↑ Fiennes, C.P. Self-Portrait III. 2013. Charcoal and colour on imaginary cardboard.
Nervous Horse Art Gallery, Canadian subdivision, exact physical location unknown.
(or: an obligatory introduction)
One day when the great poet Homer was walking around the outskirts of Athens he came across two young fishermen. When asked whether they had caught anything they gave the answer: »The ones we caught we threw away, and the ones we didn’t catch we kept.» The fishermen went on their way, and Homer, trying his hardest to figure out what they might have meant, accidentally tripped on a bump on the road, hit his head on a relatively large rock and died right there on the spot. This tragically absurd story reminds us that the Greeks, despite being intellectually superior to the men of today, still had fleas like all the rest of us.
During the past weeks we have received numerous inquiries on the contents of this issue. Particular interest has been expressed on the promised essay »Introduction to Things» by N. N., and we are more than sad to announce that the piece does not appear in this issue. The author, whom we haven’t gotten a hold of, wishes to keep revising the text until it is thoroughly accurate and ture. We imagine this could take a while. If you are one of the many who were ardently looking forward to reading about things, we can only assure you that if you take a look at some of the texts which do appear in this issue, you will be pleased to see that more than a few of them discuss practically nothing but things.
There is one more issue we choose not to omit, and it is the one treated in this and the following paragraph. Many have requested Nervous Horse to appear in print so that it could more conveniently be examined on the bus, on the toilet, or in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office. And here follows the greatest disappointment of all: we live in a society run by evil capitalists and thus cannot afford to print a sufficient amount of copies to be distributed to our loyal readers across the world.
We tried to get past this frustrating obstacle by going to the unemployment office and announcing we would be happy to start a publishing company if only we got offered the free money to do so. We told them that we have many friends with finished or nearly finished novels which desperately need to be published. We told them that we would eventually be buying our very own printing press, which we would keep in a garage or an old barn in the countryside, preferably near the river, and we would have a mill by the river to provide power for the printing press, and we would be growing vegetables in the backyard. We thought this was a brilliant idea, but the bastards advised us not to follow through with it. Do they think they can tell us what to do? We wish they would stop sending us these frivolous pieces of paper in the mail, and furthermore we wish they would choke on an overcooked rabbit.
To end this introduction on a happy note we provide you with this fine poem written free-willingly and free of charge by A Person:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I hope you’re not disappointed
with Issue #2
Becomming the beacon of knowlege is harder then it looks. Small crystals of light illuminus colours, shining beacons. But why say beacon when we can say bacon. Bacon taste better then beacons, but are less valuable. We entrust the Beacon and Bacon Foundation of Knowledge & Neutrition.
you have to followxthe hot springs to reach the beacon of knowledge and the beacon of direction.
( tBnBF&N ) ©
Aginor is referring to the Blue Genie for realizing the myth of Ariel and Caliban, the Hands of Mystique has spoken.
Aginor the creator of shadow spawn.
Blue Genie the 10 000 year old jinn who has cosmic powers
Ariel and Caliban, spirits of islands,
and the Hand of Mystique the combiner of aesthetic beauty and scientific precision
I am the pieces, fragment of space, matter and time, my sole purpose is lost in enternity of what was and the internety of what shall become. the bleeding ironycof les that is in-signed in the core of death, pain and hopelessness, shall ever be indepted in the sacred stone tablets. Be strong and stay sharp, sincere fuck though urban slug of misfitted piece of dung from my lung, BAN&
written with his nixture of vlood and zitt fluids
lump, lump you big dung of hump, shpulder hump, in sluggish lumps; you;/
Lost in ebonics
ase c. retadmirer
do you know what im looking for mrs widmore?
There are no words.
and the with the Red excer
ms. r. rat
And so it. »», he said. Turned around on her and hysterically. begun.
closed the door and into the yard where and crows were circling the that only recently had missing. It was definitely the from the station. But how had ended up?
»», he said.
»So it», she.
The was still and warm. She kneeled and , to no avail.
»Someone has taken his
at the very stop where he found. It’s funny how
Vompatee sat next to thee
o voloumus lottery
wanting to win money
to pay govourment fee
or els he would be hidden up in the bamboo tree
as a tiny kolibree
tiny Vompatti a smirk
To Stroke the Fur of my Special Friend
Asec R. Etadmirer
there is a special fire here
lurking in the creeping streets
and I turn to face the day and meet
a voopy sort of stranger
there is wind on his wings
and algae on his fur
as slothlike it alarms to connote a feeling
he thinks that I am gay
all i can say is
A HAIKU ABOUT GRINDCORE
12 MINUTE ALBUMS OR DIE
YOU SUFFER, BUT WHY???
Jesus F. Christ
Even Pastrami. K?
I serve to thee
some hefty poetryee
for the buissy beee
he vissits evry single tree
which he can see
of a poetry
of the bussy bee
OUCH it stung mee
J. F. C.
this is not a haiku
because there aren’t
this is a haiku because
there is enough sylabols in
i wrote a haiku for you
which this, right here is
what i wrote for you
J. K. Giih
Yes, People clearly paradox little this than years.
be science said sent wasn’t great but much that —
might no my if — sure work
sometimes time and probably tickets, the written;
An to of like
I’m wearing lone octupus work when to walk
(Or everything, but manifests this and 1950’s.)
what that why reading sometimes and anything.
new I > why that important about hospital
when by button to stuff in notice but itself.
Fair Attic form, earnest conquest of design!
Wilt thou be silent, or shalt thou sing
Before ye bid this Earth — and us— adieu?
Man’s ruder nature thou dost refine,
And Oracle a sight the Serpent renew:
From mortal sorrow — Love Bestow,
Whence all lasting joys of life accrue.
What stories promis’d hast thou to tell —
Raise mankind and free him from Hell?
What stirs the soul but a sigh
and a whisper of your name?
Only the cold pure wind
could bring to me the same
The bitterness ebbs away
leaving behind only white
A glimpse, a touch of your hand
Leaving me restless in my flight
As the sun fades in the cold dusk
leaving us to dance in the sky
by only the light of the stars
pure light of wonder in your eye
Frozen by the cold, and in time
might that moment last eternally
one last embrace at dawn’s kiss
what a wond’rous memory it will be
that night we danced together in the sky
My honoured being
The tulip never argues;
Just nods gracefully
Sparrows flying past
To the dying sunflowers,
The dog still barking
The pigeons cluster,
Noisily gorging themselves
In the Acorn tree
Frail, frail nightingale
Frail, frail nightingale
This is a dangerous path ye tread.
Knowledge – knowing bears not well
When sickness wearies in your bed.
‘Tis not a cradle scream nor coffin sigh —
From which the clawing clamors up,
The madness murmurs in the eye
From a thousand depths deep inside.
You will not know, frail nightingale
Until madness no longer steps aside:
When and then is far too late.
I goon the moon spoon.
I play one day away
Fear of stares compares
the bin of gin swin.
I dislocate my elbow
as I cut
as continue chopping
no longer made of wood
You are the spawn of Mephisto,
You wear the box with such menace
As would frighten small children
And terrorize all that is holy in us.
I did not eat that soup with a fork,
I just forgot to utilize a spoon.
Nor did I write my grocery list backwards
Or eat rice cakes gazing at the moon.
You are the scourge of all that is me,
You’re like a teenie-bopper’s diary
Filled with God-knows-what-tapioca sludge
about Justin whathisname.
I turned off the light to take a nap
To find a box moving in the shadow of my eye,
If I had a cross-coffin I would seal your soul
and banish it back Dante’s seventh Hell-hole.
Do not stare at me with such piercing glance,
I gave you a box, now enjoy it, not my misery
You wretched spawn of Satan now gazing
At me all innocent and askance.
-haiku + 1-
Writing the story
To keep the remembrance safe,
Then forgetting the dream.
Sharpen the points of view
Round up the squares
Lucidity unites with a crispy reality
No sign of the end of the line
Hand tools bring renewal
Losing many contacts with verbal contracts
Insecurities are breached and bleached
Focus groups paid in full for singular tunnel visions
Inform the outward bound while counting the measures of no sound
Apexes possess finer points with bases as wide as all outside
The bottom is relentless
The tucked in become the restless
Second guesses rake the coals
Procreation of mediocrity
Provocation of static
Euphemisms for a state of stasis on a daily basis
J. F. C.
quick pro quo
quid pro quo
squid pro quo
quick quid squid
a quid is a pound in
a squid is a squid in the
a pound is like a dollar.
LOVE hNAND txet-inddent itnhe Flashlght Hnd
U. N. Ture
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If this is a menagerie then I am an animal house
Move forward like obedient mistakes.
Paternal patterns become abortion mosaics.
Euphoric discomfort is shared amongst givers and takers until one bad egg attempts to barter.
Wares imported from somewhere beyond over there.
Comprehensive idiocy punctuates increasingly predictable couplings.
Infernos of joint efforts are snuffed out by dyslexic blowhards with luck just as dense as their poorly exhaled breath.
Dripping high roads allow certain drops to dissolve in falsified virtues.
This chatter is as mindless as it is expansive and disorganized.
Every breath is taken like it was stolen.
Every vision is witnessed by a hung jury.
Grasping formless sounds and tasting bitter comfort are necessary and cumbersome.
J. F. C.
watch me soar like a
mountains don’t soar.