sayeth the RAV'n' , never again
Created by Tighe SwansonPerformed by Betty Bloomerz, Lucy Buttons, Jellyboy, Matters Squidling, Tighe Swanson and FDW
Celebrate Halloween with a wild ride through the wondrous world of old-time Americana entertainment! Featuring dangerous stunts, amazing feats, unique circus skills, oddball behavior, crazy antics and crowd favorite, The Wheel of Pain, all performed by the horrifyingly delightful Cavalcade of the Odd.
October 16-November 24, 2008
A.N.T. FEST is six weeks of mayhem featuring fresh material from today’s most daring emerging artists. For thirty crazy nights, from October 16th to November 24th, the festival will push the boundaries of live entertainment by bringing talented performers from many disciplines together under one roof. Ars Nova is dedicated to spotlighting New York's next wave of songwriters, bands, comedy artists, theater-makers, storytellers and genre-defying performers. A.N.T. FEST 08 takes that mission to the next level. Expect an unmissable adventure, from beginning to trend!
Ars Nova, at 511 West 54th Street west of 10th Avenue
C, E to 50th St., north on 8th Avenue to 54th St., west to the theater N/R/Q/W to 57th St.,south to 54th St., west to 10th Ave.
1/9 to Columbus Circle, west to 10th Ave., south to 54th St.
Hop Stop Map of the Area: 511 West 54th Street
Friday, October 3, 2008
GPS on the Earth, a lion from and still the "Apocalyptic" Age Of Literary Modernist Giants Of Paris, London, Salonika, New York, Detroit, North Africa
THEMISTOCLES recently honored for WW2 service besides one of the bombers he flew and was shot down in over France in '44 but rescued by the French Resistance.
[FROM AN EMAIL FROM GEORGE SOLOMOS TO fdw 2 WEEKS AGO. . .]
A 'niger poem plan' by me? What's that? A 'short story' from me? Maybe.
I haven't written many stories (nor poems) but you can find several pieces I've written in a THICK
RED hardcover volume called AVANT-GAURDE MAGAZINES - zero 1949 - 1956 - published
by Arno Press (A new York Times Company) 1974. Any big library carries it I believe.
I never knew a book like that ever existed until many years later. The NY Times having RIPPED off my
entire publishing endeavors but not informing me first - let alone paying for rights or even credit as
to who gave them ;the copies.. Yeah? American style GOOD BUSINESS practices.?
One reason I stopped publishing altogether was when I learned what a VICIOUS GANGSTER
INDUSTRY PUBLISHING IS IN AMERICA. So? No thanks.
You also don't seem to realize I've lived abroad most of my adult life because the USA for me is
NOTHING but the worst empire in past or modern history. Nor how pleased II am to see if fall
apart while I'm still alive. VOTE FOR WHAT? Don't make me laugh!
Best wishes. g. PS: Still photo of me taken from 'screen test'
I've been around the block a few times!
COLONY OF THE NIGER
Multitudinous child eucalyptus trees
Block and retard the big bombard
Of "Progressive Builders" building progress
(Where Hannibal’s numidian elephants trode)
From connecting by road Bengahzi with Agdès,
Colony of the Niger.
Many many meters, hidden in shade, away
From these builders of retrograde
A boy in a crimson bournous one day
(Whether sick, whether poor, whether real,
Or no More) sat crying:
Absalom Ben Moktar Hamal, age two;
And slaughtering flies, playing defy,
And merry-go-rounding his fingertips.
Into the shade-scene from left entered:
His mother. By virtue and stigmata
A slave; sold thrice since birth.
She gently lowered to the ground a bundle
Of twigs, of straw, of grain, all bound
By cord, by wire, by hide: her buys;
And sat to rest beside Absalom.
With dignity she handed him a date, when
Then whispered in his ear: "My son, be done:
"My son, my blood, my flesh, my bones
Be done with the slaughtering, be done with flies,
Be done with the drudgery of your cries
And listen to me, my son my – my ninth:
"If the winds are not wrong (for Barbary’s sake)
The heat from the sun will not grow you your harm
But will grow you fast and will grow you strong
As the eucalyptus tree grows, if the winds are not wrong.
"Then take you a mate, take one of your kind
To have children, to have children by grace of the moon;
Then follow your fate to lands of the dune, to lands of the hill,
To savagery and thrill (where weapons are made)
Where your father is found. Make Haste!
"For the builders are building by sea and by wing
A procession of progress: A ROAD TO THE SOUTH;
For time immemorial (to anthem and sing);
The builders they build, the builders they bring:
OUR SALVATIONS. By sea and by wing.
"To surface they dig, to ‘Surface’ they say,
(The slime and the sling.) To the surface the dig,
To lay ‘Open and Bare’, (our ways and our means.)
To the surface they dig, the ‘Old and the Coy’,
(The useless and worn.) The land where our fathers
Dead centuries or more (lay waste.) They say.
"By it so . . . ! Be it not . . .!
They build link to the south: TO SPLIT US IN HALF!
To take gold, to take gold, then take gold aftermath;
To bejudge us, begrudge us our due and our mind,
Our eye and our mouth to disregard time
And sit in the shade (when to cry, when to laugh)
When eats to be made. Alas! Alas!
They begrudge us recline, they begrudge us our time
To rest! To rest! Alas. Alas.
"My sons, my winds, my weapons, my nights
Be done with the builders – be done, be wise;
Take to the hills, take all of your kind
(And listen to me – my ninths, my ninths:)
"When night befalls you (MEN OF WILDERNESS)
You must find them, all of that kind,
And bind them! You must bind them all, all that you find,
Whether near, whether far, whether front, or behind,
You must bind them all – all of that kind. Make Haste!"
Colony of the Niger was written 60 years ago in 1945 by George P. Solomos when he was 20 years old – after serving 2-1/2 years on combat duty in the US Air Force during WW2 in Europe. The poem was written in his Freshman year (for a graduate-course in ‘Humanities’) at Wayne State University (Detroit) and published in the student magazine that year. It was next published in 1955 in Zero Anthology (Zero Press, NYC). It is published here in ‘memory’ of the recent Babylon bombings in Iraq.
From the FilmBank.UK Archives-- some of one's favorite heroes favorite colours
Mumia ABU-JAMALGeorge ANDREWSJames BALDWINSamuel BECKETTPaul BOWLESJames BROUGHTONWitter BYNNERConstantine CAVAFISIvy COMPTON-BURNETTHart CRANEChristopher ISHERWOODRobert KELLYFederico GARCIA LORCAUrsule MOLINAROMarianne MOOREKenneth PATCHENJean-Paul SARTREWallace STEVENSGore VIDALRichard WRIGHTWilliam Carlos WILLIAMS
Dick ADLERS. A. AMARASINGAMMichael APPLETONJoseph AWADSenora BABAlbert (Asa) BENVENISTEPip BENVENISTEFausto BETTELLACoburn BRITTONHenri CALETRosario CASTELLANOSDiana CHANGDavid CHAPMANHelen COHENElliot COLEMANMurray DUBINDonald Mark FALLWallace FOWLIEBernard FRECHTMANKimon FRIARJean GARRIGUEAlyse GREGORYPatrick HAYMANDavid HENDERSONVenable HERNDONCalvin C. HERNTONStorm De HIRSCHThemistocles HOETISMason HOFFENBERGAllen HOUGLANDRichard HOWARDTerry JOHNSONArgus Speare JULLIARDJohn KING-FARLOWApostolas KRYONASEdouard de la LAUROTBas van der LECQJohn LENNONAndrew LOVATTKlaus MANNSean MATTHEWSRichard McDOUGALLEdward McGEHEEGeorge MOORSESamuel French MORSEEdward MOUNTLANDJohn MURTAGHStephen K. OBERBECKSmith OLIVERRuth OLSHANToby OLSONYoko ONOSezai OZKANJames PARSONSLouis PAUWELSOctavio PAZBeatrix Campbell PENDAREdward PRESTONHalit RAFIGDachine RAINERBasil RAKOCZIJ.R.L. REYNERHarry ROSKOLENKOHenry H. ROTHJean RUBINEmilio SANZ de SOTOE. SARATHCHANDRAThomas SHELTONMortimer SLAIMANEdith M. SMITHGeorge SOLOMOSRaymond SPOTTISWOODEDorothea TANNINGIrving THALBERGCarl TOBEYVicente VERDUGilbert WEATHERBEEWilliam WELBORNEColin WILSONWarren WIRTZAhmed ben Driss el YACOUBILionel ZIPRIN
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
from manchester, u.k., John G. Hall, one of the greatest lyrick poets writing in Am-english on the planet!
OUT NOW COMING TO AMERICA!
FEATURING AMIRI BARAKA
AND A CAST OF THOUSANDS!
John G.Hall - Manchester Poet & Editor of Citizen32, publications include Orbis, Iota, Rain Dog, The Wolf, Coffee House Poetry, The Ugly Tree, Carillon, Outlaw, Left Curve(usa), Square Lake(usa), Spume, Aesthetica, Brittle Star, Harlequin, Monkey Kettle & Fire.
Performs his poetry throughout the North West , mixing militant politics & biting humour with touching visions of childhood, love and football. The live recordings of his ant-war trilogy 'And Still I Cannot Wake From Their War' were recently bought by Drexel University,Philadelphia,USA.
we stake the world on youth and beauty
surely no one would pull a knife across perfect skin
surely no one would pour lies into such fine china ears
surely no one would puncture the bubbles of their dreams
surely no one would drop explosives on such fine bones
surely no one would rape these Pre-Raphaelite faced angels
surely no one would steal the ancient ground from it's people
surely no one would electrify the diamond spider web of a mind
surely no one would blow open the Sistine chapel of the skull
surely no one would dare nail the body of love to a money tree
surely no one would blind fold the blind man or dam the damned
surely no one would pay the rich to be rich and punish the poorsurely no one would leave the torturers to their own devices
surely one day we will show them the instruments of justice
surely no one would object to the hanging of their heads.
Wet Cement Poem No:6
The throne of cash is empty but for a skull with a bullet hole
and a diamond collared dog lapping at a pool of his own vomit,
while in a corner of the Pentagon the Stars and Stripes spontaneously
combust and the ghost of Jimi Hendrix pisses lighter fuel on the flag.
Wet Cement Poem No:4
I am the hounded slave; I wince at the bite of dogs,
the sound of the cataracts of cash machines echo
I sit and look out on all the sorrows of the world
and on all oppression and shame, I run with blood
afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road
the human traffic burns through the metal rain
absorbing all to myself and for this song, I drink
bottled beer and lime and text instead of talk,
I have heard what the talkers were talking, and
vowed to write up and down these boulevards,
I will sing the song of companionship, of the
opposition of each heart to the murder of love,
to the maddening of minds, to dreams genocide,
all these I feel or am, all these call out for songs,
I am the hounded slave; I wince, turn, and sing.
*Every other line is from Walt Whitman
Wet Cement Poem No;3
they reckon birth may hurt babies
they say life is worth every penny
they believe the working class do not exist
they tell this to shop workers and nurses
they take the proof of our silent witness
they stare through the television screen into us
they trace each thought back to its owner
they rig the trail of life with sticky pleasure
they laugh at the poor behind their backs
they pin down the butterfly inside you
they pull the wings from your genius
they find starving people then feed them war
they have decided to counterfeit everything on the face of the earth
they reckon love is a rumour spread by dirty rotten communists.
Wet Cement Poem No:2
the road pours me into the city machine
the fire damaged man sells me his bad news
the live wires suit themselves in culture café's
the show houses play Les Miserables for laughs
the bar maids cry pints of crocodile tear liquor
the happy skull smiles of the living shine brightly
and the city machine passes me like a hot beer shit.
Wet Cement Poem No:1
from crashing waves deduce your answers
burn holes in paper tigers with ember tongues
be a red angel flying on swept back blue wings
carry a dove spangled banner in the midst of battle
touch a strangers pain at least once a day with your eyes
leave a trail in wet cement where your mind wandered
hide secret things, leave false clues, become unsolvable,
find undiscovered lands, burn their maps, wait to be found.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Michael Grover's, I'M CALLING YOU OUT. audio! and audio! ANDREW LOVATT's, confessio1remix, with his original music!
COVERT POETICS JOURNAL AND PRESS, MIKE GROVER'S
My country hates the poor,
Blames them for living
Out in the open.
Haves take more,
More government relief.
Poor not a pot to piss in,
No relief or jobs in sight.
I saw your hand print america
Across the face of a battered child in the street.
I'm calling you out.
You tried to hide
In the TV,
Behind the troops,
Behind the flag,
The statue of liberty,
Some fucked up cracked bell.
I'm calling you out.
It was you that put crack on the streets.
To kill the poor quicker.
You hate the poor.
You engineered the AIDS virus.
Now I'm speaking in conspiracies.
Like dreams come true,
I'm calling you out.
Feeding on the fear
Of your weakest.
Sending fear through mass media,
Sittin' there feedin' on it.
Getting fat off it.
You are the fattest of the cats.
I'm calling you out.
I don't stand for the national anthem.
I laugh right in your face.
The last time I heard it
Someone tried to make me take my hat off.
I said "Who are you the police?"
Won't love it or leave it.
I'm calling you out.
Won't listen to some chump
With a three piece suit and tie mind,
Tell me a vote for him
Will make my life better.
I know I'm gonna wake up
And it's all gonna be the same anyway.
Change is gonna be
What's left in my pocket.
I'm calling you out.
This is an abusive relationship.
But I'll stick around just to fuck with you.
Have you noticed I'm moving
Closer to the border.
I'll sit here on the edge
Watch whatever Armageddon you're playing out.
I have no fear left to feed you.
I'm calling you out.
I'm unlearning what I've learned
Because wisdom and peace
Are not a cluttered head.
I study the bloodline
Of the Poet.
I know what you've done.
I am living and dying simultaneously.
We all are.
I'm calling you out.
You're just an image marketed.
You are the biggest illusion.
I've followed your roads
From coast to coast.
From south to north.
I have seen you.
I know just how beautiful you are.
I have seen the injustice.
I know just how ugly you are.
I have felt the freedom
Of an open road,
Nothing in my way.
How do we live up to that?
How does the feeling last?
&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &
the title dead drunk dublin sprang from a collection of poems of the same name which i started writing in 2002 while walking the streets of dublin, a city i have known off & on for over 30 years. the book is still in the writing. -- andrew lovatt, editor
LOVATT WAS EX- BEATLE, JOHN LENNON'S "MAIN MAN" HEADING UP THE WALRUS' EARLY VIDEO A/V FORAYS THAT WERE CENTERED IN DUBLIN IN THE EARLY 1970'S.
all pictures in this post credit FDW Ireland 2004 & Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. 2006
Thursday, September 11, 2008
BIOGRAPHIC FOR THE PEOPLE!:
Caustic critic (aka P. Maudit) of the academic/literary established-order milieu et al and founding editor of The American Dissident
All pictures, poems and cartoon panels are by Mr. Slone, GeorgeTodSlone @ 2008
link to read Mr.Slone's Monday Report for the Alliance!
Published February 11 of this year ....
Testing the Waters of Democracy Today in Concord… and at Walden Pond
Preservation—Free Speech in Peril
Andrei Codrescu and Lawrence Ferlinghetti
January 2007—All Things Not Considered:
The Glossy Vacuity of Art & Poesy*
Is it not interesting to wade through
a silky, colorful artsy magazine and
end up with nothingness?
How much does nothingness cost?
you may wonder.
Well, it surely must be expensive!
The names grab your attention,
of course, Mailer and Tennessee,
but what they say does not.
Through the interviews with the artistes,
you hunt for a bite of wisdom, but find
only anodyne questions and responses.
"Why do you paint on panels instead
"What role does having exhibitions play
in your work process?"
And of course there’s the poetry editor,
boasting how great the poets
and how one of them could have kept
her poem in the present tense, but
the decision to shift it in the last line
complicated it, making it oh, so
"charged, immediate, and layered."
There’s the essay on the state governor,
deeming politics a fine art,
or so says the smitten writer.
And there’s the essay on the millionaire
public intellectual with photos of him
playing tennis and walking his white poodle,
so proud of his corporate executive son.
The poets, writers, and artistes, so
successfully bourgeois are they,
yet such sterile failures!
*Poem written round Provincetown Arts, 2007
A Poem for the Edification of Lit Cogs
Intellectually I sharpen from constant collision
with the established-order—its myriad components
and ubiquitous legions of abnegating proponents.
"I agree with much of what you're saying," wrote
one such editor,* who then proceeded to argue
that what I was saying was actually
"rant" and "sour grapes."
But how could an intelligent person agree with that,
I wondered, bringing it to his attention, though in vain;
besides, why should the literary agora be open only
to sweet grapes?
"But if your tone is anything like your tone here, I
wouldn't be interested in it," he stated with regards
another critical proposal of mine.
Thus, my approach was off, my tone wrong, and
of course my taste not in good taste at all.
But was Villon’s verse written in the right tone or
Solzhenitsyn’s prose or Bukowski’s or how about
Thomas Paine’s? Was his written in good taste?
But to that, the constituent simply closed the debate
with a curt "good luck with the browbeating."
Sadly, the logic tends to die, inevitably,
with diehards of the established-order
*C.L. Bledsoe, editor of Ghoti Magazine
Poem #2 for the Edification of Lit Cogs
An editor wrote that my "general frustration with
some of the ‘norms’ and ‘protocols’ of the literary
world were well-founded and needed
to be expressed"* and
that he was "really drawn" to my writing.
"I must say. I actually agree with a lot
Three months later I wrote him a reminder, asking
if he were still drawn to what I had to say and would
consider publishing something of what I had to say.
But in an unsurprising about face, he responded
"I'm not wanting to out and out burn bridges because,
well we’re a writer-friendly publication."
Yet how, I wondered, had the prime concern of
literary publishers, apart from excellence—
oh, but of course!—
become apprehension of burning bridges, while
"writer friendly" equated with truth avoidance?
Had the Janus-faced politician turned role model?
"But I do want to take on (more) controversial issues,
and I do want to give voice to ‘unpopular’ views,"
he proudly declared, as if fence straddling had been
elevated to one of the fine arts.
"Some degree of prudence is needed, but not to the
point of sacrificing authenticity and fairness."
Would he, I wondered, be presenting himself one day
as candidate for the Congress or Senate?
*John Amen, Chief Editor of Pedestal Magazine
G. Tod Slone
(firstname.lastname@example.org)1837 Main St. August 2007
Concord, MA 01742
Sunday, July 6, 2008
A good sampling of Matt's sideshow/circus/music videos can be found on YouTube. Regarding Matt's earning the respect and notice of the ULA: he videographed and otherwise helped provoke the entire ULA action on the Columbia University campus, "Save The Beats : protest regarding Allen Ginsberg's HOWL, in April of 2006. He also backed the ULA action-reading event at the 40th Street Arts Festival organized by FoundationArts last August with cool hot keyboard improv and produced a video of that wild and crazy public incident!
Text from Unholy Sideshow trailer:
A secret society sworn to protect man kind
Against the Armies of the Abyss With a family
of serial killers
Next in line To perform a ritual sacrifice
Preventing the coming of the dead
The Old Ways have grown weak
With corruption and deceit
Prepare to witness the beginning
Of the myth of our modern apocalypse
The beauteous "Betty Bloomer" atop "Matters Squidling" who is as usual laying down on the job--- a bed of nails replete with a nail comforter!-- with (left) The Amazing Barry Silver and ULAer "Jelly Boy The Clown" (right). This Summer in The Carnivolution held at the Ellen Tiberino Museum, Powelton Village, West Philadelphia. photo credit: GeoffHall @ 2005 From East to West: Matt Broomfield, FDW, and "Jelly Boy The Clown", now all comrade ULAers! On the boardwalk in Asbury Park, New Jersey around Labor Day, 2005, after performing music and other highjinx as part of the Big Art Show Festival.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
& Rita Webb’s
Who's sorry now?
Mrs. Lovejoy was perfect. She had a beautiful face and a flawless figure. She always dressed with impeccable taste – hat, purse, and shoes matched to her stylish outfits – and not a hair or a speck of makeup out of place. Mrs. Lovejoy was divorced. Her husband had run off with a slovenly math teacher named Lila Scruggs.
All of the other women at church watched Mrs. Lovejoy with envy, while the men couldn't take their eyes off her, as she'd gracefully glide down the center aisle on Sunday mornings to her pew near the front, with two perfectly-groomed but very plain children in tow.
There were stories in the newspaper about Cynthia Lovejoy, the star of the Phoenix Ballet, and my mother said that she was the same one who went to our church. I was about nine years old when I first saw her name in the paper. The articles were always accompanied by black-and-white action photos in which it was impossible to see the ballerina's face.
So a few years later, when I began to read the text of the news items, I was shocked to learn that Mrs. Lovejoy's first name was Eleanor, and that, despite her graceful demeanor, she wasn't a dancer; it was her taciturn teenage daughter who starred in the Phoenix Ballet. Cynthia wasn't attractive, but she had waist-length black hair and a future. Mrs. Lovejoy was interviewed frequently, always making it clear that she was "giving Cynthia everything that I never had," but Cynthia never said anything to the reporters.
It was rumored that Cynthia's little brother had a name, but no one knew what it was. He was sent to reform school when he was fourteen for having committed arson.
Cynthia had been the main source of income for her mother for a long time. Cynthia was sick of ballet. She wanted to go to college and study philosophy. Mrs. Lovejoy said no. One day when no one else was around, Cynthia put the barrel of a .45-caliber revolver into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Mrs. Lovejoy came home and found blood all over her perfect, white floor.