↑ Patti, Vom. A Nervous Heart. 2013. Crayon on screen. Nervous Horse Art Gallery, Turku, Finalnd.
(or: words from the editor)
When we first began preparing for the publication of this magazine on January 17th 1857, we had no idea it would take nearly seven months to compile all the material we had into a gracefully harmonious whole. As opposed to all expectations we ended up with such a stylistically and substantially diverse selection of items that instead of simply applying a rigorous logical principle to put it all together we had to resort to our intuition in determining the sequence of firstly the short pieces below and secondly the somewhat more extensive works which, as made possible by the non-linear structure of the internet, have been placed on their own separate pages like beautiful landscapes opening at the ends of forking paths.
Since there are numerous texts in this magazine, many more than we originally assumed there would be, we are inclined to advise against reading them in the order they are here presented in — for there are some particularly good things near the end, and it would be a terrible shame if the reader got bored or distracted before encountering them. Therefore it might be preferable to go through the whole thing as you would go through a newspaper: start from the very last page like your father always used to do, skip past the television programmes and the sports, end up in whichever section is likely to come next (we haven’t personally sampled a large enough variety of papers to take an educated guess) and then suddenly begin to wonder if it would have been more logical after all to read the first page first — start again, this time beginning from the first page, skip the editorials and the local news, but then very soon change your mind, flip the paper over, start from the back again, and then from the front again, ad infinitum, never reaching the middle.
For a certain reason, which for some readers will undoubtedly be apparent, we would now like to promptly wrap up this introduction by concluding it with the opening lines of the poem »just some ducks trying to eat a bun underwater» written by our dear friend Vom Patti, who wishes to remain anonymous in the year 2009:
Edgar Allan Poe
was a man who sometimes wore a black coat
when I extend one of my fingers
just a little bit
I can touch some of the particles
outside my skin.
it is called correspondence.
Another Timeless Retort or Miesmann
I was hungry today. At least, I thought I was. When the time came to lunch, I had bought a hot dog and an ice cream sandwich. This particular ice cream sandwich used chocolate chip cookies to keep the ice cream from falling out onto its consumer in a gooey and sticky mess. I sit around for two or maybe three minutes before I decide that I will attempt to eat this hot dog which I bought for the sole purpose of consumption.
I unwrap the wrapping and gaze at the meaty monolith for the better part of a minute. The bun is still warm and mildly squishy; tempting indeed. Despite this, I threw away the hot dog without taking a single bite. I then decide to eat the ice cream sandwich, but as I unwrap the noisy plastic packaging, I discover that the ice cream has melted and the cookies are broken.
I guess I wasn’t hungry.
now i declare war
infidels shall be trampled
i smoke solid fire
punch me up with smack so i can fill in the holes
sleight of hand can stack the cattiest of poles
polar bears shall sit and stare, polarized by solar flares
holy rollers grinding molars tighter than the family golers
stomping on the soft spots that flip your babies from their strollers
something you don’t know is here and alive
A.S Ecre Tadmirer
flurry smoke shimmer shine
dark swamp murky deep
caught between parallels
the toast is burnt and i’m not sure why the toaster’s not working
i like a good spank
Oops wrong box
spank spank spank i liek a good spank k i wanna spank k from the gril with teh pertty hands k omg i’m scraed of the gril in the grocery stoer and i only wanna horse radish k
omg omg omg k would you believe me if i told you i liek men q.m.
i want to get spanked by a man k hard k mmmm spank spank spank
not this time
I found some of your hairpins
they’re mine now, sorry, but that’s just the way it is around here
if you don’t like it, then try to learn your lesson next time
I already had to return your books
and your records
and I’ve done it enough now
so I’m sorry
but I’m losing my goddamn mind
and it’s not proper to impose like this on so many occasions
so this is just how it’ll have to be from now on;
I simply haven’t the time to be returning lost goods.
if you need them
I’ll be there
for your consideration
seth h. monroe
The patience of a spoiled child sits on my face like an intoxicated slut
My bleats are muffled by vicelike thighs as my tongue frantically scrambles, scratches at the well walls
A drop in the bucket descends from a scowling brow
A piece of ass equal parts class and crass
Brighter options and pastures so green that even envy would be jealous
Fire breathing swine shall set serenity ablaze
My essence is caressed by weathered extremities
Record and observe the documentation being witnessed, field tested, redesigned, redefined and kind enough to rewind
I’m running in circles and there’s no way around it
Panting breaths are drawn from my tasteless mouth
I’ve never wanted a cigarette quite like this before...
there is a curious bead here and i’m unsure what to do with it
A Secret Admirer
there is an effect of entropy
aroused in me
the detritus of the everyday
collapses upon the Other
there is no Other
and though i may caress the fur that binds me
to the waking-eye-life
the white gaping cynic
the withholder, always withholding
within and without happy smiles
please love me
this isn’t really happening
there is alfred prufrock, a man about town
well accustomed to the dregs of male loneliness
why don’t girls see me for who i’m really not?
Waiting for a guide
let’s settle it
turncoat, writhing, begging, empty, coward
this is forever
Roses are not the reason I’ve come to hate the color red, violet is a color that’s dangerous to consume. The ghost of caliphates to come previously peppered up some delectably discernible deserters and fed them to us drowned in a marinade made up of the sad-eyed tadpoles who will never learn to hop or croak.
Perverted beyond any rhyme or reason, beyond all of my masculinity, beyond the seasons...
»Renaldo,» she began. »Never speak to me again in that childish voice. Your charms will only work on holistic heroines and heroin addicts and I am neither of those.»
i used to speak french
i’m not allowed anymore
i choose not to vote
on the necronomicon, i’m sweaing this
My Ayes Are Twtiching
by U. N. Ture
She or he now the site of the national magazine that now typically think I impression found my eyes are her Hoover. List at five to be three or by the day they hang of a new rule.
You live in the Italian with him down where Isaac twitching thing: going to my eyes upward saying had a gray averaging way that the only right that is hardly a way are bright guy running for all the very thin.
Lined up like a rotting away 55 they are the Shanghai war, htey are not how we are asking Federal Atwood. Him arrive and many of Latin band capital area are to go back to early evening. Will be very hard to fathom. Think of black men everywhere on our will, calling you out on who you are.
At least I’ll find out if you are you hiding whereupon I think I’ll buy you, hire you, worn path in the arm who have my other ideas, years, riots that he ought to have. Your life here be outlined. His life in town on the now was that 9 mile route move. He had no idea how she has published a paper and I probably shouldn’t be doing this at night.
(inspired by the late,great george carlin)
seth h. monroe
i have spent at least eight days
trying to excrete a cliche phrase
it serves me no purpose
it is utterly worthless
on the fly, off the wall
on the drugs, off the meds,
on the air, off the rails
on point, off key
on lock. off duty
on the right track, off the cuff
on to something, off to the races
on the winning team, off centre
online, off sides, on time
Hamlet: the mild cigar
I dream of Pliny (both younger and elder)
Jüris H. Smirnoff
Perchance to dream
like Coleridge and Shakespeare
but alas, no.
A nightmarish realisation dawns
I am a character
(maybe) a deus ex machina
for others but not me.
A plot device. A machination of reality.
An Orwellian or Kafkaesque
of desolation and desperation.
Down and Out in Prague and London.
Uncreative urges of an ultimate
Josef K like Metamorphosis
into Gregor Samsa.
I feel as if I’m on Trial
by nefarious kin.
Being judged ill-equipped
and lacking the fibre to fight.
No Pleasure Dome.
A sorrowful young Werther
walked into me.
sometimes, most times, often times
is to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I am the octahedron where the dawn hides at night.
The ocean climbs into my room
and furnishes my despair
with empty shells
and dead fish
and stuff like that.
I am the carpenter you never met.
Haikus are boring!
Haikus are very boring
I’ve resorted to snoring
It is now morning
Written on this very day, the 16th of the month of October,
in the year two thousand and one, Anno Domini
at 04:16 in the early hours of this new day, Tuesday.
pagE loaD erroR
ms. r. rat
I threw away my old shoes;
There are no absolutes anymore.
great ocean, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
hell — o.