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Lit Circus Our rapid fire expose of outsider writer talent! A rapidly rotating lit-zeen of poetry, prose and more! For general questions, queries etc, contact our Little John of the lit world , Pat King.
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Please send short fiction to Karl Koweski - Here!
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Posted by MELISSA HANSEN
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Tuesday, 15 April 2008
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EASTER, HER BEAUTY AND HER THIRST
It is time to raise the knife: to let run the blood of the hare warm from throat over clenching hand and down to thirsting chill spring earth below.
It is her time, and our time to honor her: Eostre, whose name in Northumbria is Eastre, true goddess of this equinox.
Unto her, now, this wicked and most holy day,
robbed and vandaled from her
by fool, foreign, funereal cult, set in sin against her
and all that is sacred, ordained, and good.
Unto her, now, this wicked and most holy day, reclaimed and resurrected.
Unto her.
© 2008 by Nick Tosches, Inc.
MY KIND OF LOVING
What is it with you people who don’t understand
the senseless slaughter of animals?
What is it with you people
who don’t want to wear fur?
I want to fuck you in fur.
Kill me a Kennedy;
that’s my idea of foreplay.
Bring me his fucking pig-faced mick head
on a silver platter-
No, better yet: Aynsley makes these plates,
22-karat gold and blue Cobalt-
Fuck the silver; bring me his head on one of those.
Wear your diamond-seamed stockings,
special shoes from Brazil.
I’ll see you there.
I’ll see you there.
© 1998 by Nick Tosches, Inc.
I, WITH A KNIFE TO THE THROAT OF CYBELE
I, with a knife to the throat of Cybele,
lie beneath the sky of spring,
awaiting night and the sapphire light of stars
whose birth was hers, my mother’s, own.
Her eyes are unafraid,
as I feared they would be;
and the tide of her breath,
which was once my own,
within the April of her breast
and the April of her neck,
governs more than does my hand
the stillness of the blade;
and her blood is my blood, and the blade
is the blade of that which is
between us, alone, and in the end governed
neither by hand nor by breath
but only by what the sapphire light
of this her evening has ordained.
© 1998 by Nick Tosches, Inc.
Nick Tosches is the author of books and of “breath from dead places”. He has written for Creem, Rolling Stone, Esquire, The New York Times, The Village Voice, Penthouse, Playboy, and many other publications. He lives in what used to be New York City.
The poems I, WITH A KNIFE TO THE THROAT OF CYBELE and MY KIND OF LOVING have been taken from CHALDEA and I DIG GIRLS, (CUZ Editions 1998). Both titles can be heard on BLUE EYES AND EXIT WOUNDS, the author’s Spoken Word CD collaboration with Hubert Selby, Jr. You may learn more of Nick Tosches and his collection of work via MYSPACE and his WEBSITE.
-Melissa Hansen
Books by Nick Tosches (but not limited to):
COUNTRY (1977)
HELLFIRE (1982)
UNSUNG HEROES OF ROCK 'N' ROLL (1984)
POWER ON EARTH (1986)
CUT NUMBERS (1988)
DINO: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams (1992)
TRINITIES (1994)
CHALDEA (1999)
THE DEVIL AND SONNY LISTON (2000)
THE NICK TOSCHES READER (2000)
WHERE DEAD VOICES GATHER (2001)
THE LAST OPIUM DEN (2002)
IN THE HAND OF DANTE (2002)
Spoken Word & Music:
BLUE EYES AND EXIT WOUNDS (1998)
Spoken Word CD w/Hubert Selby, Jr.
NICK & HOMER (1998)
Music CD w/Homer Henderson
FUCKTHELIVINGFUCKTHEDEAD (2004)
Spoken Word and Music CD
Track “WILD LEAVES” w/Patti Smith
FOR THE TAKING (2006)
Spoken Word and Music CD
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Posted by MELISSA HANSEN
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Tuesday, 08 April 2008
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Anew
am waiting for gums
to thicken, for skin
to color,
am waiting for lyrics
to unravel in meaning,
for the melodies to stop spinning,
am waiting for words
to start meaning nothing,
for letters to lift and sweep,
am waiting for my elbows
to stop pulsating,
am waiting to see
the ocean swing,
am waiting to touch
your collarbone,
am waiting for when I will
stop
punishing my own
consciousness
through misled notions,
through devilish tears,
through a drenching frustration
toward
everything I cannot change
nor control
nor relinquish
nor redeem,
am waiting for moments to start anew,
for dialogues to change course,
for paths to entwine with those
who can bring an end to my
perpetual sadness.
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Posted by Pat King
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Wednesday, 26 March 2008
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Girl stares at what should have been her dinner, two Polo mints on a roasting tray in the oven. In her mouth, the metallic taste of the thought of food. It’s dark in the kitchen, just the glow from the oven door buttering the front of her naked body....... CONTINUED.....
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