a mildly disturbing stick figure

↑ 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


0. Prologue


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

»omg k»
















Jesus F. Christ


Corned/Smoked Meat/Beef

Even Pastrami. K?








I serve to thee

some hefty poetryee

for the buissy beee

he vissits evry single tree

which he can see

the pleasantry

of a poetry

of the bussy bee

OUCH it stung mee






J. F. C.


this is not a haiku

because there aren’t

enough sylabols




this is a haiku because

there is enough sylabols in

this one




i wrote a haiku for you

which this, right here is

what i wrote for you





Cut-up III

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


Tomorrow this

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.)


gladly things.

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?






Kevin Zecchel


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






Kate Buck


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

the wood

I pause

and look

as continue chopping

the stick

no longer made of wood

but bone.





The Cat



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.





Schönberg’s Dream

-haiku + 1-

Viktor Bach


Writing the story

To keep the remembrance safe,

Then forgetting the dream.





Updated Downtime

Seth Monroe


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

pro quo

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


<p>  in <p p>

<p < < the class= class= p>

<p p>

Hand stanza stanza class= <p>  of >I >It stanza < a walked was >peppermints p>

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<p 8212 class= h2>

cigarette class= < centered <h3 today< stanza p>

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>and class= line2 author <p every stanza gif >U class= screwdriver >I width= N stanza I never 360 Ture< >deliberately< could really height= h3>


<p get was 6 <p>  class= my that alt= < stanza hands much line p>

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<p at p>

<p them< <p>  class= the class= p>

<p < stanza crude stanza class= p>

first shivering >was stanza <div >There’s hand< slslslsllslslippspspepepepperprprrpryryryry >to class= no p>

<p < be centered reason class= p>

<p honest >

to stanza class= < <h2>Love deny >attached stanza p>

Is it to >which < a < it reminds div>

Flashlight p>

< me





If this is a menagerie then I am an animal house

Seth Monroe


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.