Everything you didn't realize you needed to know about a particular outsider writer!
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Outsider o' the Month!
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Posted by Aleathia Drehmer
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Friday, 01 February 2008
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 Miles J. Bell is a 36 year-old writer/poet from the Northeast of England. He has just released a chapbook of poetry called “Let’s Get Visible” published by Blackheath Books. Miles was kind enough to sit down with me (through wires and light of course) and have a chat about this new book and the man behind the words. But first, I would like to share a poem from “Let’s Get Visible” called “Time plays over our bones like a river”.
"Time plays over our bones like a river"
It’s not that the world's
a more dangerous place these days; more
our inability to laugh or drink or
fuck the sadness to the background
and finally having to face
the inevitability of our impermanence
highlights the different way
we could meet our ends.
The news reports a further atrocity
and our marching years whisper
there but for the grace of whatever's up
or down
there
go I.
Checking food packets
for fat content before price
and idly wondering if we can afford
a green burial; these are the banal concerns
of the fretful mid-lives.
Hopes reduce to pinpoints –
riches, happiness or loneliness become
irrelevances –
being spared metamorphosis
into a skeletal and incoherent embarrassment
would be a Pyrrhic victory, mirrored:
a defeat worth having.
And the last dream we dare entertain
is that enough of us bleeds
into our children
or those that might have known us to prove we were
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Outsider o' the Month!
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Posted by Kathy Polenberg
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Wednesday, 16 January 2008
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Kenneth Mulvey writes stories and poems that displace time and space. He's like Einstiens cannonball-on-the-rubber-sheet demonstration, showing that all constants are relative. Witness for example, this excerpt from Mr. Mulveys unpublished 20,000 word story “Niemand”
Shovel mud into that lewd mouth! Yes, pack it in well, Yes! Ho! What goes? Disturbing the peace, I say! Indecent exposure, seems to me! Flagrant unamerican debauchery, damn it! poison potbellied ruffians burble out of plum plump musculus buccinators while churning cuban cigars with sausage fingers, their national flag handkerchief begrimed with coal snot thrown haphazardly upon the golden arms of their golden chairs suspended in vulture circles above the ghettos …dying with nothing given but hatred and pacifying the rage of injustice while leaning on systemic steel prison walls… Quick m’boys, we must legislate these asocial beasts!
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Outsider o' the Month! 
