a digital oil painting of a dark greenish whirlpool in a pool

↑ Mundt-Scheide, Rebecca. Well Then . . 2015. Oil on canvas.

Nervous Horse Art Gallery, Berlin.

The Great Poet Homer Died by Tripping on a Rock

Thinking About the Fishermen and the Lice They Caught and Threw Away


Life is like this issue of Nervous Horse: not as short as it could have been. Thanks to our relentless contributors we have again been blessed with such a substantial amount of pieces that there has been little to no pressure to make up for the lack of quantity with quality. Yet many of the works included herein radiate with an aura of a brilliance so rare that it would be a travesty if they and their humble authors were not to live for ever in the anals of history.

We will refrain from analizing the numerous possible reasons why this issue, being the second of the year, was not published until now. We will, however, remind the loyal reader that Nervous Horse has always come out twice a year, and we are proud to continue this long tradition. There are several literary magazines that only come out once a year, and indeed there are plenty more that don’t even exist.

Yet we remain puzzled as to why our fine publication has not attracted new audiences at a rate a pile of feces would attract flies. Not only that, but a few of our formerly fairly productive other selves and their alternative personalities seem to have been losing their creative edge, as if their spirits had been crushed under the weight of the world — or perhaps they are simply hesitant to let go of their masterpieces without a monetary reward. In the case of the latter case being the case, we can only reiterate that a) we publish anything, and b) the best things in life aren’t worth much.

As for the possibility of seeking brand new contributors, we have indeed often considered lifting our heads up from beneath the depths of the darkest underground and venture out to the streets, striking up conversations and handing out black and white flyers to cute hipster girls. Yet somehow we always end up idling at our silent apartment, drinking substantial amounts of urine flavoured beer and masturbating to cranial nerve examination roleplays. This is the path we have chosen and we have yet to be forced to revert from it.

Finally we would like to conclude this editorial with something special, a message dictated to A Person by our Higher Self. These are the sort of words that students of literature will write exquisite theses on long after our body has deteriorated beyond repair from repetitive necrophilic use:


Giih giih oih oih ture.

Flase i dunno k wtf!

12 bears omg k.

ture ture ture :'';(.

oooooih, ture.

Girl in Berlin, ghosts in my kitchen.


Bump giih.

I wouldn’t mind if you know what i mean?

teeth girl with the pretty teeth girl with the i dunno k.








Absentee Astral Projection

Seth Monroe


Forgive me for a few hours.

Long winded shit bird possessed by ISIS and the intimate knowledge of open source skunk weed.

Drunk pitch and drugged gloss have the address to a wild happening.

Fists affix a meteor that herded the worst necessity.

Purity can be advertised on direct surf just as excuses care for the vaguely nauseous.

Urges give way to levied breaks while infrastructure crumbles.

Gouged fury of my lisp has been bonkers and I’ll be damned if you’re hanging in there.





Stab My Anus

Georges Cunningham


Emptiness pervades my mind

I grow restless.


Emptiness chews my pavement

I grow frustrated.


Emptiness fondles my butthole

I grow cyclical.


Emptiness regurgitates my reality

I grow polycerate.


Emptiness exasperates my demise

I grow effusive.






T. K. Oih


Ten Scientific Studies Prove That Being a Liberal Should Be Classified As A Mental Disease. "Feminism" Is Now Code For Shootings, Stabbings, Explosions. The CIA Admits That Armed Robbery Should Not Be Considered Art. Protestors Are Mostly Criminals. The Problem With Bomb Threats Is They Never Cease To Amuse. Human Sex Slaves Can’t Be Oppressed Enough. Documents Confirm That Students Are Offended By Facts. Go Ahead And Delete This. If You Like Privacy, Stay Away From Society. Heroic Gun Owner Rapist Wants Nazis Prosecuted. Apes Are Now Censoring Chaos Maths. Sick Of Progress? Try Going Into The Wilderness For 40 Days In Imitation Of Jesus. Your Smartphone Is Drunk. Choose Your Own Propaganda.






Seth H. Monroe


Submit this while you rub rifts, merely trying to subsist.

The average income is enough to bluff pus and become cysts.

Just to be enough to puff chests and stuff another fluffed vest.

Getting chuffed is one way to have some fun on a Sunday.

Just because this stuff gets enough of a judgment call, wink and a nudge.

Budgie birds will fuss and fidget, twitching all the timeless digits.





An Irrational Wish to Become an Amnesiac Serial Killer

Leading to an Expected Lack of Revelation

Giles Fayvel


Fingers on the bathroom floor

attached to a body

not mine —

I never wake up like this.


Walking in the fog

I always expect

the same.


Only when I forget what was

can I almost see exceptions

but they are no exceptions

once they have happened.


An unidentified shape,

an area not yet an object —



A point of view without assumptions,

a pair of eyes without goggles,

a subject without self —

I never wake up like this.





A Poem To The Girl With No Eyelids

Waldo ‘George’ Witchcraft



Lets bang





She Goes

Seth H. Monroe


Drugs ruin everything but I know nothing else.

If you don’t believe me, take a good look at yourself.

Powder on a mirror so a vision can be clearer.

The lowest brow keeps an eye on the highest shelf.





Burning charr



Burning char is what they use to fuel my ancient hangar.

Floating on lava streams with myxdrifting mind.

Melting faces, smouldrring bones, crushed in the might fire drakens home.


Blistering coldned icy water, my frost bitted feets, blue they are

Turning yellow my nose, nitrogene lakes floates my boat

so cold our blood freezes, our mind rices with the clock, hypothermia takes a new victim

Everything even electrons stand stil in this cold might place.





The Party Is Over

T. K. Oih


There is a red green hole where my communism used to be

and the pus oozing out of it won’t feed a single hardcore punk songstress

whose tight vagina I wouldn’t mind sinking my apathetic penis into.


After dining with us bums they would sleep in packs like the wolves they pretended to protect

and let our forests be cut down and swamps dried

and built into extravagant habitations

for their queer overlords.


Even the reindeer got fucked over.


I probably love the reindeer better than I love any communist

with or without mashed potatoes

and cowberries.






Pure Sweat & The Way To Start Again

Seth Monroe


Mouth is drooling south and pooling.

Mixing with the air that’s cooling.

Shouting matches can be grueling.

Doubt the spouse who isn’t fooling.





My Friends

Just A Man


My friends are all bad

Why won’t they listen

All the alone time we had

They wouldn’t make me feel couragious enough to talk about absolutely everything I could think of








I am turning Mitch into a frightfull bitch, into a beach full of blood sucking leaches.

From the Kingdom of Stench, I wrest my soul in a cucumber shaped bench.

The fanfar of death, reached my palms, like pimples of murcury.





We Can Spit at Most Things

Hazel Reis


rocks, twigs, railings, bricks, door handles

and streets.

everything we can touch

we can also spit at.

and what’s more,

we can also spit at

some things we cannot touch.

the river down below

and all the empty bottles

in it.

but there are some things

we can neither touch

nor spit at.

those things

are the best things of all.