Dive Bar Love or whatever that was...a collection of recollections (Volume 1: Asshole)
When the wind blows through the canyon sharp silver waves slice across the fast running Missouri, covering the rocks where the fish hide or maybe lurk in the rushes by the bank waiting for the next hatch of flies. Like the men at bars who ask for phone numbers, but never call. Born into the cold, he keeps still through the dark nights and days. When he wakes, he seeks the light of my pale blue eyes.
I twist in my sheets with such longing. I want to fill our hunger. Slowly, I slip out of bed and dreamwalk to the kitchen. Whiskey and sunflower seeds for him, tea for me. I return to bed, and he slips back beneath his headstone. The longing lasts, like the geese riding the blue Missouri, the huckleberries blooming in the hills. Helen Ohlson is an award winning poet whose work has appeared in numerous print and online anthologies.
Helen resides in the Utopian village of Arden, Delaware, where Utopia might be up for debate, but artists and writers enjoy unabashed community support. I am fed on frustration. I grow like Kefir from the caucuses. I swell like a fleshy bag full of milk and yeast. You stir. Keep me thin, free of clots. The smell is hard. It floods the room, soursweet. Armor me me in splinters. You insist on bloody thumbs. This is not a soft way to love. That keeps happening. I went to the kitchen, balled up leaves of spinach something clean, the color of life. I tried to chew. The fur keeps my mouth empty.
Keeps me hungry or nauseous. When you turn, I try to swallow. I look away from the rippling of your back, rolling — Lake Erie in March. You used to drown my living room in that water, in those notes. I still find them on accident, ringing out from between cracked leather. This week I spent hours in front of the mirror, brushing the surfaces of my mouth, scraping the smoke you left inside of it— careless.
I cannot swallow past my tongue in a room so quiet and dry. Her skin tells stories of red cliffs that never let go. She wraps me in these kingdoms, lays down the sea across my back. She arches, presses national boundaries into my hips. When she sleeps, I imagine falling into the universe that binds me in winding gold. My sheets feel damp lately. Not for long. In the night we twist. I wrap the wheel in knuckles.
I want weekday. Clutch me less— hold me like Wednesday fingers on familiar mug. Stay long enough in the mornings to watch sunrise ferment between rooftops. Maxwell Sean lives with his climbing partner and his cat in Columbus, Ohio. He spends most of his time trying to get the right books into the hands of his students.
Her latest poetry collection is entitled Catch a Lover Falling. She was educated at the universities of Delaware and Michigan, taught at the college level, and traveled extensively. She now lives in Robert Penn Warren country where she draws inspiration. On her website , she blogs about Post-structuralism and Poetry. Sometimes he does his poetry live at an open mic. He lives with his wife Flavia near Chicago, where he likes walks along the canal, exploring the wonders of Milwaukee Avenue, the music of Thelonius Monk and Bud Powell.
But not here, not now, and certainly not in the tumult of your dream, where you told me you could be anything you damn well pleased even a bride, though you knew I could not abide. But why then bring me here so far from home, only to leave me cemented in my shoes as you show me the door, in blue lights for the holidays, causing such sighing in passersby so I can hardly breathe in the dark, the oxygen depleted, my nose pressed against the sidelight and then the futile scratching at your door?
Thumbing his smartphone. So much so that I am prepared to say fuck you, to all those nutritionists and make cold pizza my everyday diet. And just because I know that stirring lentils together is more thrilling than the wildest thrill ride should I make lentils part of my daily diet too? Pizza and lentils together, like you and me. And then curling up on the bed with you, stroking your hair I will have to try my best to fight the sleep because falling asleep seems giving up this moment, when the street lights enter through the windows and just your contours are visible, and I cannot see your face only feel the warmth of your breath on my cheek and I wonder did Shakespeare know of this when he wrote his love sonnets?
When not at his day job, he chases after his two cats. Our bodies, being in perpetual motion, bear the brunt of our pent-up passion. My soul, softened by the sensual, sweetened by the fullness of savory kisses. Your heart, penetrable, pulsates to the rhythm of our nuptial bed. Purely love. Surely we could live in this moment forever. And cry. He cries. The weeping of a child. Our hearts sink under the weight of a sigh.
We deny ourselves for love of him. Despite the obvious frustration, delightful adoration drenches my vacant heart as I regard our babe held close.
Here lies the full extent of our love pressed up against your breasts. His work has previously appeared in the Magical anthology, the Dia de los Muertos anthology, and Inscape. He is currently seeking a home for his debut novel. He lives in Topeka, Kansas, and is a librarian by day. I was the most crazy naked, nearer-my-god-to-thee naked gal you ever saw. And I was the most happy person in the whole of the farm. I remember it like it was today which I think it maybe is.
Hmm hmm. When I was at Woodstock I ate only rainbow cake and drank only lilac wine. When I was at Woodstock I was miles high and my happy self touched the sky. As I recall. Hmm, hmm. I met Jimi Hendrix and , he said, in his Voodoo Chile style ………………….. When I was at Woodstock I sent a telegram to Joni Mitchell, which, I believe, she still has with her by way of memorabilia. When I was at Woodstock I was so naked. I was as naked as naked can be. Like you are in dreams. I was more naked than the thesaurus, more naked than a Hummingbird more naked than a man sat learning acoustic guitar, more naked then a smouldering lit cigar.
A story wears high heels and a play is nothing but trouble. A poem is a naked person. When I was at Woodstock, I was a god damn poem. I want to be a poem in a bowl of yellow irises. I want to be at Woodstock with half a million strong. I remember it like it was tomorrow. And yesterday, rolled into one. When I was at Woodstock. I was a musical note with no end. My feet were guitar riffs and my hands were ukuleles. My two eyes were dancing newts and, my lips were a violin , unstrung. When I was at Woodstock all the blue colours drifted down from the sky and filled my body, through and through.
I was so naked, I was blue blue blue. I want to be at Woodstock. Spend all of my life there. Can you fix it for me..?? Please do. I want to be at Woodstock when the end heaves into view. Just we two. Helen Burke is a poet turned artist; her work has exhibited in the UK and France; she currently has an exhibition in Leeds, England. Her art can be seen on krazyphils.
Your oak desk, medical books, spartan bed all declare you missing. As I wander from room to room your photographs begin to darken. The bass voice of Alexander Kipnis declares you missing. I search for words to describe your absence. Strands of metaphors to make me whole. Her second collection, Solace , is forthcoming from Five Oaks Press in Your laptop flashes fantasies across your sleep deprived face, smile and frown lines evident. I press and knead the foot placed trustingly in my lap. I can see your tensions melting away, and when your smile flashes, so does mine, because I get a glimpse of you again, the woman I love.
Then, the dog farts. Insults are hurled, along with pillows at the retreating, offending end. The laughter ends with you in my arms, just one more time, just a few minutes more, and I feel your warmth again, the woman I love. He has a few short stories and poems published in collections in the US and the UK. I will write her virgin name. I do not want that she would feel any closeness while reading it. I do not want that she would feel my body while reading my words. I do not want to give her any excitement. What should I write in my letter?
I do not want to write her- the words generally husbands use. I also do not want to remind her the sacred vows we took on our marriage. I will write her virgin name; I will write my name thereafter. Her name with my name- Dear Gargi, yours Amitabh- will be my love letter. His research interests include language documentation, writing descriptive grammars, and the preservation of rare and endangered languages in South Asia.
As a poet, he has published more than poems in different anthologies, journals and magazines worldwide. His poetry collection titled Something Lurks It Seems is forthcoming U carried oxygen thru my capillaries. I saw an old pathway I thought was covered in forestfoliage. There were freshfootprints my dear! He is currently working on his first novel and a chapbook of experimental poetry.
Stalk him at philipelliottfiction. From underneath my thermal socks, hairs rise. From inside my knee pits, sweat builds. From under the zipper of my blue jeans, penis throbs. From within my underwear, testicles tingle. From under the logo of my jeans, cheeks tremble. From within my stomach, butterflies flutter.
From above my stomach, navel widens. From underneath my yellow button-down shirt, nipples harden. From underneath my chest, heartbeat quickens. From within my throat, lump builds. From between my eyes, intuition heightens. From within my teeth, smile brightens. From under my head, pillow comforts. From around my wrists and ankles, ropes bind. From above the bed, you climb. From on top of my groin, you mount. From under your behind, you straddle. From under your fingertips, you stroke.
From under my black sweater vest, fingers tickle. From under the laughter, lungs expand. From under the palms of your moving hands, I melt. From under your entire body, trust forms. From between our chests, tightness ensues. From within your embrace, I surrender. From kissing your lips, eyes dilate. From lying spread eagle on the bed, senses intensify.
From you loving me, I reciprocate. From you laying on top of me, I rest. Jack M. Freedman is a poet and spoken word artist from Staten Island, NY. He is the author of a book of poetry titled Serotonin Seas. His most recent creation are the chapbooks, Never Lick the Spoon and Tobias. In his spare time, Jack likes to garden, sketch, cook, and attend open mic poetry events throughout the five boroughs of New York City.
Like I was there and not at once. A thread of glitter. I tricked you into thinking I fuck the way I live. When you pulled back the seat, I think of the summer of You were just like that, wet and mine and ghost whisper cling on the neck. The glazed confession. I could say I did not mean to go or that I did not think I would go.
You are too beautiful to lie to. It would be like lying to a sunset. So yes I mean to leave. I also mean to stay summer memory hazy, the one story, maybe a faint scar you never tire of explaining. I plan to live like this always here and not here. A murmur. Dying but not dead. Fucking but not fucked. Just gets up and goes. Backseat delights.
Old fries and loose coins attach to the underwear, shifting from garbage to ornament in one motion. The moment we sized each other up on the dancefloor — Two vultures mistaking the other for dead. And what does it mean to love him? And what becomes of the skin, once the snake has shed it? And if it is, is it so hard to imagine it loving itself? And in that desert you are water.
She opens her mouth and out sputters a song, few live to hum later. A tune passed on from a gut instinct gone wrong. An old affection that has aged into cruelty. A young desire rotted into adult demands. A disgrace only the mother could love. She is for sure a friendly neighborhood hope dealer. She is a touring artist and has been published a few times. She likes to eat. Up the Staircase Quarterly nominated one of her poems for best new poet I can picture the resulting tangle of our legs, ritual, no real meaning, the same way headphone wires find each other inside of a jacket pocket.
You walk around back and catch a frame of me undressing it in the second floor window, bathed in shitty, flickering light. I pretend not to see you. You pull everything out, so innocent. Each layer of stale gauze is soaked through and rancid, reeking of egg rolls and flat beer, sweat and crusted over coffee-mug bottoms. For a moment you just squint into the blood-caked border of the thing, consumed by some kind of sick awe.
This is the worst part, the being exposed. Slice by slice you slough off the layers of yourself. I shut my eyes but still hear each piece slopping onto the floor, onto the other pieces. I can tell the cuts are clean. You plug the cracks with the stringy excess, wasting nothing. I only hear you struggle once, when you tear the gauze wrapping from the roll before winding it around my trembling body, using the extra on yourself.
I wake up in a half-empty bed, but while making my breakfast I notice the tiny paring knife has already been washed and left drying in the rack. Claire crumples foil, watches neighbors bend and sag over so much care—well-cooked meals, clean floors, sex twice a month.
The woman next door watches Claire spread her selves across the yard. A black lace bra, ripped below the nipple; a red thong blooming; a pastel floral push-up; a pair of thin, cotton panties. Lights whir on. Televisions groan. The microphone swells towards her mouth like the men she brings home from work. No more drinking kamikazes or smoking on the sly. She dreams of crystal catching the rose of her spotlight, the smell of gardenias, a three-piece band, and the soft ache of hand against hand.
She smells the raw salt decay. She cries on the way home, stops to buy flowers. They buy her Appletinis and cheap wine. Lori Gravley grew up in Niceville, a small town in the panhandle of Florida. These poems are from an unpublished chapbook titled Interior Designs. She is still recovering from the madness engendered by what she saw as she watched Southern women live their loves.
Justin Hyde lives in Iowa. Kamryn Kurtzner is a poet residing in Palo Alto, California. Later, when at lesbian U-Haul speed, I packed my things, called my friends, collected my cats, and moved out after committing a moving in violation: finding out we were incompatible. Twelve years later, when I was sitting off the side of Ormond Road, Michigan blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror.
I smiled at the implication. I was traveling too fast on my way to see Kathy — maybe this ticket is worth the price knowing that speeding to see her is a much better omen than speeding away. I try to peddle slow with you into this new territory: an almost familiar touch, a sexy smile. Then you call me honey or darling and I feel like letting go of the handle bars trusting this new balance will carry me safely onward. Lylanne Musselman is an award winning poet, playwright, and artist. In addition, Musselman has twice been a Pushcart Nominee. Musselman is the author of three chapbooks, with a fourth forthcoming, Weathering Under the Cat , from Finishing Line Press.
I want to tell you that he ended up paying for my time. I want to tell you about a time outside that motel room. I want to tell you that I know I would have taken it. Sarah Nichols is a co-editor for Thank You for Swallowing , an online journal of feminist protest poetry. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Originally from Jonesville, Va.
Lydia paints on a charming smile; she knows Real Lydia is limp. A wuss. A wimp. Lydia is shocked to hear the familiar voice. Real Lydia shouts now, I want to hold him, I want to know him. She screams at Lydia, Stop pretending to be Real Lydia. Help me come out. Help me! So long, best wishes.
He loves books and Anime in that order. He has had some of his muddled thoughts published in a few e-magazines. But I want you as if these thousand yesterdays were simply seconds, as if I can feel your fingers from only last night. Virginia Archer is the pen name of a very busy lady who has a BEng. She was born in the UK, but has lived most of her life on the tropical island paradise of Saint Lucia, where she currently resides with her tween daughter. I got it the day we went swimming, the last swim of the summer. You had me hold your wet boxers like a flag on the back of your bike, flowing in the wind as we drove home.
But my knee scraped across the rocks and now I have this mark, I have this scar. It was the day you told me you loved me, the only time you voiced it. And the two weeks that it lingered with me before you took it back, before you made it seem like less than, it washed over me, through me, and I finally felt at ease. The way I thought you felt for months, possibly more than a year, had finally been confirmed. At least for those two weeks, until you were too scared to let it be.
Until you had to go back on what you said. Because, that, being out in the open, is earth shattering. So now I look at this scar, and I fear that it will fade. It was just a light scratch. I want it there. I want it forever. To remember the day you told me you loved me. You already took it back, but the scar is my reminder. I need that reminder. Or is what I feel for you a special breed? Because one second I feel my heart swell when I see you, and the next I feel crushed beneath your words. Does all love make you feel insane?
Or are you just great at driving me that way? Does all love make you cry? Or am I just prone to tears? Does all love come with fear? Or are we just cowards? Katie Blanchette is a staff reader for the literary journal Spark Anthology and has worked in copywriting for four years. We pick at tobacco threads between teeth and cradle cold gun metal, etched with fingernails. We take comfort in the familiar and the familial; the last of the scent soaked into the last letter she sent.
Simon Cockle is a poet and writer from Hertfordshire, England. He was invited to read at the Ledbury Poetry Festival in England this year. He teaches English in a local secondary school where he edits their literary magazine, The Thinkery. He is also a musician and songwriter; and clearly now, in light of recent events, is on the more direct path to a Nobel Prize for Literature.
Not with trees to walk under, their fragrant sap wanting only to drip drunkenly from above. Seventeen, and foolish, your mouth is open yelling poems at whoever walks by. Beer and lemonade: the shandy of your proper desires is useless now. Only trees and the shy woman who says she will never love you but does anyway— until you fall under the spell of more sappy trees and call yourself lover once again to leaves, branches, mirrors, and poems and novels that never call you by your right name.
If a lover like you, met a lover like me, wounded and out of breath — out of words, out of steam, out of excuses — imagine the infinite possibilities of sadness. Some hearts are not meant to be homes. But you, you were the hardest to get over. You made a space for yourself in my head. By nightfall, the putrefaction was complete. These long periods of waiting and wanting are a waste of my resources. Cooters need to be coddled. Pussy cats need to hiss and spit and purr and mew. I come to you riding tidal waves. I come promising to make the stone walls in your body, sing.
I come bearing spices in the abyss between my legs. I come flying on fallen wings as they cruise the sky collecting moondust on the way. I am a flower, over-ripe and pungent. My orchid is ripe for plucking. You are the key. This waiting will ruin me. I have spare keys. I am good enough myself, to go downtown and get me going. Elvis may have left the building, but Edith is coming home tonight. This kitty, will roar. One could hear it move in a silence that was overpowered only by the noise of our tongues as flesh met flesh.
We watched each other suck the flesh off the seed, slurpingly, hungrily, and riveted. Off the seed. Off my bones. Tiny bites. My bones. My flesh. Thick juice. Mango flowers. The seed. My meat. My flower. We continue to eat. An invitation is extended. Can they see the naked lust that runs in circles behind my breasts? Can they see the lonely love that sits crying in my bones? Can they see the utter shame that burns behind my eyes? I know that.
But regardless, I still do.
Her other passion is theatre. Not enough of us live here for it. I simply sprinkle the soiled pads and things into their bin, half-exposed. I know. She should know. I learned this recently and from myself alone. Since she could read, Mackenzie Dwyer has known a longing to make a mark on literature. But another landmark decision of hers was to drop out of marksmanship Junior Olympics qualifying rounds to go earn her black belt and a concussion.
He does not see me with lights on just shapes. He is older. He knows what to do. He is okay with not seeing me. I was not okay. I opened and he looked. He could see me and I am sixteen, inexperienced virgin. I ask if it hurts. I close my eyes and wait. He thinks I am waiting for a kiss. I am blocking myself from seeing him, seeing him look at me the way he was looking at me like I was beautiful like I was a woman or something.
It is six years later. He is seeing me again with clothes on wondering if I will take them off. She said each time I talked to him I lost something else. When I stopped talking to him for a while, out of my own needs, she noted color coming back to my face and that I smiled a real smile again. I told him no twice but he still thinks I want to be on my knees in my heels servicing him in any and every way. I told him no, dream about me in my wine colored heels with dick sucking lips to match. Ashley Elizabeth is a something poet from Baltimore who draws inspiration from her city, her people, her space, and her body.
She has been featured in the online journal Rose Water. Short chunks of stone we put together afterward into a smooth stream. You are saccades: one iris dark and big, the other dark and small. You sniff. Two graceful steps. And I put you together with love, which is not in pieces, but a lifetime. David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN.
His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. His literary publications total more than one hundred and ninety. A new book, A Doubtful House , which the above poem comes from, will be out in Sheri Gabbert lives in the small town of Mount Vernon in Southwest Missouri, in the Ozarks; she has lived there since She is a substitute teacher but has been a professional writer. She has written for small town and county newspapers, Magazine, Street Buzz and has had poems published in Moon City Review and new graffiti. Better not wait for my wedding I never find enough flowers unsevered close to the earth that cast no self-fulfilling shade.
Mori Glaser grew up in the UK and moved to Israel 30 years ago. She has blogged and written material for non-profits. He drifts to sleep thinking of the possibility of a life of insignificance in that second rate village with a woman believing he hung the moon every evening after the bocce game by the fountain in the square. The man smoking a cigarette on his patio thinking how he wants to be with someone else somewhere else. The woman washing dishes inside, lips silent where once there was a song. Nothing in particular just a song that moonlight can no longer raise in her heart. Robert Halleck fills his retirement years with open mike poetry readings, hospice volunteering, and racing Marlene, his old but still sturdy Porsche.
In recent years his poems have appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annuals and a number of other interesting places that show up in a Google Search. Otherwise, he is a UK-qualified shipping lawyer living and working in Greece. Hand over hand hot soft we climb the ladder of we, the ladder disappears we are fire eating each other with everything and grace such detailed grace, the signatures of flame. Eyes raising eyes, mouth mouth, belly belly long ago your warm wet cock became my engine air air, two voices drawing signs in it a long way off; In the fire I have become a new, intelligence unknown before, different than youandme, but is becoming only light.
And then. We go back clean, our bodies boats at anchor all but still. Louise Larchbourne is also an actor, an editor, and a sometime lexicographer. She was one of the poets invited to contribute to the new anthology For Jeremy Corbyn. She has a trullo in Puglia. I stretch in my chair and my heart goes ranging out of me looking for your essence; the deeper something I can never break into, the hidden something you keep back. Your true self. I can only hope it is beautiful.
I am eating large, green olives, pushing my tongue inside, searching for the red, soft pimento and sucking them out one after another, swallowing them whole. I crush rubbery bodies between molars; glands twinge from the bitter. Instead, you kneel on sweating summer linoleum, slowly move your hand to lift the edge of my sundress.
Earlier—we baked our swollen bodies in July sun, stood with friends, sucked melting ices from wrinkled thumbs. When I jumped headlong into the blue-green pool, you followed. My hands finding your neck, I licked your ear while you clutched my thigh in the water. We knew then what we wanted.
Now, it is here—silence crushing us with its howl. You rest your day-stained head in my lap. I feel the moistened breath, salted air, longing in your fingers. I slide from the chair to the floor; you pop me into your mouth. As a licensed social worker, Muuss specializes in the use of the arts as a healing mechanism for trauma survivors. I held my breath while I crossed the border.
He maneuvers my Hyundai Spaceship to a town he hardly knows. I am no help. He laughs, says not to worry. Allison Paster-Torres was raised by a pack of wild libraries. She knows how to spell at least ten words in the English language, and can easily be talked into doing almost anything if you tell her it will be an adventure, even if this is obviously a lie. Should you feel so inclined, you may find her at Facebook. You always reminded me of songs, of sense within sound: the confidence of rhymes, the libido of beat. People are so unattractive when sex has become uninteresting.
His English B. Outside of poetry, his path has been quite various, and he has made my way through things like software engineering, information science, and labor. I was swollen and could not perform well for you for a few days and for that master I am so sorry. I felt cool vanilla and chocolates pouring over me and numbing the pain I felt.
Pretty soon I had healed and so had your urge for another hangover. Out we went, just like every night. You and your same buddies, Britney or Madonna surrounded me in a muffled haze. Tonight seemed to be all about limes, I tasted a lot of citrus this particular eve. I heard a new voice and met a new friend.
He and I exchanged a lot of saliva and words while you pushed me into his home. I visit a lot of people like me. Master you must have a lot of friends. This night I got to know this mate very well. We grazed each other in a wet hello and discussion about our different problems with our masters. He marveled at my addition, I prided him on how well you treated and cared for me to allow me to look this fancy. Then we said our goodbyes while you used my addition to rub up and down his erected shaft.
I love the sensations this metal contraption has given not only me but other creatures. You love to please others and so do I. After this adventure you rolled off this nameless stranger and let water river over me. Blake Barringer was born, raised, and lives in St. Louis, where he studies English at the University of Missouri St. He spends his free time reading, writing, vinyl collecting, or attending many concerts.
He is a mega fan of Madonna and Gwen Stefani. She lives with her husband and three cats and travels the world whenever she gets the chance. I stand by my misanthropy. People are stupid. Mutherfucking louise. As such, performance poetry spoken word delights, because so much of it is about social justice in its manifold forms — even in sex and love.
Also, in spoken word there is a good deal of room for a rude joke and an honest complaint. I open my mouth to taste the muddy summer air. A pink rose tonight, something dusky. One finger to my palm, one finger to his boutonniere. Three petals in my hand, already browning: old silk. He will stay tomorrow. When the ship moves out? String the night with open fists. Alicia Cole is a writer and visual artist in Huntsville, AL.
You can find her work at www. I said yes; this, perhaps, was her signal. Twice on Tuesdays. I just visited home, no longer excommunicated. We shopped, gossip swapped, and I, in the end, learned that sacred is as sacred does. Do not yield to expectations of relations who do not sanction you. I once taught Algerian military men, taught them how to speak and pen English. They had wives at home, wives following ancient religious tome, banned from restaurants alone or flaunting pretty cheekbones. They had wives and girlfriends who waited years in their head coverings, who grew dates with their in-laws hovering near.
Opinions can sear, but no matter the geographic location, the spiritual persuasion, the rules of homestead or traditions, love is still knitted in committed forever. It cannot be severed. My wife and I are opposites.
Rat's Ass Review
I read fiction and poetry, lit. I cry at lost kittens and she tells me I cannot bring them home—no matter how smitten. I may speak less-than-love, throw myself on the bed and cry. But I always try again. This is marriage, too. This is human, me or you. Marriage means those deleted scenes may include one spouse being hangry and rude, the other tired and in such a mood that the first might hide inside a closet.
Real love grows daily, plays fairly, apologizes and, yes, occasionally mesmerizes, still, after decades. I did not know who I could be, how I could see peripherally before those vows. Now, I know: There is no greener grass, there is no all encompassing pass to happiness, but I will confess my wife is nothing less than my forgiveness-wrapped better half. She is married with two children. Too much product on too little hair. Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. More of his work can be found at wezzlehead. Our lives are so common, becoming ever more boring, and we cringe at the tedium and pretend this is all still fun.
I adore the disease that we share, eating our hearts out and drinking the juices of our spite, trying to find the thing we lost, held most valued. Breathing the fumes of the tar that holds us together, my love for you will never end. On Twitter Deranged2 and Facebook and Amazon. Michele Leavitt, a poet and essayist, is also a high school dropout, hepatitis C survivor, and former trial attorney. Next June , you tell me in the same breath as I like him a lot — the way another word stumbles out of your mouth before the previous one is finished like our steps two Junes ago, running and jumping into lakes faster than our minds could remind us that we could not rely on the cold to appease our desire for embrace.
We craved that brief moment of forgetting, suspended in air, asking will this last? Still, uncertainty was easier to take if doubt had no time to threaten the slow of my running start, which is why I said I love you too before your lips could wrap around you. Meaning, me. Meaning the fall was over — a happy ending until my arms grew tired of treading water.
Now, your voice echoes on the other side of the phone line like a face of forgotten belonging. She wants to have the wedding in Cabo. You pause, and I can feel your eyes sighing into me from miles away — that look of trying to comprehend the existence of what is before you. Only the hum of static from you in response, obscuring your intent as it ripples the air like a body landing feet-first in the river. All men. I cry to this song , you tell me. I am sorry to even imagine the word. This is letting my muscles memorize how it feels to hold another so that each time I wipe a tear from my face, I think of my hands tracing your outline.
I remember how for one moment, there was no loss, how for one moment, I had something to lose. Allie Long is an economics and English double-major at the University of Virginia. They've buried their brushes and pencils ever since their debut CDR sold out all 35 copies of it. In no time at all, with jackets firmly buttoned, they've forged ahead to dominate stages in Belgium and Holland with their combination of non-music, no wave art punk and plastic dandyism; arrogant Flemish poems couched in a racy Croatian accent.
Limited to copies, stamped artwork by Dennis Tyfus". Miaux must have been younger than her wild child is right now. Feeding Tube will publish a slightly-different-but-the-same audio on vinyl this summer. This cassette is limited to copies. It is also our very first reissue, and happens to coincide with our 18th birthday. We usually rant a little here, in pseudo poetic antics, trying hard to describe how a record sounds and looks. This time you'll have to trust us that it is one of the best albums of psychedelic bedroom anthems you'll ever hear: all hits, in a classic way.
We have just released it on vinyl so you and me can find it easily; no more digging between hundreds of spineless CDR sleeves. The Verboden Boys are a very repetitive band, with songs no longer then 2 minutes, The Verboden Boys can of course be a girl band, "The Verboden boys" is just a name, and not in any way limited to gender, sexuality or skin colour, as stated before, The Verboden Boys are a International band. All local chapters of The Verboden Boys are in charge of organizing their own gigs, though all chapters always all play on the same day.
Do You Need an Attitude Adjustment?
This recycled t shirt is the first Verboden release, it was made before The Verboden Boys ever played a note! All shirts are size S. That's precisely why copy centers are a great help! In Antwerp, Belgium, where Speedqueen is based, the cheapest copy centre was more akin to a darkroom than a help desk. The smile had yet to be invented! Those were the days! The A side of this single is a tribute to this copy centre. Knowing this makes it uneasy to write something about these incredible recordings, whether happiness is over rated or overrated, on a personal note: these beautiful recordings sink as deep as some of Robert Wyatt's recordings do, possessed by a natural melancholia, the horror of saying goodbye translated in a incredible psychedelic sea of field recordings, guitar, synth and recordings of Letha Diane Rodman Melchior's voice.
These collages are all made with photos taken with analog photo cameras of different kinds, with the exception of 2 or 3 collages, this book is basically a selection of daily work, in a way published to get on with other stuff. It marks a specific period but also was used in a way to deal with changes and to document happenings at UE events, Stadslimiet and exhibitions or the periods before, after or in between these facts. Boy or Girl, can those assholes make a real human nervous! Once one enters Avantgardegasse, somewhere In Germany a country known for its brutality on the road rules and laws concerning your ride all flush down the toilet like a recycled napkin!
No popo's on Avantgardegasse! Forget about the lights of the road, and expect to be surprised or boohoo'd, houses might melt on the side, the lines that divide the lanes might become bigger or smaller, or not present at all, and once you think you get it, it can only get more confusing. This is, strangely, their first duo collab record, an alien workshop of collage class, shaved by Avant Garde tactics previously unknown to human beings!
Trainings organised by secret forces between silence and the soft sound of French speech, or something similar. Limited to numbered copies with 11 various-sized inserts. This lp comes with liner notes by Carlo Steegen. UE DSR LINES: "III-II" LP "During an early DSR Lines show in , at a group exhibition where snot artists were elbowing themselves a way to the tip of the Cathedral, hoping to catch some sun, or a glimpse of the painter they would all like to be, David Edren aka DSR Lines dragged along about 8 tv's he attached to various analog synthesizers, feedbacking up the psychedelic ambient boiling out of the speakers, smoking out the negative stench of rotting careerism, whether they dabbled their paws in oil or leftovers didn't matter in those days.
DSR Lines has since been a presence in Antwerp i always enjoyed, whether in the background organising shows at the now defunct Scheldapen space in Antwerp, during his Radioshows at Radio Centraal, as a graphic designer and webmaster, as head of the Hare Akedod label or in various other constellations, it is good to see he is finally pushing that stuff to the background and cooking his great Kosmische psychedelic synth jams as DSR Lines as a main course!!
This is DSR Lines' first lp, eyes wide open behind the wheel one might wanna catch some drips of this in the eye balls of fire, drip slowly, and for a full experience do whatever you please! For those who need some name drops instead, cancel out the vocals on early Battiato records, travel to Germany after Harmonia left a mess or choke Klaus Schulze forcing him to play from his fucking heart!
Daniel De Wereldvermaarde Botanicus aka Cassis Cornuta has been pouring a thick goo of harsh electronics, acid bleeps, analog synth afval and slap stick acoustics over our heads for over 30 years now, one would get sick of it, though right when you wanna kick him out he brings you a cactus to sit on and a hat to wear when it is raining green piss.
The B side has one alternative groove if u don't diggy smalls. Limited and numbered to copies, stamped. Comes in a full color cover with an insert, made of photos of Cassis' archive. Flipped around the kitchen dried out when uncle Bill reads his stolen poetry! I can not carry him by myself, so in case of fire in combination with fainting, we're funked!
In about every other situation i can only talk Krefting high up, not much other option either, we're trying to sell a book here! A first colaborative work, or something like it, in this case i have made drawings after reading Matt's poetry, which all together resulted in 40 pages of melancholic writing and psychedelic drooling. This book is risographed by Risiko Press and limited to numbered copies. On your left side you can hear the ticking sound of a brain gracefully ending it's activity for this trip, on your right side you can hear the reason these things happen.
T-SHIRT "About 3 years late and still not too late at all: a shirt celebrating our past space "Gunther" and our new space "Stadslimiet" in various sizes to celebrate the shapes of your endangered body! IT was happening at Gunther, but right now it IS happening at Stadslimiet, that is when the space is open.
Black shirt, white silkscreen, limited to 30 copies". These 6 new pieces are a relief for a lot of body parts: tears finally leave the bags underneath your glasses, drool finally leaves your mouth and that yellow crust runs out of your ears as those two flappers want to enjoy this lp to the fullest.
Gerard Herman was invited by "VTI Brugge" a school for off set printmaking to create a artist book the students would have difficulties printing, or it should be "complicated" or something.. Together Gerard Herman and Dennis Tyfus disinfected these interviews with their bare hands, leading to a short poems, these poems were then accompanied by photo's by Dennis Tyfus' father Eduard Tyfus, who didn' know and who -during a stormy period in the 70's- was a hobby photographer.
His photo's of parks and flowers perfectly fit to the schmoezerie this book is dripping with. This book is full of "graphic surprises", fold open posters, a poster of Joey Ramone with Matthias Danneels and a lot of words that should be used more and better! Limited to way too many copies, comes in either a red or a blue cover. UE B. The same puddle Ze Barbies were swimming in! Musically this could be a mix of a background tape of Ghedalia Tazartez, and a Trip Hop band recorded by Heath Moerland from the other room of where the actual band is fucking around with self glued record loops, early scratching, and beer bottles!
UE is open for new challenges, a game where UE crumbles the team of Belgian label Kraak is planned when it is very very cold outside. Sharing the last spoon of cold soup on a cold winter night, when the heater does not want to be touched. Krefting was a member of the glammed Velvet rock band The Believers, of the much loved drone band Son Of Earth with Aaron Rosenblum and John Shaw, he writes poetry and reviews, made a singer songwriter album for Ecstatic Peace and on top of the pie he carries cherries with Idea Fire Company!
His recent solo record on Bill Nace's Open Mouth records blew my brains out, when I gathered them together again it was more than time to release this crude 7" of tape damage. Much like his work with IFCO, this single is possessed with "Beauty", some sort of weird vague melancholia, a heroism known to those who can't hide their tears when hearing a repetitive key on a detuned piano. Why does the piano need to be detuned? Does that sound "cooler"? It sounds like a lot of other records should sound, but they don't, as most people don't muffle their broken recorder in between two pillows while playing in a room on the other side of the road.
Why does the recorder have to be broken? This 7" comes in a blue risograph printed collage by DT, Printed at Risiko Press and is limited to copies. For the edition, the Antwerp based chouchou, Vaast Colson aka "Justice Just", created a text piece, milled out of an old canoe boat, saying "Ginds weet men raad" "Yonder one knows ways and means" and a finger pointing in the direction of hope.
This canoe was laying on the side of the pond around Fort 8 in Hoboken. A group of fishermen who considers that pond "theirs", were unhappy with the canoe laying in their way, and a bunch of complaints followed, therefore a small note with a phone number on it was added to the piece, so people could ring up if the canoe was in their way. The people that called the number ended up with the voicemail message you can hear on this record. So, stuff competition in the closet again, this new Orphan Fairytale single is happier than you and me!
Rodger Stella, a known downer from the upper shelf of Macronympha, where rusted metals lay next to a box of Methadone and a big jar of green water, where "Dolophine", Rodger's stinky dolphin, is trying hard to find his way out and where i wouldn't have expected an acoustic guitar. Most recordings on this lp are indeed made with a piece of wood with six strings on it, in more popular cultures known as the acoustic guitar, other parts are created with a leaking short wave radio. It makes for a high, downer blues syndrome, reversed and played back within that second you are stuck in while everyone else stands still.
I've met various people on other planets that i could compare to friends closer to home, Bill Nace calls himself a "fat Vaast Colson", Vladimier looks like Phillip Quehenberger, Tarp's Conrad Capistran's laughter sounds simular to W Ravenveers grinning and so on.. It sounds lame, though there is only one Joshua Burkett! There's a rare melancholia to everything J Burkett does, pressed behind a shell of shy music-encyclopedic psychedelia, the only way i like folk s.
Paul De Vree was a very active man, a visual artist, a publisher of various books, editor of the international visual poetry revue "de tafelronde", and a intense international communicator with other artists and poets such as Sarenco from Italy, Henri Chopin from France, etc. The space is mainly used to present books, work, drinks, live shows and performances. This space is Ultra Eczema , and Clean Press 22, all events are hidden behind a comma. UE MSS Meesterd issue 9 December zine "the 9th issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general.
UE MSS Meesterd issue 7 October zine "the seventh issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general. UE MSS Meesterd issue 6 September zine "the sixth issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general. Every visit to antwerp by the icelandic showmaster Sigtryggur Berg Sigmarsson in the last few years has been spiced by up and down outbursts of colaborative drawing sessions. This issue of mss meesterd collects over colab drawings by dennis tyfus and sigtryggur Berg sigmarsson, which were done in 2 days!
He was a student of Joseph Beuys and together with Hugo Heyrman, Panamarenko and Wout Vercammen one of the first "Happeners" during the 's in Belgium, organising street performances in the centre of Antwerp. Absurd poetry meets Spanish lessons, meets dead silence meets sound poetry meets surrealism.
While in Spain in this period Bernd rang the doorbell of Salvator Dali, this visit must have had a big inpact on him. The photo's of a young Bernd that come with this lp will show you why. UE NINOS DU BRASIL: tuppelo 7" "this is the sound that brings out the best in melted brainiacs that start producing oer klanken when seeing a white ball with black dots on it on a grass field while carnavalists run after it in between two "goals", troeps that follow one colour for the rest of their days, primates that repeat what the rest of the stadion is yelling!
UE MSS Meesterd issue 5 August zine "the fifth issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general. This issue was made in vienna in the beginning of august, made in between, after, and before swimming, train rides, visits to exhibtions by Burroughs, daniel spoerri, breathing in fresh air, garlic soup, wine etc.. UE MSS Meesterd issue 4 July zine "the fourth issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general.
This fourth issue collects 20 pages, a bunch of mat inverted purple music paper and a bunch of raw green glossy messyness! UE MSS Meesterd issue 3 June zine "the third issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general. UE MSS Meesterd issue 2 May zine "the second issue in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general. This second issue collects 22 reversed kind of abstract but not realy colaborative drawings by John Olson, Nate Young and Dennis tyfus.
Riso printed less dirty than issue one though still not clean enough to put next to the white album of the beatles. UE MSS Meesterd issue 1 April zine "the first in a series of monthly magazines collecting activities and changes in general. Stella Lohaus who worked with DT as a gallerist for 8 years and her mother Anny De Decker who started the Wide White Space, the first avant garde gallery in belgium with her partner, artist Bernd Lohaus in started playing flute together after Bernd Lohaus died in The flute is one of the easiest instruments to start with and therefore part of the music education in Belgian high schools.
However, to get to the level of playing more complex pieces, it takes practice. The videos are in loop and capture the protagonists from several angles against a background of old-fashioned wallpaper. The loops are presented on several TV-screens spread out over the exhibition space. The cacophony of music that stems from them creates a quirky and hypnotizing atmosphere. UE "KOEK KOEK" Magazine "while, during and after showing the video installation "Gargles from Ipanema" during the exhibition "Contour " at Nekkerspoel Station in Mechelen, Belgium, a ton of hate-mail, lettres of complain and negative fleshbook-, twitter- and blog comments arrose from the smelly armpit of Belgium, people have spit on the TV screens and even cut the electricity out.
This lp collects 2 selections from 2 Magisch Theater cassettes from , the A side is a selection from a untitled cassette and the flip has a soundtrack made for a painting exhibtion by Peter Braet. Timo Van Luijck, aka the great AF URSIN, with whom Kris plays with as a duo from time to time, recorded this masterpiece, the thick grey card board sleeve and fold open poster insert were drawn by Dennis Tyfus and silkscreened by the man with two first names Gerard Herman!
With this material RS created a sleeve design for a 5" vinyl record, limited to 10 copies, risograph printed at Risiko Press. It has been a while since Miaux has released anything, as everyone around Antwerp, where she is based, still had tears in their eyes from hearing her last 7" on ue, or her self released cassettes which were hardly playable as they layed in puddles of salty tears for way too long!
Miaux, the moniker of Mia Prce, was born in in Sarajevo, where she lived until she was 7 years old, both her parents were painters and visited Antwerp, Belgium with her, where they've ended up in the vibrant art freakscene around Ercola, one of the oldest artist collectives in Antwerp, based at wolstraat in a old hospital in the centre of town, a space where Mia got used to naked hippies rolling on the floor during their happenings, and where she got hooked on her father's cassettes of Embryo, Neu, Brainticket, and Roxy Music, while the family wanted to move back, the war started at home which is why they've stayed in Antwerp forever!
Bored with not understanding any other children her age, Mia started pushing her fingers into a casio she got at age 5, later to be classically trained on piano by a woman with a backwards wig on her head! Classic Cornuta blubber, filth with the juice of one of his many cacti, and dried afterwards to still be able to wear the blubber as a hat! This "high quality" transparant bday record is limited and numbered to only 26 copies and housed in a wooden silkscreen!
These are the second and third versions of this soundtrack, there's the 1 hour long version and a "hit" version which will be released on a compilation lp by Contour. For years i've thought these poems were already written, as Byron told me about them when i visited the Yod Space in Florence some years back. I can perfectly remember hearing about Byron selling plasma to be able to get fried, Byron living in a tree because he was kicked out of his shared apartment as he pissed on his roommate's sister, Byron working at Micky d's, Byron meeting Mariel Hemmingway and a mountain of other disrupting tales.
It turned out these poems were not written until the night before the presentation of this book at stadslimiet in antwerp on august 19th of LP "i better warn non flemish speaking creeps first: This archival lp of belgian poet and visual artist MvM is a Flemish spoken word lp, so don't expect to understand any of it! Marcel van Maele was a poet, provocateur, and visual artist residing in Antwerp, Belgium.
He was, to say the least, not a very common poet, much like his friend Marcel Broodthaerts, MvM was always seeking for new or different ways to present his poetry resulting in bottling his own poems or stuffin his books in glass pots filled with spirits! The last 20 years of his life MvM died in Marcel van Maele was completely blind, which didn't stop him from performing. He used a small dictaphone, a "souffleur", which he referred to as his best friend, to pre-record his poems sentence by sentence, so he could repeat them with headphones for live performances.
Besides that, this lp also contains a dialogue poem with his wife Carine Lampens, an excerpt from an audiozine published by the blindenbibliotheek and private diary recordings MvM recorded for his wife when she was on a holiday! When i visited Tokyo in January i accidentally met Nakahara in a recordstore, we mainly communicated in sign language but he did remember that i asked him to do a record some years before, he sign languaged that he was bad with sending stuff in the mail and asked how many days i would stay in Tokyo, i made the rather simple hand gesture of putting 3 fingers in the air, which he replied to with the words "A side tommorow".
As accidentally, i bump into him again the next day carrying around the A side in his pocket, all made on that day with a heavy flu, which is hearable on the lp, a stripped down heavy dim sum of collaged tapes, mini electronics, coughs, sneezes, and ants! UE94 Dennis Tyfus: Wefex spway book "a collection of drawings, collages, paintings, photographs, spit-and ink work, and found images in both colour and black and white by Dennis Tyfus including a text by Wim Van Mulders.
This page book was made in conjunction with the "Relax most of your muscles" exhibition, at Be Part in Waregem. It contains a handful of these works which where presented in the exhibition, however most were made solely for this publication. All of these sounds played simultaneously at the "Relax most of your muscles" Dennis Tyfus' solo exhibtion at Be Part in Waregem,Belgium, providing a non stop soundtrack that coincided with large paintings and around 20 film loops and drawings which created a disturbingly meditative landscape.
Bob would also record most jingles for the radio and was the chairman there until he sadly passed away on october 30 of last year, therfore this record carries a incredibly typical "centraal sound", since i got obsessed with this insane radio station this strange combination of library space music, radical satire, fassbinder, klaus schulze and percise field recording styles has not left me ever! The obsession of hunting down the right microphones, synthesizers and self build metal instruments in combination with the ability to build, mix, cut and paste and change any existing format resulted in a amazing recorded archive and a giant studio where no one but Bobby Colombo could find his way around This record is limited to copies and comes with a "real" photo, developed at the colunst house, a fold open space poster and a sleeve with more archival photography on it.
There's no food anymore, tap water is not drinkable, and eating each other's intestines seems to be the last enjoyable possibilty.
Pip the Beach Cat’s Ultimate Summer Bucket List in Ocean City, Maryland
The thick dense sound of synth throbbing bubbles up from these hungry bowels. Comes in a collage sleeve by Dennis Tyfus, limited to copies. We are dance bands. Your ankle is be cramped with a rhythm! We are burst of laughter, drinks tea and digs the ground, and sometimes hungry!!
Papekyowance pyorotomi: guitar, vox, dance. Tecondo Ookuninushino Makoto: guitar, vox, dance. Papa Big Papa: drums, vox, dance. Recorded by Meo Uwan at the Chichi no ke studio. He played it cool, was clearly annoyed but remained polite. From then on he is now 46 I would email him the same question daily.
I slept in a tent in front of his house, sent him letters every week, had all his different cell phone numbers, I even gave him new clothes, though he kept wearing his fully blue outfit. Much like Michael Jackson, Corsano, the last drummer on earth, always remained calm and polite and made this full on incredible LP of absolute madness played on different drum sets, toy percussion, baritone sax mouthpiece on a 2 foot metal pipe, violin strings, banjo and violin bridges, contact mics, effect pedals, claw bell, metal strips from windshield wipers, toy comb, clarinet, toy gamelan, guitar cable, gongs, metals, triangle, nylon guitar strings, amps, melodica, pot lids etc.
Corsano, together with all mentioned collaborators above, changed and refreshed improvised music forever, blew the "free" into free music again, threw an energy molotov cocktail over western Massachussets, and has a non-academic and unlimited interest in sounds far behind any traditional free music school! This LP is a collection of most of his different techniques that blew you away when you saw him play live. Comes in a hairy black and white cover by Dennis Tyfus, with an insert.
John Shaw took us there and explained from before what it was gonna be like; we would be seated down in a comfortable couch while the last great man would stand up next to a pedestal with some quality whiskey, dope and cigarettes on it, sporting a mono-coloured suit and sunglasses day and night while Foust is telling stories about different art records, and mainly his own work, ranging from short films, visual work and audio since !
It was exactly how Shaw explained it. I was blown away by the honesty and the effort him and his ladyfriend Karla Borecki put into their work, and how little response they get to it. We shared a common interest in arrogant pop quality, and especially the situationists, to which he relates his work to in only aesthetic way! I think it is a quality in people when you cant divide their work with their persona; Idea Fire Company is a collective of people that definitely swing that robe!
Beautiful carpets of radio bleebs and static, piano Karla Borecki is a trained pianist and almost kraut-like synth ambience. Comes in a mono coloured sleeve full of dots by Dennis Tyfus, and comes with an insert. Besides my own ladyfriend, I don't think I know anyone better than Eva, and her boyfriend Audiobot madman Carlo Steegen. For some reason this makes it even more difficult to write a decent description for this record; we live in the same mansion, and I could write a lot of stories about doing the dishes together, or putting the garbage out.
Orphan Fairytale is a dedication to Eva's mom, who died when Eva was 14 years old. A melancholic soundtrack to the loss, and a way of dealing with it! A maze of ever-changing Casio trips dripping with childish ecstasy, a belly dancer oozing for endless adolescence playing with burned dolls in a Barbie house filled with pedals and looptapes! Melanchotronic folk reminiscent to some Moondog, the contemporary Finnish crew, Delia Derbyshire and Asian pop.
This LP comes in a full colour collaged cover design by Dennis Tyfus with 2 inserts. A tight dressed dandy, going bananas every night, and looking as tight and clean the morning after". He has been inspiring the Belgian underground art scene for more than fifty years. He was the youngest artist making real paintings at the end of the fifties. Abstractionism reduced to one gesture. One sweep. One movement of the sword. Great collages, the only real pop artist in Belgium, latex word paintings, pneumatic forms before someone else got bigger with it.
Always on the move. The way Wout Vercammen acts, performs, talks and moves is perfectly captured on this LP! When living in Antwerp, chances are you witnessed a Wout Vercammen performance without even realizing it, this is possible at any given moment. Smuggling jenever into prison, painting the copper dome of the Carolus Borromeus church white, filling blue garbage bags with air, and especially howling like a wolf, primitive throat singing and using the whole bar as a percussive instrument!!!
Wout Vercammen changes reality, and makes it a tiny bit better.
This record is a collection of accidently recorded "moments" and a composition of a black, a yellow and a red paint bucket all shook up through a synth and a 4 track! All varying from percussive punk primitive madness comparable to Kommisar Hjuler, a strange conversation in a garden to soundpoetry, howling and screaming. I am absolutely psyched to release this, as Wout Vercammen along with Ludo Mich has always been my favorite Antwerp psycho! The LP comes in a offset printed sleeve with pictures of the artist, an insert with more pictures and liner notes by art critic Hans Theys!
I was struck by Joshua's mix of shyness, amazing and heavy acoustic guitar playing and his encyclopedic knowledge of weirdo music. His music is usually so silent that it makes you all tense and walk on socks instead of wooden shoes. Some of the recordings were overdubbed in This is a beautiful collection of collaged scrambled bedroom madness, teenage wilderness, guitar noise, acidfolk, almost psych, organ fuckery, space between the tape deck and the player, outsider beauty!!!!!!! As a "prize" I could release their record inspired by the subject matter. Which became a beautiful audiobook like a madman's guide to alienville!
The medicine these chaps have to use makes em sing in different colours and add styles to eachother that never heard of eachother's existence. Comes in a collaged cover with a new born baby on it and prince Charles and an insert. You can smell them from a mile away, they're the adults raising their kids on homebrew white spirit, continuously producing the kind of farts you can't hear though the stench is worse than the ones that sound like a brassband. The governement of Finland is not proud of this sick family, they try to keep it silent, rarely give interviews to press from other countries and make sure planes hardly fly out.
The only instruments that made it were a few balloons and a crappy casio. On arrival they found a microphone, a drum and more toys, climbed the WFMU building and played the craziest session ever!